Seven

by Susan Renee

  “Okay look. I want to see Savannah happy just as much as you do. She’s my friend and I care about her. But you make one stupid mistake…even one time, and it’s over, do you understand? I’m in this for everyone’s happiness. I’m just not sure how you plan to work this out.”

  “I’ll make it work. I owe her that much. Just…don’t tell her anything okay?”

  Rachel slowly shakes her head. “You know I won’t interfere with your life, Bryant. I just hope you’re doing the right thing and not just for yourself...and why on earth do you think you owe Savannah anything when you barely even know her?”

  Fuck. Think fast Wood!

  “I just…” Shaking my head, I try to come up with an excuse for my slip fast. “I was a douche to her in high school so you know, I owe her. I’m not the same person I was back then.”

  Rachel nods and I smile, relieved that she’s being supportive. “Look, I’ll get out of your hair and let you get the shop opened. Thanks for the talk. I’ll catch you later, okay?”

  She shakes her head in defeat. She knows I always get what I want. I don’t take no for an answer if I don’t have to. “See you, Bryant. Have a good one.”

  Chapter 6

  Savannah

  The drive from my apartment to the salon takes only a few minutes but in those moments Bryant Wood causes my mind to travel back to seventh grade, the year I began to hate the world and all boys in it…or maybe I just hated Bryant.

  I don’t know whose bright idea it was back then to make middle school kids take co-ed swimming classes, but it happened. There definitely weren’t many kids happy about it. On one hand, there were the girls who were forced to wear bathing suits right out of the nineteen fifties, except that they were a nasty worn out red color with numbers written in permanent marker in the corners, and were assigned to each of us. Why we couldn’t wear our own one-piece bathing suit is beyond me. Every girl hated locker room time. It was the time we sized each other up. Whose boobs were growing? Who was wearing a bra? Who shaved their legs? Who didn’t shave their legs? And on top of all that drama, there was the mystery of who was on their period each week. Didn’t want to swim that day? We just told Mrs. Farabee, our gym teacher, that it was shark week. No questions asked, although that also meant we sat on the bleachers watching everyone else swim. We may as well have been wearing a huge scarlet letter on our foreheads.

  On the other hand, the poor middle school boys were forced to wear tight red banana hammocks that not only rarely fit right, but allowed everyone to see the instant hard-on each of them had watching the girls in their less than attractive bathing suits. At that pubescent age it didn’t matter what a girl was wearing. Boys got boners constantly just imagining what was under those things, and God forbid one of those girls be a little more blessed in the chest.

  Our first day back in the pool after summer break was a day that will forever be etched in my mind. It was the day my schoolgirl crush on Bryant Wood ended, the day I secretly wished he would uncontrollably shit his pants every day until the end of the year, so that he would understand the embarrassment of being judged by a member of the opposite sex.

  I had just jumped off the diving board and into the pool. The water was a refreshing change from the steamy stuffy natatorium. Bryant was next up to jump so I swiftly swam out of his way toward the ladder on the wall so that I could exit as he jumped. I was just hoisting myself up the ladder and out of the pool when Bryant swam over to where I was. He watched me for a moment before giggling and saying “Man, someone got fat over the summer.”

  What?

  Did he really just say that?

  I didn’t even know how to respond. How do you respond to a comment like that, especially when it’s coming from the one person you have had a complete and utter crush on for the past several years? “Shut up Bryant,” was all I could say. I walked away completely defeated, but I had to hide it from everyone else for the rest of the class period. If that weren’t bad enough, that afternoon on the bus, for whatever reason, his relentless teasing just wouldn’t stop.

  “Savaaaaaanah,” he would sing. His tune was completely made up and stupid.

  “Savaaaaaanaaaaaah…Hey, Savannah, did you know your name sort of sounds like you’re saying Seven-ah? Anyone ever call you that Savannah? Seven? Seven Sanders?”

  “Shut up Bryant. Leave me alone.”

  “Okay Seven. But I’m going to call you Seven from now on because your name sounds like Seven. Do you get it? Sev-an-ah?” He annunciated each syllable so everyone around us heard him. Some of the kids would giggle but I just stared ahead of me. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that what he was doing was bothering me. In reality, he was breaking my heart, and making me angry with myself for ever liking him in the first place. Stupid fucking love.

  *****

  “Hey Rache,” I greet Rachel as I enter the salon. I head to the back of the shop to store my purse and keys and grab my apron. My first client should be here any minute. Rachel is already working on Mrs. Wither’s weekly style.

  “Well good afternoon’ to you too birthday girl!” Rachel smiles.

  Oh yeah…it’s noon already.

  “It’s not my birthday anymore. That was yesterday. Today is today.”

  “Yeah well it looked like you were having a great time last night. Thanks for letting us take you out. Glad you made it here safely this morning.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, I did have a pretty good time. And speaking of making it here safely this morning, were you in my apartment last night? Did you get my text earlier?” I whisper to her. “Was I that drunk that I don’t remember letting you in?”

  Rachel shakes her head. “Nope. Wasn’t me.”

  “Huh. What the hell then?”

  Scrunching her eyebrows at me, Rachel asks, “Why do you ask?”

  “Well…because my car was parked in the lot outside my building, my keys were waiting for me on my front table, and there was a note on the counter with some Advil and water. I know I wasn’t that trashed that I would forget doing all those things. I mean, I certainly wouldn’t write myself a note.”

  I look over at Rachel just in time to see her roll her eyes and smirk to herself as she curls another piece of Mrs. Wither’s hair.

  Narrowing my eyes at her, I step towards her and quietly say, “You know something.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, most likely contemplating how to respond. The shit-eating grin on her face tells me I’m right.

  “I might know something.” She closes her eyes tightly and laughs, almost like she knows she just got caught with her hand in the damn cookie jar.

  “If it wasn’t you, then who was it? Heather or Audrey?”

  “Nope.” She giggles.

  “Damnit Rache. You let someone break into my apartment last night? I gave you that key because I trusted you! You’re the only one who…”

  “Whoa whoa whoa!” She smirks. “Stop right there. One, I didn’t let anyone break into your apartment. I was nowhere near your apartment. I was at the bar last night until it closed. Two, I also didn’t give anyone your key, so slow your roll there sister. It wasn’t me.”

  “Okay it wasn’t you, but you know who it was, and I’m going to assume that you at least thought about my safety in knowing that someone was going to break into my apartment, so out with the details Rache!”

  “Well…” She puts down the curling iron she was using and begins to comb out the curls in Mrs. Wither’s hair. Mrs. Wither looks just as confused as I do in getting to the bottom of my mystery visitor. “You were getting along so well with Bryant Wood last night…”

  “Bryant Wood? Bartender last night Bryant Wood? That Bryant Wood?” Something in my chest flips.

  Rachel nods her head slowly, smiling. “The very same.”

  What the fuck?

  No wonder he asked how I was at the grocery store.

  “Rachel! Why the hell would you allow that guy in my apartment?” My mind is going a mile a minute
. How the hell could she think that was a good idea?

  “What’s the big deal? He said you knew him.”

  I throw Rachel an exaggerated huff and almost shout, “Yes, Rachel…KNEW would be the operative word here. I knew him. We grew up around each other and went to school together. He was a douche back then and he’s a douchebag now.”

  Albeit an attractive douchebag.

  Did he see me sleeping?

  Did he watch me?

  She smirks again, not hiding her amusement of the situation at all from me. “Well anyway, for the record, I didn’t allow him anywhere. I didn’t know he was going to enter your apartment. How he did that is beyond…no, wait. He went to school with your apartment supervisor, Cole. I’m guessing that’s how he got in. But Rache, before you get all pissy about it, think about something first.”

  “I’m all ears,” I say, deadpanned.

  “He followed you home last night to make sure you made it safely into your apartment. He said you walked down the middle of the damn street!”

  “Yeah because I was creeped out. I thought someone was behind me. Guess I was right.” I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head, staring at her as she continues.

  “After he followed you home and made sure you made it in, he came back here. He already had your car keys Savannah.” She laughs. “He showed them to me behind your back last night when you were telling me you were going to walk home. He must’ve gotten them from your purse or something. I don’t know. The guy is slick, I’ll give you that. But he drove your car back to your place for you and he made sure the keys were returned for you. So, um, I’m guessing he’s also the one who left you the Advil and water.” She raises her eyebrows in my direction and I see the suggestive notion all over her face.

  Why would he do that?

  For me?

  I feel my expression change from one of irritation to utter confusion. I don’t understand at all why a guy like that would do that for me and not come knocking for a booty call. That’s what all guys want. I roll my eyes at the thought and remind myself that I’m pissed at Bryant for…whatever it is he did.

  “Ugh! Wait till I get my hands on Cole for being Bryant’s accomplice and giving him a key! I might have to kill him.”

  The bell above the door dings when my first client of the day comes in.

  “Good morning Mrs. Bently. How are you this mornin’?” I say a little too bitterly towards a customer undeserving of my attitude.

  “Fine, dear. Just a cut and style this morning, please.”

  I smile to reassure her that I’m okay and not upset with her or anyone else. “Sure thing. I’ll meet ya right at the back sink. Come on back.”

  I look over at Rachel, who is watching me in her mirror as she sprays Mrs. Wither’s hair. I quickly wipe the smile from my face so she knows how serious I am. “This convo isn’t over Rache. I’m so not okay with this.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I hear ya, but Savannah, listen.” Rachel turns around to watch me walk back to the sinks.

  “What?”

  “He may have been a douchebag then, and I’m not defending his past, but the Bryant Wood that I know is actually a pretty decent guy. Cut him some slack, ok? You don’t know his story.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh please, enlighten me. Tell me his story.”

  She shakes her head adamantly. “It’s not my story to tell. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

  What does that mean?

  “Okaaay.” I say slowly. My mind spins frantically as I try to come up with some sort of horrific story of his past that he must’ve suffered through, but quite frankly, none can come close to mine. Besides, he seems like he’s doing just fine now.

  Chapter 7

  Savannah

  I don’t see Bryant around much at all the next week, except for the awkward moment in the drug store a couple days ago. I had just stopped by to pick up some more Advil and a new tube of toothpaste when he almost ran right into me on his way out of the store. He had been checking his phone and not paying much attention. Oddly, he apologized and without saying much of anything, told me he was running late, and left. I wouldn’t have given it another thought had it not been for the no less than four prescription bags in his hands. Well, that and the fact that when he saw me he seemed a bit flustered…like he wanted to talk to me but…couldn’t.

  Is he sick?

  Is someone in his family sick?

  I know it’s none of my business, but four prescriptions at one time is a lot. That coupled with the fact that Bryant Wood was not his usual charming, flirty self was odd. Needless to say, I’ve been thinking more and more about him after seeing him that day. Rachel’s words are etched in my brain about Bryant’s story.

  He’ll tell you when he’s ready.

  What could it possibly be? Cancer? A sick wife? Is he missing a leg? I don’t know, but I allow all possible scenarios to play out in my head.

  The following week I'm walking down the street to The Java Joint to get lunch for Rachel and me when I see him again. Bryant Wood is just a few store-fronts down from where I'm standing, walking out of Peirson's Gifts. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him if it weren’t for the fact that he's carrying a gift box wrapped in red and silver paper, and a small bouquet of pink and yellow roses. I stand there momentarily wondering who he would be purchasing a gift like that for. Obviously it’s for the girl in his life; maybe it's for his mother or grandmother. Maybe he has a sick cousin or something. I take a deep breath and shake the thoughts from my head.

  Does he have a girlfriend?

  I’m sure he has a girlfriend.

  I don’t even care.

  I’ll ask Mom.

  There's no way he's not committed. As much as I don't want to admit it because of the negative feelings I harbor for him, the guy is, indeed, attractive. Working as a bartender, I don't doubt that he has girls all over him pretty much every night. I remember seeing him in action a couple weeks ago at the bar, though I didn’t know who he was at the time.

  Bryant walks out to the street and gets into a black truck. It doesn't surprise me at all that he drives a Chevy Silverado pick-up truck. I roll my eyes as I open the door to the restaurant, shaking my head at my own thoughts. “It's probably for his flavor of the month,” I mutter to myself in reference to the gift he's carrying. “She's probably a skinny bitch.”

  “May I help you miss?”

  I turn my head away from the store-front window to see the girl at the counter looking at me with raised eyebrows and a smile waiting to take my order.

  “Oh yeah, sorry. I called an order in for Savannah Turner.”

  The girl behind the counter turns and grabs a bag sitting behind her. She lifts up the tag attached to the take out bag to read it back to me making sure my order is correct.

  “One Gobbler and one French Pig?”

  Well, nobody’s ever called me a skinny bitch…

  “Yep. That’s the one. Thank you.” I pay for our lunches and walk out the door, trying very hard not to crack up laughing.

  *****

  Can this day be going any slower?

  As the afternoon wears on my energy starts to drain, and my body aches, mid-afternoon slump I guess. I’ll be ready to get home and curl up on my couch for the night so I can continue binge watching episodes of Boston Legal on Netflix. It’s an old show, yes, but something about the relationship of Alan Shore and Denny Crane gets me every time. Really, I think I’m just a huge James Spader fan.

  “Hey Savannah, would you mind closing up this evening? I need to leave a little early to get to a dance recital on time.”

  “A dance recital? Who’s dancing?”

  Rachel smiles and scrunches up her nose. “My cousin, actually…she’s like, my second cousin or something but whatever, we’re a close family. She’s so stinking cute in her little pink and purple tutu. I’ll have to show you pictures tomorrow. She’s three and a half and you can only imagine what watching a group of little girls that age tr
ying to dance around on a stage looks like.” She giggles.

  Peyton.

  Peyton would be three and a half.

  I’ll never see her in a pink and purple tutu.

  I’ll never see her dance on a stage.

  “Savannah, are you okay? I lost you.”

  “I…I’m sorry. I guess I just stared off for a minute.” I force my face to smile so that I don’t worry Rachel, and so that I don’t have to have a conversation that I desperately want to avoid at this very moment. “Sure, I’ll close up. No problem. That sounds cute. I can’t wait to see pictures tomorrow.”

  “Great. Thanks so much. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” I walk quietly back to the bathroom and take a quick look at myself in the mirror. My face is ashen and my eyes look tired. My stomach turns slightly and I think for a minute that perhaps I’ll regret eating that French Pig panini for lunch. I take a minute to splash some water on my face and just focus on breathing in and out instead of on losing my lunch.

  I make it through the end of the day and close up the salon, saying my goodbyes to Audrey and Heather, who had come in for the afternoon. I can’t get back to my apartment fast enough. My blanket is calling my name, as are my favorite oversized sweatshirt, and my thickest socks. Damn if I’m not freezing my ass off right now, which I see as a bad sign. There’s no way I don’t have a fever.

  I don’t bother to stop anywhere on the way home. I just drive quickly the few blocks it takes to get there. When I enter my apartment I throw my keys on the table and head for the kitchen where I remember seeing the bottle of Advil. I grab three pills and a tall glass of water before heading to my bedroom. Grabbing a fresh towel from the pantry, I slip around the corner to the master bathroom. I always get a shower after a day at the salon. Undoubtedly, I have hair, other people’s hair, all over me, and I feel nasty if I don’t get it off of me before getting into my bed. Tonight, I’m happy to be able to stand under a scalding hot shower in hopes that something, anything, warms me up.