by Hazel James
“That reminds you? Last I checked, we were talking about homeless people, not Leilani.” He makes no effort to downplay his side-eye.
Shit.
“We were talking about me giving you a job, which made me think of giving her a job. So yes, that reminds me.”
His phone rings before he can respond, and I use the diversion to make my escape. “I’ll catch you inside.” We come here a couple of times a month, and it always goes like this: Marshall bets that he can beat me in a game of pool and then adds another notch to his losing streak. I quit taking his money a few months ago because I felt bad.
“Hey, handsome. What’ll it be?” The woman behind the bar smirks and reaches for a highball glass, knowing I habitually order the same thing—Jack and Coke, hold the Jack. I haven’t had a drink since the day my parents scraped me off their bathroom floor and dragged me to the emergency room. That was ten years ago.
Once I got clean, I started setting goals, and one of them was to have a normal social life. My therapist wasn’t happy. He said putting a recovering alcoholic in a bar is like giving a kid a piece of cake and expecting him not to eat it. It’s a valid concern, and one I’ve shared with my own clients since then. But I’m stubborn, so I left it on my goal sheet.
It took six years to cross it off.
“Have you reconsidered my offer for a date?” she asks, setting my drink on the bar.
“I wouldn’t want Mike to kick my ass.” At the young age of fifty-eight, Sharon’s a shameless flirt and loves coming up with reasons to feel my muscles. It’s a good thing her husband has a sense of humor.
“Oh, please. The only thing he’s going to kick is the bucket if he doesn’t stop throwing money at that hunk of metal on wheels he calls an antique.”
“I heard that.” The voice echoes from the other end of the bar. I look down and see Mike smiling in our direction.
“So, you can hear me from over there, but not when I ask you to take out the trash from two feet away?”
Mike cups his hand behind his ear. “I’m sorry, what?”
Sharon chuckles and scratches her forehead with her middle finger. Theirs is the kind of relationship I hope to have someday. Romance is great, but so many people forget that having fun with your spouse will last a hell of a lot longer than a bouquet of roses and a backrub. “You see what I have to put up with? If only I had a man with muscles who could whisk me away to a tropical island. You know,” she eyes my arm, “these just might work.” She makes a show of gripping my bicep and fanning herself with her free hand. “Yes, those would do nicely.”
“Quit fondling our customers, dear,” Mike teases.
“And here I thought I married someone who would support my dreams.” She sighs and wipes the bar with a dishtowel.
“Tell Mike to get a membership at Battles. I’ll see what I can do about those muscles.” Smiling, I place a five on the bar, grab my drink, and head toward the pool tables in the back. Halfway there, a giggle stops me in my tracks. I peer to the right and see Leilani at a high top. She’s wearing a long wig this time. It’s nice, but I still prefer the short, spiky one.
She giggles again, reading something on her phone, and reaches for her glass.
With her right arm.
It’s not Leilani. My heart plummets until I realize who I’m staring at.
“Kiki?” She glances at me, surprised to hear her name. I close the distance and extend my hand. “Hi, I’m Clay. Your sister works at my gym.”
Her face lights up when she connects the dots. “It’s nice to meet you, Clay. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I want to throw a victorious fist in the air and ask for a detailed list of everything she’s heard, but settle for a polite smile instead. “Same here. Is Leilani with you?” I skim the room, hoping I look casual.
“She’s in the bathroom, but she should be back any minute. You’re welcome to join us.” She points to an empty seat across from her.
I peek over my shoulder, confirming Marshall is still on the phone outside, and slide a barstool out. “I’d love to.” Both sisters are knockouts, but now that I’m closer, I see the subtle differences between them. Kiki’s lips aren’t as full as Leilani’s. She’s also missing the tiny freckle in the center of her collarbone.
“So,” she swirls her glass, “Leilani said you’re getting ready to open a new location?”
I spend the next couple of minutes bragging about everything she’s done at Battles and segue into this morning’s prank, which Kiki hadn’t heard about yet. In the middle of the story, I see Leilani on the far wall. She’s exchanged her yoga pants and Battles polo for low-slung blue jeans and a pink t-shirt that makes her Hawaiian skin look even more tanned than normal. My smile grows wider, but as soon as she recognizes me, her face twists into a grimace and she bolts for the entrance.
“Umm, excuse me.” Before Kiki can beat me to it, I hop off my stool and chase after her. “Wait!” She ignores me, moving unsteadily down the cracked sidewalk, muttering to herself about not being drunk enough.
“For what?” I ask, grabbing her shoulder. “Where are you going?”
She swats my hand away and continues weaving a path across the small parking lot. “Just go back to the bar. I hear the scenery’s better there.”
Huh?
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t be stupid, Clay. It’s insulting.” The bite to her voice isn’t unfamiliar, but it’s the first time I’ve heard it when she’s not hangry.
“I’m not being stupid. You’re just confusing the hell out of me.” She’s about twenty feet from the road. Traffic isn’t heavy right now, but I’d rather not bear witness to a sunset game of tipsy chicken. “You’re gonna get yourself killed if you keep going.”
“Didn’t you hear?” she calls over her shoulder. “I don’t die. I just lose body parts.”
“Last chance, Leilani.” She lifts her left hand and extends her middle finger.
That does it.
I sweep her into my arms and do an about-face while she hollers like a petulant toddler.
“Put me down right fucking now!”
Make that a petulant toddler with a potty mouth. I resist the urge to laugh, knowing that will only piss her off more. Something tells me now’s not the right time to push her buttons, and as much as I’d like to sit her down and figure out why she’s so upset, it looks like Kiki has other plans. She joins us outside, two purses dangling from her arm, and points to an SUV.
“Sorry, Lei. They just announced last call. Why don’t we head home and raid your junk food cabinet?” Kiki catches my eye, cluing me in on her fib. The Angry Bison doesn’t close for another few hours.
“Last call? It’s only…” She examines her watch, blinking several times. “Oh hell. I don’t know. That’s what I get for coming to a lame-ass country bar.” Kiki opens the passenger door, and I lift Leilani inside, then reach for her seatbelt. As expected, she protests immediately.
“Why are you always trying to save me? You’re so annoying.” She’s damn cute when she scowls.
“Take it up with my mom. She’s the one who taught me my manners.” I click the buckle, shut the door, and walk Kiki to the driver’s side. “You need any help getting her home?” Half of me wishes she’d say yes.
“Nah, she’s only had a few.” She reaches for her handle, but pauses, tipping her head slightly. “Leilani was right about you, you know.”
“About what?”
“You’re a good guy.”
I keep my smile to myself until her car rounds the corner and grin like a lunatic all the way back to the Angry Bison. The moment my hand hits the door, my phone buzzes with a text from Marshall. In the excitement of the last ten minutes, I’d forgotten about him.
Something came up. Sorry to ditch you.
I tap out a quick “it’s cool,” and head for my truck without putting anymore thought into what happened. He’s a grown man who’s never had problems taking care of himself. Besi
des, I have more important things on my mind.
Leilani thinks I’m a good guy.
My bullshit meter has been in overdrive since a quarter to eight this morning when Rebecca came in by herself saying Leilani had a migraine. I’d wanted to stop by her apartment this weekend, but Dad’s last-minute deck expansion project kept me home. Mom needed more space for her wood pallet garden, and I couldn’t say no, considering they let me live in the cottage on the back edge of their property. It was my grandpa’s before he died, and when I got serious about school and opening a gym, they gave me the keys so I wouldn’t have to worry about rent and utilities.
It’s just as well. Kiki would have been at Leilani’s, and I’d rather talk to her alone.
Like she’d be right now.
Marshall glances at me as I approach the reception desk, keys in hand, and shifts his feet to increase the distance between him and Rebecca. “Where are you going?”
“Dropping off some donations during my lunch break.” The lie slips past my lips with ease. “I’ll be back before my two o’clock.”
Marshall holds his hand up as I start for the door. “Before you leave, I’ve been thinking about what you said.” He pauses and grips the back of his neck. “I’ve seen a few homeless people not too far from the gym. One lady even has a kid with her. What if I invited them to come here and shower?”
My eyes go wide, and Rebecca’s hand muffles her, “Awww.”
“Um, yeah. That sounds like a great idea.” I try hiding the surprise in my voice, but it’s no use. Of all the things I expected him to say, that’s not even on the list.
“Okay.” He nods and rubs his hands together. “Well, have fun with your donations.”
“Thanks.” I push open the front door to the sound of Rebecca cooing over how sweet Marshall is and hop in my truck, praying for nothing but green lights down Archer Highway. The logical side of me says I’m making an unnecessary trip, but the optimistic counselor can’t resist the chance to help someone.
It has nothing to do with the funny feeling sliding around in my chest.
“Nothing at all,” I mutter, cranking the radio.
Another lie.
Purgatory
WHO NEEDS THERAPY WHEN YOU have a swear word coloring book, Eminem’s The Way I Am blasting through your Bose speakers, and a noisy auto shop below the apartment that doesn’t care about the volume? Call me a chicken all you want, but facing Clay is the last thing I wanted to do today. It was hard enough getting the third degree from Kiki when I woke up yesterday morning.
I’ve never been jealous of her—we each grew up with our own strengths, and even after my accident, I never felt “less than.” But watching Clay smile at her hours after I’d learned I was no closer to having surgery made me see green, and then red, and that just created one shitty pile of brown.
I hate brown.
Except for chocolate, which I wish I had more of. I killed off the last of my stash yesterday after Kiki drove back to Fort Sill. Since I’d never told mom what types of salad I’d have while she was gone, a fruit version made with Granny Smith apples, chunks of Snickers, and Cool Whip sounded like a decent dinner. Rebecca’s kids pushed cubes of pork chops around their plate while eyeing my food, so I sacrificed my last Snickers bar to make their dessert.
Being dubbed the best person in the world as they left with their grandparents was worth it.
Finishing the last of my coloring page, I lean back in my wooden chair and admire my work, briefly considering the ramifications of sending it to the VA hospital. Go fuck yourself seems like a message they should hear today. I even used patriotic colors.
My mind is halfway made up when Eminem ends, leaving just enough time to hear a knock at the door before the first notes of Big Sean’s I Don’t Fuck With You fill the room. Guess I was wrong about the shop not hearing my music.
I press the mute button, slide a Colorado Rockies ball cap on my head, and swing the door open, hoping my apologetic smile buys me brownie points. “I’m sorr—”
The word fades into silence as my body reacts to the man standing on the welcome mat.
Heart and lungs? Stopped.
Stomach? Dropped.
Nervous system? On high alert.
Clay’s lips curve into their usual upward position. “I’m impressed. You rapped that song with such conviction.” He lowers his face to the screen and whispers, “I think my favorite part was when you talked about grabbing your balls.”
Fire ignites on the tips of my ears, blazing across my cheeks and down my neck. Why is he here? Does he visit every employee who calls out sick? “Uh, hi. I was just…” About to get fired, probably.
“May I?” He points to the black aluminum handle and I nod, still unable to form complete sentences. Clay steps inside and surveys the kitchen and living room, his eyes moving from the box of Fruity Pebbles on the counter to my coloring book on the table before settling on my hoodie draped over the back of the couch. Oh, God.
I glance down at my fitted black tank top wishing I would have put on a bra today. There was no need because it was just me. But now… Shit. My arms instinctively move to a defensive position across my boyish chest, but even that fails thanks to my missing limb. Double shit.
“Stop.” Clay’s voice is gentle but firm.
“Stop what?” I rub my right shoulder like I caught a sudden chill and casually retrieve my hoodie.
“Overthinking.”
My fingers fumble on the zipper. “I wasn’t.”
He shoots a pointed look at me. “Just like you weren’t hiding from me today?”
“I wasn’t,” I lie again, dropping into a ball with my back against the arm of the couch. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“Ah, there she is.” Clay ignores my question and sits on the opposite end, squaring an ankle over his knee like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“There who is?”
“My favorite hedgehog.”
My jaw drops. “I’m not a hedgehog!”
“No?” he teases. “When faced with an uncomfortable situation, you immediately curled up and activated your prickly outer shell.”
“You’re so annoying,” I mumble, plucking invisible lint from the knee of my yoga pants. Why can’t he just sit there and look pretty?
Undeterred, Clay shifts, draping his arm across the back of the couch. “What happened Friday night?”
I lift a shoulder and analyze the chipped red polish on my toes. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You were pissed off about something and took it out on me. And,” he holds up a finger, “before you say something about not remembering, I know you weren’t that drunk.” He taps the bill of my ball cap to emphasize his point.
I swat his hand away and readjust my hat. “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Maybe. But keeping it to yourself won’t fix anything either.” He meets my narrowed gaze with a cool smirk and whispers, “It’s okay to admit I’m right.”
I remain silent on principle, toying with a stray thread on my hoodie, when I feel him tip my hat up. “Leave my—”
“Your hair’s growing back,” he murmurs. I sit frozen as Clay removes it completely, revealing a fresh crop of dark strands covering my head. “It looks good. Why are you still wearing your wig to work?”
God knows I wouldn’t sweat as much if I left it off, but it’s become a weird security blanket. Right now, I feel naked. I swallow twice, trying to force moisture back into my mouth. “It’s still a little short,” I finally eke out, running my hand over the back.
“Nah, it just looks like you got a haircut.” He smooshes the hat back down, making my head bobble like a plastic sports figure. “Was it long before?”
I nod. “Longer than Kiki’s.”
“It was weird seeing her at the bar. I don’t know how anyone gets you two confused.”
I raise my right arm. “That hasn’t happened in a few years,” I say, my wry smile causing us
both to chuckle.
“That’s not what I meant. Your faces are different.”
“Our faces?” My brows draw together. “Clay, we’re identical.”
It’s his turn to nod. “I know.”
“So, what’s different?”
He fidgets with the edge of the cushion, keeping his eyes away from mine. This can’t be good. My nails make crescent-shaped indentations in my left palm as I brace for something like “she’s prettier than you.”
“Um… your lips. They’re… fuller. Nicer.”
Oh. The temperature in the room shoots up a dozen degrees as I absorb his words. He thinks I have nice lips? This is good. This is so very, very good. I relax my fist and release an inaudible sigh of relief.
Clearing the gravel from his throat, Clay glances at me, his cheeks looking as pink as mine feel. He’s no stranger to giving compliments. I can’t count how many times he’s praised the staff for the work we do or cheered his clients as they hit a new record in the gym.
But this is different. These words are electric, charged with the hope that maybe my feelings aren’t as one-sided as I thought. The right side of my mouth inches up. “Thanks.”
“Of course, your personalities are different, too. Kiki doesn’t seem to be nearly as stubborn as you.”
He flashes a devilish grin and I narrow my eyes in mock indignation. “Jerk.” I smack his shoulder for effect, but he catches my wrist before I can pull away. His hand is strong, but gentle, and his fingers overlap just above my pulse point. I will my heart rate to keep my feelings toward Clay a secret.
“What happened on Friday?” he asks again, his playful expression gone.
Talking about my crush-induced outburst isn’t an option, so that leaves one alternative. “I can’t get my reconstruction.”
Clay releases me, but leans forward. “What? Why?”
“I’m not sure yet. I tried calling the VA this morning. In the span of an hour and a half, I was disconnected twice, transferred four times, and given a bullshit song and dance from every person I actually spoke to. Hence, the loud music and swear word coloring.”
