The Tattered Gloves

by J. L. Berg

  “Crap, no,” I answered. “I forgot.”

  Grabbing the receipts he’d been entering, he stalked off without a word toward the back.

  Great.

  Unsure of what to do, I followed him. Logically, it wasn’t the best decision, but I did need to drop off my bag, and he happened to be going in the same direction.

  I also hated the idea of him being mad at me on Christmas Eve.

  Or at all for that matter.

  “I’m sorry!” I finally said as I caught up to him in the stockroom. “Things at home were—”

  “Awkward. You said that.”

  Frustration built in my chest. “Look, you don’t understand what it’s like… what happened.”

  His wild green eyes met mine. “I don’t understand? Jesus, Willow! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Do you really think you’re the only one around here who has issues? The only one who wishes they could put gloves on and remove themselves from the world? To wish away emotions and feelings?”

  “That’s not why I—”

  “Really? You don’t keep those things on to push people away?”

  I opened my mouth to respond, to argue, but nothing came out. Because he was right. That was exactly why I wore the gloves.

  “Stop acting like you’re the only person in the world who has shitty parents. Because, believe me, you’re not.”

  “I know,” I answered softly.

  “So then, why do you keep treating me like an outsider? I’ve told you plenty about my messed up little family, but what I know about you could barely fill the bottom of a mason jar.” There was a note of sadness in his voice as he looked at me with those desperate eyes.

  “You won’t like me once you find out,” I said.

  “I won’t know you — the real you — until you learn to trust me,” he answered.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. He proceeded to push several boxes out of the way, making a spot for us on the floor. The bell on the door in the front would alert us if anyone entered the store, but for now, we’d enjoy the solitude.

  I took a deep breath.

  Knowing something and saying it out loud were two entirely different things.

  “You know when you’re little and your parents go off to work?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re not really sure what they do. Maybe you have an idea, like, My daddy works with computers or airplanes, but technically, you have no idea that mommy or daddy really builds websites for the government or makes engines for a specific kind of aircraft.

  “For me, growing up? Once I hit a certain age, I knew exactly what my mom did for a living. She never bothered hiding it from me. Never tried to shield it to preserve a sort of childhood innocence for me. In her eyes, the more I understood, the better off I was.”

  Sam watched me, leaning forward, as he listened to every word.

  I guessed there was no sugarcoating it.

  “My mom is a prostitute.”

  Rather than shocked horror or sympathy, he did the weirdest, most unexpected thing.

  He asked a question, “Like Pretty Woman? I mean, does she go out on the street and wait for cars to flag her down?”

  I couldn’t help it. He made me smile, and the nervousness I’d had vanished with his ridiculous ramblings.

  “You’ve actually seen Pretty Woman?” I laughed.

  “I have a sister. She’s fun to hang out with sometimes.”

  “Hmm… well, I’m not sure your description is spot-on — at least, not from my frame of reference. But, to answer your question, no, it is definitely not like Pretty Woman… although I have seen her come out of her room in a wig a time or two.”

  I inwardly shuddered.

  “But, sadly, no rich men have ever come to sweep her off her feet, despite her best efforts. We were and have always been poor. Like dirt poor.”

  “I always thought prostitutes made good money. I mean, can’t you charge a lot for… that?”

  I shrugged. “I honestly have no idea. How much she charged wasn’t exactly a topic around the dinner table at our house. Not that we had one — a table, I mean. But I’m pretty sure I was the reason she wasn’t higher up on the food chain.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, stretching his legs out in front of him.

  I did the same, so our feet were nearly touching but not.

  “She told me. Constantly. I was what kept her from moving up in the world.”

  “She said that?”

  I nodded silently. “I guess having a kid isn’t exactly sexy. The men — or clients, as she called them — came to her for an uncomplicated good time.”

  “And you were a complication?” he guessed, his voice filled with sadness.

  “Yep.”

  “That’s messed up.”

  “That’s me and my mom in a nutshell. Hell, that’s my whole family.”

  “Welcome to the club,” he said. “We have a meeting every Thursday in the basement of the old church down the street. I bring cookies.”

  His words were in jest, but they carried a certain tone I was familiar with.

  Pain.

  “Count me in,” I replied with the tiniest wisp of a smile.

  My eyes were still trained ahead, focused on our feet that were right next to each other, so it took a moment for me to recognize the sensation.

  It was foreign yet familiar. Something I remembered but had almost forgotten.

  I followed the feeling until my eyes froze.

  In fear?

  In surprise?

  I wasn’t sure.

  But there, side by side, was my hand and Sam’s.

  Barely touching.

  His pinkie rested against mine, the slightest bit of pressure.

  He must have noticed as well, but he didn’t move. He instead waited for my reaction.

  What was my reaction?

  Ding, ding!

  Suddenly, the spell was broken as the bell at the front, alerting us of a customer, chose to make the decision for me. Hopping to my feet, I bolted for the door and didn’t look back.

  Because, if I did, I’d have to acknowledge it.

  I’d have to move forward.

  In fear or acceptance.

  Was I ready?

  Was I brave?

  Or was I drowning in too much flour?

  IT WAS THANKSGIVING all over again.

  I awoke the next morning to the sweet smell of cinnamon and chocolate, quickly realizing she’d done it again.

  Food overload.

  Slipping into a pair of warmer socks and taking a minute to brush my hair, I wandered into the living room and spotted her in the open kitchen, dressed in green and red pajamas, dancing around to holiday music.

  The sun was barely up, and she was dancing.

  “Hot chocolate is on the stove,” she announced without even bothering to turn her head.

  How did she know I was here?

  She was becoming a master at this parenting thing. She’d even developed the invisible eyes in the back of her head.

  Creepy.

  I didn’t spend too much time contemplating that. Hot chocolate was calling my name.

  “I bought some whipped cream, too. It’s in the fridge,” she added, never missing a beat as she continued to move along to the popular Christmas song.

  Grabbing a mug from the cabinet above me, it didn’t take me long to notice the cinnamon rolls baking in the oven or the gigantic casserole below it.

  And it was all homemade.

  How long had she been up?

  “When did you find the time to do all of this?” I asked as I used the ladle to scoop up a large cup of steaming hot cocoa. The rich scent made my mouth water instantly.

  “Some of it I prepped last night after you went to bed. The rest I did this morning.”

  “This morning? But it’s barely seven!”

  She shrugged, grabbing a mug from the cabinet for herself. “I always wake up early.”

 
; Reaching into the refrigerator, she handed me the whipped cream and watched as I tried to operate the nozzle with my gloves. Before I ended up with white fluff everywhere, I sheepishly handed it back to her, and like a small child, I waited for her to top off my cup.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  “Of course.”

  “No, I mean, thank you. For everything. For the food and the tree. For the presents I keep catching you sneak under the tree.”

  “I’ve caught you a few times myself,” she replied.

  I smiled a little.

  “You don’t have to do it all, you know. I’d be happy with anything.”

  Her face softened as she set the cup down on the counter. “I know that. You think, after all these months together, I don’t know you? The girl I brought into this house would have been happy with receiving a can of soup and a deck of cards for Christmas.”

  I shrugged. “It would be more than I got last year.”

  Or any other year for that matter.

  “But have you ever considered that you deserve more, Willow?” she asked, leaning against the counter, as the fragrant smells of the holidays filled the tiny kitchen.

  “Sometimes, I guess, but I figured I just wasn’t worth it.”

  “Why?” she pressed.

  Because I’m no one, a tiny voice in my head answered.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “Well, start thinking about it. Life throws a lot of crap our way, some more than others. When my daddy died and your mom left, I was alone. Truly alone for the first time in my life.”

  “What did you do?” I asked, holding my cup of cocoa close to my face. The heat warmed my lips as she spoke.

  “Well, for a while, I was just angry and mad. I was young, and the only family I had was gone. So, I blamed them. I blamed my father for screwing up our lives. I blamed Evie for not having the guts to stick it out. And then I blamed myself for not being strong enough to keep it together.”

  “Keep what together?”

  “Everything, honestly. After I was done blaming everyone else, there was no one else to blame but myself. So, that’s what I did. I blamed myself for not noticing the signs of my father’s addiction and eventual sickness. And I convinced myself that it was my fault Evie had turned out the way she did. I was the mature one, I should have been more motherly.”

  “But it wasn’t your job,” I said.

  “I know that now, but then?” She shook her head. “I spent a long time feeling guilty for everything that had happened to our family, convinced I was the cause of it all. But then I met someone who changed my perspective.”

  My interest piqued. “Who?”

  A wistful smile spread across her face. “Sam’s mother.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I decided on saying nothing at all. Instead, I took a sip of my hot chocolate, letting it warm my body, as my aunt shared yet another story from her long life.

  “I’d found work at a local diner called The Short Stack in Charlottesville, far away from anyone who would recognize me. Growing up, we would have never set foot in a place like that… which was why it was perfect for me.”

  “You were hiding,” I stated.

  She nodded. “Too afraid to leave yet too proud to stay. So, I hid in plain sight, knowing none of my old friends would come looking for me in a greasy diner. It was good work. Hard work, I’ll admit. The silver platter I’d been dining on my entire life had not prepared me for the backbreaking work of standing for hours on end. But I got used to it, and eventually, I even made a few friends. Laura was different from anyone I’d ever known. She was bold and captivating, full of wit and humor and love.”

  Like Sam, I couldn’t help but think silently to myself.

  “At first, I thought we’d never get along. She was too perky. Too normal. I was a messed up former rich girl, nearly living on the streets. We were nothing alike.”

  “Let me guess, she wasn’t what she seemed to be?”

  She laughed. “No, she really was that perky and normal. I mean, at least compared to me. She came from a good home, went to church on Sundays, loved her parents.”

  I was confused. “So, how did she change your perspective then?”

  “She was incredibly persistent. For a while, I was convinced I was her Sunday school project or something. But, really, she just wanted to get to know me.

  “When I finally gave in and told her who I was and everything that had happened to me… none of it mattered. To this day, I can recall the exact color of her big green eyes, full of fire and spunk, as she told me all the reasons I was wrong about myself. She was a small woman, but she could be mighty intimidating when she wanted to be. Or, at least, she was back then,” she added.

  “I still remember her telling me I could hold on to my past or I could set it free. And then she told me the most ridiculous story ever.”

  My brow lifted in curiosity.

  “‘When she was little,’” Addy said, “Laura had a problem with stuttering. I had a friend growing up who struggled with it. It’s not easy. Anyway, she went on to say that her parents tried everything to cure it, but she still could barely say a single sentence without tripping over herself. When she entered the fourth grade and student elections were being held, she threw her name into the ring for vice president. Little did she know, she’d have to give a speech to the entire school. Her parents tried to talk her out of it, of course, but little Laura was determined.”

  My face scrunched, already guessing what was going to happen.

  “She was laughed off stage.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. And I felt for her; I really did. But as I stood there, in the diner where I made minimum wage and barely got by, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why this woman was telling me this. She always was a bit of a rambler.”

  “Runs in the family,” I muttered.

  “But she eventually got to her point. She said, although she’d lost that year, it’d propelled her to work day and night, and the next year, she won, blowing away the competition with her flawless speech.”

  “And that somehow changed your life?” I asked.

  “Well, no, but it’s a nice story about Sam’s mom, right?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “There wasn’t one specific thing that Laura did to change my perspective. She didn’t have any grand words of wisdom that suddenly changed my mind. It was just the fact that she was there. She befriended me when I was at my lowest point, uncaring of who I was or where I was from. That was what made the ultimate difference.”

  She smiled once again. “I always remembered that story though. She’d remind me of it every time I wanted to quit. Every time I wanted to throw in the towel and give up. She’d say, ‘You haven’t given your speech yet, Addy.’”

  Her face turned slightly sad as she thought of her friend who had long since vanished.

  “What happened?” I finally asked. “What made her leave?”

  She took a deep breath, relaxing a bit more against the counter. “That isn’t my story to tell. But I’m sure Sam will share it with you soon enough.”

  Finishing my last sip of cocoa, I frowned. “Why do you think that?”

  “You two seem pretty close.”

  I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “We’re just friends. I mean, I don’t even see him outside of school and work.”

  “Really?” Her smile grew. “Is that why he called and asked if he could join us for breakfast this morning?”

  My eyes widened as I watched her smile break into a laugh.

  “What? When? Why?”

  “You have an hour. I suggest you—”

  I didn’t even wait for her to finish suggesting anything. I was already making a beeline toward the shower.

  “WOULD YOU STOP fidgeting?” Addy said as I helped her finish setting the table.

  “I’m not!” I argued, pulling at the sleeve of my sh
irt once more.

  “Okay.” She laughed, setting a glass down at each place at the table.

  Three spots.

  Not two. Three.

  Because Sam was coming here. To eat. With us.

  I couldn’t wrap my brain around it.

  Why would he ask my aunt to join us on Christmas? Why hadn’t he just asked me?

  Why did he want to be here in the first place? This was the ultimate question.

  It was a general law among humanity to not deliver bad news on major holidays, right?

  Because the only reason I could possibly come up with was, he was firing me.

  And he decided to do it over cinnamon rolls?

  No, that didn’t sound right.

  “You look like you’re about to make a run for it,” Addy commented as I checked the clock one last time.

  “I just don’t get it. He asked you?”

  “For the third time, yes. He called the salon and asked what our plans were for today. When I told him we didn’t have much going on besides eating and presents, he asked if I wouldn’t mind him dropping by. So, I invited him over for breakfast.”

  “But he didn’t specifically ask?”

  I knew I sounded nuts, but I just couldn’t stop.

  She took a knowing breath, setting down the dish she had been carrying. “Willow, he called me, remember? He asked to come over.”

  “Right, but maybe he just wanted to see you, you know? Maybe he wants to get a haircut or something?”

  Her nose scrunched as she tried to contain a smile. “On Christmas?”

  I huffed out a large breath. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I guess it’s time we found out. What do you say?” she said a mere moment before the doorbell rang.

  I jumped, feeling the trembling shock waves of anticipation all the way down to my toes.

  It is just Sam, I told myself.

  Just Sam.

  This little mantra did nothing to soothe my nerves because, although I might see him every day, sit behind him in class, and work alongside him, there had always been barriers and borders to our relationship.

  When he stepped foot into this house… my house, everything would change.

  I could no longer hide behind the guise that we were nothing more than classmates and coworkers.