The Crossroads Duet

by Rachel Blaufeld

  I let out a little laugh. “I don’t know much about South Beach, but I’m pretty sure that’s where the South Beach diet originated. I’m also pretty sure you can’t eat sugar-filled, butter-laden muffins on that diet.”

  “I guess not. Maybe I’ll have to come back here for another one soon,” he said with a smirk.

  “Umm, not sure a muffin is reason enough to come back here,” I said as I pinched off a tiny nibble of my own treat.

  “Well, it would only be one of them, although I may have to wait until spring. This weather here, it leaves a lot to be desired,” he said and for a moment, he got a faraway look in his eyes, as if he went somewhere else for a second or two. The pain—so palpable—I’d sensed a few days before when I’d seated him at the restaurant, seemed to ice over the bright blue of his eyes, dimming them for a moment. And then, just like that, his eyes sharpened and focused on me, exuding warmth again.

  “I guess I’m just used to it,” I said with a shrug. “What’s the temp now at home for you?”

  Weather is a safe subject, unlike him coming back to the WildFlower.

  “Gorgeous, warm, but not stifling. You should come see for yourself.” He finished his muffin, then drained his coffee cup.

  I had to remind myself to breathe. “I’m not sure that’s in my budget for right now, but someday, maybe I will.” My skin was prickly with nerves at what he was suggesting, itchy with how much I actually wanted to do that. Visit Florida . . . and see him again.

  Taking the last few sips of my own coffee, I stood up and said, “I’m going to get back to work now. I mean, my actual job, but this has been really nice of you to take the time to meet me and get to know me. I’m sure management appreciates it.” Then I stuck out my hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Wrigley.”

  “Once again, it’s Lane,” he said, “and I really appreciate it.” But he didn’t shake my hand. Grasping my fingers with his larger ones, he brought my hand to his lips and placed a light kiss right above my knuckles, his lips lingering and torturing my senses.

  “Umm, well, it’s been a pleasure doing this.” I stumbled over my words, working my hand free and waving it around since I had no freaking clue what else to do with it.

  “No, the pleasure’s been all mine. Meeting you hasn’t felt like work at all.”

  The spot where his lips had made contact tingled; the small patch of skin, on the bone and near a vein, must have been singed or burned. I expected to look at my hand and find a hole.

  “’Bye, Lane,” I said, rushing out as fast as I could.

  Does he kiss all hotel employees on the hand?

  I couldn’t wait to leave work that day. Despite my best intentions, I’d fueled the employee gossip mill, a position I didn’t like holding and wanted to desperately shed. As I was hightailing it out of the building, Maddie stopped me again.

  Shit.

  Standing in front of me with a gift-wrapped box blocking half her face, she called, “Bess, one sec!”

  Seriously, what now?

  I stopped moving but didn’t speak.

  “Thank you so much for taking one for the team and graciously meeting Mr. Wrigley. Apparently the hotel got the deal with him, and management is tickled,” she said while bopping back and forth from foot to foot in her sensible flats.

  “No thanks needed. I did it, and Mr. Wrigley already came to thank me in person, as I’m sure you heard, so the whole thing can be put to bed now. I gotta go,” I said as I started moving down the hallway, leaving in my ugly work clothes again.

  “Wait!” Maddie called for me again.

  I turned on my heel and looked at her with one eyebrow arched.

  “This. This is for you,” she said while shoving the gift toward me.

  “Oh, that’s not necessary.” I shrugged and turned on my heel for the second time.

  “Bess! It’s not from me,” Maddie yelled.

  This got my attention.

  “Who’s it from?” I asked as I whipped back around, afraid of what she might say.

  “Mr. Wrigley, of course.”

  “Of course,” I repeated, grabbing the package and walking straight to my car, not stopping to say hello to anyone else. Then I threw it—not gently—into the trunk, where it taunted me the whole drive home.

  Lane

  My sweaty hair fell in my face as beads of perspiration rained down my forehead, running into my eyes and dripping off my nose as I ran along the beach. I’d been back in Florida for a week, and since then I’d either been working my ass off or exercising like I was training for the Olympics.

  Unable to get her out of my head, feeling fucking ridiculous for my whole silly and foolishly elaborate good-bye scene, and raging an internal war over whether to contact her or not, I was unrecognizable to myself.

  I basically asked the girl to visit me after pondering another trip back to that shitty weather. Unable to stop thinking about the sheer insanity of it all, and wondering what the hell was happening to me, I continued to punish myself with my brutal workout.

  “Hey, Lane! How are you?” I heard someone say from behind me, then felt a pat on my ass.

  Turning, I took in the redheaded beauty and said, “Hey, Christie, how’s your run?”

  Although I didn’t slow down, she lengthened her stride to pace me and kept up. “Better now that I caught you! Where you been?” she asked with a salacious smile, her words coming out winded and breathy.

  A few weeks ago, I would have gotten hard over the combination of her tone and her meaning, but not today.

  “Working, honey,” I said, barely needing to overexert myself with my own words.

  “Well, you look good,” she said, holding her line.

  “You too!” Nodding my chin toward the road, I said, “There’s my ride. Time for me to cool down. See you around, Christie.”

  With another grab of my ass, she was gone. “Hope so. ’Bye, Lane.”

  Needing to cool down, I slowed my pace. Without considering why, I moved my hand back to my ass, brushing off the memory of Christie’s unwanted touch. I pulled out my earbuds and hit the STOP button on my pacer watch while I caught my breath. Typically, I alternated running with yoga.

  Yoga, of course.

  Bess, my head screamed as loud as my muscles. Yoga only reminded me more of the woman I’d now officially met under false pretenses, yet still hadn’t been able to dislodge from my brain.

  Of course, for the last seven days, yoga wasn’t possible for me. There was no way I could slow my thoughts enough to relax into the poses, let alone wrap my head around what the whole damn class symbolized.

  Inner peace, of which I had none. Because of her.

  Well, maybe not just her. My shell was starting to crumble. I was alone. No parents or grandparents, just a brother who was a full-time babysitting gig. And a stable full of girls with names like Candie or Missy who wanted nothing more than to be seen with one of Florida’s most eligible bachelors.

  As I walked in circles with my hands on my hips, taking deep gulps of air while I came down from my runner’s high, I couldn’t help but glance at the Florida sun setting, its light reflecting off the water. But I couldn’t enjoy the sight.

  Why did I have to lie to Bess? I should have told her the truth. This wasn’t me; I wasn’t a liar. The lie was eating me alive, but I didn’t see any way out of it. All those years I’d duped girls for my brother made me despise lying, yet here I was doing it again. This was probably some kind of sick payback for playing the bait-and-switch routine for Jake, as well as everything else I did for him that I never wanted to do in the first fucking place.

  Stopping and stretching for a second, opening my quads, I contemplated if there was any way of righting this mess I’d made for myself.

  No.

  The WildFlower deal was done. My lawyers had just signed off this morning on the final paperwork. There was no longer the cover of checking into the inner workings of the resort; I had no reason to stay in touch. The only clien
ts I ever kept an eye on were the ones in major cities, the ones I liked to visit—Vegas, Chicago in the summer, Los Angeles. Not the middle of freaking nowhere.

  My chance was gone.

  Kicking up sand, I made a beeline for my car and my life as I knew it.

  “Hey, Randi, how are you?” I asked into the phone stuck in the crook of my neck as I toweled off from my shower.

  “Hey, baby, I’m great. Just back from an assignment in the Bahamas, a swimsuit shoot. You?”

  Dry now, I paced my massive bathroom. “All good. Wish I’d been somewhere warm, but I just got back from the wet wilderness of Pennsylvania.”

  “Ooh, you poor baby,” Randi purred into the phone, and her voice affected me like nails dragged across a chalkboard. A shiver ran up my spine, and I had to lean on the counter.

  Staring at my despicable self in the mirror, I asked, “Want to grab some sushi?”

  “Sure! I’d love to. When?”

  “Now.” I didn’t want to leave myself room to change my mind. Randi was a smart choice for distraction. The control was always in my hands with her.

  “Oh, cool. I need a little time to freshen up. Do you want to pick me up or should I meet you?”

  Staring down at the black countertop, unable to watch my own actions anymore, I said, “I’ll grab you in an hour?”

  “Perfect. ’Bye, Lane. See you soon, hon.”

  I swiped my finger across END CALL without another word, sealing my evening’s fate.

  Bess

  Two months later

  It was a cold and brisk Sunday. Small snowflakes flitted through the air before sticking to the almost bare branches and settling to rest on Brooks’s block-shaped head as we took a walk down the hill.

  I bet it’s warm and sunny in Florida.

  Christmas was upon us! Yippee! The entire resort was fully decorated and in full-on happy-holidays mode, churning out cookies and hot chocolate, building a different gingerbread replica daily and touting the benefits of the eggnog facial for women and peppermint back scrub for men.

  I found myself feeling more alone than usual, taking solace in thirty or forty too many cookies, and avoiding May’s constant nagging about whether I’d heard from him.

  Why would I hear from Lane? He’d been a man doing his job, securing another million-dollar client for his company. He wasn’t a living, breathing human being interested in me.

  And why should he be? I was just a reformed druggie—although currently clean and sober—a waitress who survived by living each day in the same boring, compartmentalized way.

  But I wanted him to be. Something about the way Lane reached for my hand that night to greet me, or placed the gentle kiss above my fingers the next day, it felt familiar somehow, as if we’d done that before.

  It didn’t feel electric or like blazing fireworks, but more like milk and cookies after a long day at school. Comforting and homey, which was all a little hokey considering my mom wasn’t waiting with a snack when I got home from school.

  I grew up in a two-bedroom on the second floor of our apartment building. After my mom left, the neighbor watched me after school. When I got older, I let myself in to be greeted by my pet—a purple-ish beta fish—and made instant noodles for my dinner.

  So the idea that some man’s hand felt like home was absolutely ridiculous, and I shoved the whole concept to the back of my mind while I swept snow off my face and coat.

  It was only mid-afternoon and I was already miserable. I hated my days off with a passion. If I could, I’d work every day. The monotonous routine of work kept me sane, despite my solo existence. The dull routine of waiting tables clung to my soul, embedding a sense of security in its predictability and ordinariness, and left me with a false confidence that I actually had a life. Other than just me and my Lab. Waitressing gave me a concrete purpose, a task to perform, like taking a pet out to relieve himself.

  I stared down at the red leather leash in my hands. I didn’t even put it on my damn dog, but brought it with me on each and every walk since I received it two months ago in that ridiculous gift box—from him.

  It had been an informal large box from the hotel’s gift shop, a bunch of stuff picked out at the last minute, yet nothing was haphazard. Each item demonstrated that he’d heard every word I’d said the night before. In addition to the leash for my dog, there were cashmere gloves for cold mornings, a package of Pitt decals, and a lemon juicer, presumably for my lemon water.

  Not sure of what to make of the presents, I shoved any hope of Lane like-liking me to the back of my head and filed the dinner as an odd but good memory.

  The thought of gifts brought me back to the present and the looming holidays. I was so desolate this year, I’d even considered a visit to my dad on Christmas Day, but then quickly signed myself up to work for double pay. Ernesto had invited me to join his family, and of course, there was May with her open invitation to join her anytime, any day, anywhere she went.

  But I would probably work a double and come home and eat by the fire with Brooks.

  My negative energy swirled around me like the weather settling in the area, an isolated numbness traveling my veins and old desires surfacing, trying to bubble to the top.

  Deciding it was time to do something about it, I pushed the temptations down as I trekked up the hill in my boots, then let my dog back in the house, changed my shoes, and jumped in my SUV.

  I pulled into the church parking lot and parked quickly, not hesitating to get out of my car. I hoofed it to the door that led to the basement, covering my mouth with my fleece scarf as I braced against the wind. As usual, the door slapped open faster and harder than I wanted, but I hadn’t been as much of a stranger since last time, so no one paid me any mind.

  I’d been coming to AA meetings twice a week or more since I fell back into the fold a couple of months back, after my dinner with Lane. My recent regular attendance was less about the temptation of watching Lane enjoy a beer during our meal, and more about what he symbolized.

  Living.

  Which was something I wasn’t really doing, and didn’t feel was mine to expect.

  Except AJ kept trying to make me think I should. It felt dirty to me—both the suggestion of living and AJ saying it. But I tossed it aside because what the hell did I know?

  Taking my seat, sandwiched between my sponsor and a relatively new girl who worked at the bank, I sat on my hands and looked at my feet. Conversations swirled around me and I listened, passively enjoying the camaraderie of the people who were closer to me than family. As I took it all in, it occurred to me that what these people were doing—the nodding, encouraging, smiling, being brave for someone else, and drinking coffee—all of it helped the mind and body thaw.

  But with the warmth came wants, desires, and deeply stashed dreams. No wonder I chose to spend my life in the middle of the mountains where the cold seeps through you at least eight months of the year.

  I fidgeted in my seat, twisting my ankles in my athletic shoes, squirming on top of my hands as they called the meeting to order. And that was when AJ nudged me.

  “Go, speak, share. It’ll be good for you,” he whispered in my ear.

  “Shh,” I hissed, but my body betrayed me and lifted me from my seat, then walked me toward the front.

  I stood at the front of the long room, my hands shoved into my pockets, swaying back and forth on my feet as I faced the audience and stared at my hands resting on top of the podium.

  “Hi, I’m Bess,” I said, my voice cracking, then continued a little louder. “And I’m a junkie. I liked—loved—it all. Alcohol, pills, the harder stuff.”

  Shit. I mumbled to myself, struggling to form the words needed.

  “Like I said, I’m Bess. Sorry for being rude. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken in front of a group. I’m an alcoholic and drug addict. I’ve been one since I was eighteen years old. Before that I dabbled in a little of everything, but it wasn’t until I went to college that I truly lost myself, and d
rugs and alcohol took over my life.”

  “Hi, Bess. Welcome,” the group chimed in as one.

  “Well, let’s see,” I said, shifting from foot to foot. “I grew up with my dad—just the two of us. My mom up and left when I was a little girl. I remember standing in the doorway of our second-story apartment and watching her walk down the steps, dragging her huge suitcase. She never even turned around. Not once. So, with her gone, my dad did the best he could, and he really did a good job until I went to high school. When I was still young, he would toss a ball to me or take me to his auto shop with him. But he didn’t know what to do with me when I started to become a woman. He had no clue what to say to me about boys or friendships. He’s just an average blue-collar mechanic. Yeah, he’s done well, owns his own shop, and I didn’t ever really want or need for anything, but someone to talk to. So, yeah, he could have done a little better in the talking department.”

  I took a deep breath. Still bouncing back and forth on my feet, I cracked my neck, refusing to look out to the crowd as I continued.

  “I was sort of a small-chested tomboy. I liked hanging at the Y, playing ball when I was younger, and back then the boys were my friends. Until the other girls developed, and I didn’t know what to make of my own development. The little I grew, I hid under hooded sweatshirts and jeans with holes in the knees. My appearance, my attitude . . . let’s just say, I never really learned how to navigate boys or a big circle of friends, and I ended up allowing boys to take advantage of me, which started a vicious cycle. I’d let the neighborhood kids use me, get incredibly sad, and repeat. I know—poor me. But that’s what happened, so I have to own it.”

  I took a deep breath, still staring at my hands as I continued. “College was different. There was so much freedom, and a chance to try on so many personalities, make new friends, and start a different life. Unfortunately, party girl felt best. There were so many pills and parties and joints and drinks. It became a way of life. When I was having fun, I couldn’t remember how lonely I’d always been, so I kept going until I was ‘having fun’ all the time.”