The Vestige

by Caroline George

  “We’re strangers.”

  “You’re different, and I know that’s probably the most cliché response ever given, but it’s the truth. When I look at you, it’s as if I’m reading a novel. No matter how much time I spend studying your pages, there will always be more for me to learn, deeper layers of complexity to baffle me, and plot twists that’ll leave me speechless.” His lips lift into a cheeky, puerile grin. He’s teasing me.

  “So I’m a specimen for observation, like a lab rat? We don’t know each other. This is the second time you’ve been here. What if I don’t want you reading me?”

  “You’re definitely more spectacular than a lab rat.” His smile returns, an incandescent contrast against his summer-tanned skin. “I’m not going to be in Charleston for long. Once I finish my tasks, I’m leaving. No harm done. So please, sit down. I’m not drinking another cup of coffee and I certainly do not want five-dollars to be poured down the drain. You can even chug the stuff if you’re that set on not talking to me.” He pushes out the picnic chair across from him. “Come on, Julie.”

  The chair is restricted area. If I sit and cross the line between customer and barista, bad things will happen. Is coffee worth compromising my safety? Is Jack worth the risk?

  I slide into the chair. Foam warms my tongue, sweet and familiar. “A hazelnut latte?”

  “Missy told me it’s your favorite. She used the last bit of milk to make it for you.” Jack’s like one of Mom’s paintings. Up close, I see his imperfections: several acne scars and slightly crooked teeth. Ugh, his flaws only make him prettier.

  “She’s so thoughtful.” Sarcasm, of course. Missy is a devious matchmaker. She once tried to pair me with her cousin. Now that I think about it, she tries to pair all her single friends with her cousins.

  “What sort of books do you read, Julie? Don’t lie and say you hate reading.” He gulps what remains of his espresso—curse that crema on his upper lip—and leans forward.

  “I’m a literature junkie. I read everything. Chalk one up. Your guess was correct.” Figment fire burns my cheeks when his mouth twists into a goofy, gorgeous smile, as if I’m funny and captivating and totally out of his league. Hazelnut latte and a hot boy. Awkward eye contact and bizarre conversations. He’s my type, isn’t he? “Now, what about you, Jack? What kind of books do you like?”

  “I’m a literature junkie. I read everything,” he copycats. His piercing eyes and grin soften. “I am a huge fan of end-of-the-world scenarios. At the moment, zombies are my forte.”

  “You don’t look like the breed of guy who enjoys reading.”

  “Because I’m not gangly and nerdy, I must be an idiot, right?” He snickers. “Nobody can place me in a category. I’m the peculiar sort of person who doesn’t fit any of society’s stereotypes, which annoys the mess out of humanity. People want to have the power to stamp a name on the foreheads of others, even themselves. They have to classify everything to understand the world. Without a name, they don’t have an identity. It’s like attending a huge convention where everyone wears nametags. One person joins the midst without a sticker on their chest and the entire system is botched, chaos unravels, and what was meant to be a quiet day filled with lectures and exhibitions becomes pandemonium.”

  Long answer—I was expecting a brief chuckle, not a societal analysis. “Why are you interested in end-of-the-world scenarios? Does it matter how we end, or that we ended at all?”

  “After the end of the world, there is a world. Life doesn’t stop. It changes. Mankind may fade away, but unless the planet explodes, something will reside here.” He rubs his neck, blushing. “I’ve read every book and article dealing with the subject and have formulated a theory of my own.”

  “Let me hear it.” This must be a dream because in front of me sits a boy who could have anyone, do and be anything, yet he’s red-faced for a girl who’s spent her whole life at the cruel mercy of others, who is still thirteen and can’t fit into her homecoming dress. It’s true—life has changed without notice.

  “Okay.” Jack leans until he’s inches from my face and then cups a hand around his mouth like a kid ready to tell a secret. He’s close enough to kiss. “People have always expected the end of the world to be a dramatic, thematic event: war, disease, a sudden explosion. But what if the end of the world has already occurred? What if our final demise happened slowly, secretly … and we’ve been oblivious to it all?”

  “That’s an interesting thought. So you think we’re living in the apocalypse, right now?”

  “Yeah, right now.”

  He must be one of those conspiracy nut jobs. “Wow, you’re serious.”

  “It’s just a theory. Don’t worry. We live in a messed-up world and I’m weirdly observant. Those two factors don’t mix well.” Jack pushes his coffee-stained novel across the table. “For you.”

  “But you haven’t finished reading it yet.”

  “I’ve read it six times, actually.” He laughs. “Yeah, the plot is mainly fixated on zombies, but the book is about so much more than that. The author is utterly brilliant, like, he changed my perspective of humanity. Read it and tell me what you think. Maybe we can discuss the underlining meaning next time you have coffee with me.”

  Next time. He wants a next time.

  The tattered pages flip between my fingers. “Zombies, huh?”

  “Yeah, zombies.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t write your phone number on the first page.”

  “You know, I thought about it,” he says, “but I didn’t want to seem too average. Instead, I’m going to come here every day, leave notes, and remain completely mysterious.”

  “Oh, wow. You’ve decided to be a stalker.”

  Jack laughs. “Well, I was aiming more for endearing, but I guess stalker is also an appropriate classification.” His thin lips stretch into a smile so genuine, I can’t help but smile back.

  And this is how it starts, the beginning of a friendship that might just ruin me. I want it to be real as much as I want it to disappear. Walking away isn’t an option because I made a promise to Jon last summer, during one of Mom’s bad days. He took me onto the pier. I told him I loved him and he said, “You’re loyal, Jules. Loyalty and love are very different.”

  I asked, “How so? What is love?”

  He gave me a look I won’t forget, a beaming gaze that transmitted across the gap between us. “You don’t know what love is until you find it,” he whispered, “but when you do, promise me you won’t let it go. Promise you’ll seek it out even when you’re scared it’ll hurt.”

  Jon is the one daring me now to swim faster, let Jack the Coffeehouse Stalker be my crazy, flirty friend. Okay. For Jon, I’d do anything.

  “Fine, I’ll read your book.” I tuck the novel into my apron pocket. “Where are you from, Jack?”

  “Are you interrogating me now?” He raises his eyebrows and sits back in his chair. “Tell me about you and I’ll tell you about me. Fair?”

  “You said I’m a complex novel. Read me and find out.”

  “I’m liking you more and more, Julie.”

  Be safe in the same, like the Jones Family—what the heck am I doing? This isn’t safe. This isn’t same. Who do I think I am, Taylor Swift, Jennifer Aniston? Superstar? Sexiest woman? No, I’m Julie Stryker, change-hating, coffee-drinking, dress-wearing bibliophile. Boys … what are boys? Why should I care if one wants to buy me lattes and talk about zombies?

  To end the madness before it goes to my head, I turn my empty mug upside down. “I’m out of coffee.” For some reason, the small movement hurts, sends an agonizing ache through my body. “Thanks, but I need to get back to work. See you later, Jack.” Ouch, he’s already caused me pain.

  If I were daring and fearless…

  If I were more than what I am…

  If I knew I wouldn’t get hurt…

  The afternoon crowd comes and goes. Dax and Philip return with three cartons of milk, the only available dairy in a sixty-mile radius.
Missy works at the cash register and I stay behind the counter, mixing drinks and baking pastries. Comfort relaxes my muscles and extinguishes the fire from my cheeks, but with it also comes loneliness and a twinge of failure. Upside-down cup. Ended conversation. Goodbye Pretty Boy and blue eyes and thoughts of happily ever after. Nice meeting you.

  “What happened between you and Sexpot?” Missy asks.

  “You gave him a nickname?” I groan and swirl a milk tulip into an espresso shot. “Nothing happened between us. And why did you encourage him to buy me coffee?”

  “I didn’t encourage anything. He asked which drink was your favorite and I told him. That’s all.” She snickers. “He must like you a lot.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he’s still here.”

  Sure enough, Jack is at his spot by the window, reading another book. Doesn’t he have a job? How can he afford to spend an entire afternoon loitering at a coffeehouse? Has he stayed for me?

  “This is weird.” I untie my apron and grab my purse from the coatrack. If I run fast enough, maybe he won’t catch me. “My shift is almost over. I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow, Missy.”

  “Julie, wait!” Jack emerges from The Grindery as I roll my bicycle out of the alley. He chases after me and grabs the handlebars. “May I walk you home?”

  No way. He cannot come to my house. What if he murders me or worse? Missy is inside the coffee shop. If he tries to make a move, she’ll come to my rescue. Or I will electrocute him with my Taser. But he has a voice that makes my skin feel like more than skin and a crooked smile meant for me. How could a person with a face like that be dangerous?

  Boys are unpredictable and stupid and brash. They do creepy, stalkerish things because they believe in extreme measures. They love to the fullest and ignore completely. They heal hearts and grind them to dust. To have nothing from a boy is devastating, but when he gives his all, the world becomes an electric place, and that is why women love them so—their all is worth the risk.

  “How do I know you’re not, like, an axe murderer?”

  “Oh, I totally am an axe murderer. Chopped someone up last night. Sorry. That wasn’t funny.” He sighs and lowers to eye level. “I’m not going to hurt you, ever. For a long time, it was my job to protect people. I protect, not hurt. You can trust me, I swear.”

  “I live near Waterfront Park.” The words are pried from my tongue by an invisible force, maybe the lure of his eyes. Did he put truth serum in my coffee? Why don’t I give him my social security number and credit card, too? Trust? He’s a stranger, a man, and he likes me. Three strikes.

  “Great. I’m staying at an apartment on Prioleau Street. We’re practically neighbors.” Jack stashes his hands in his pockets. He drags at my side like a ball and chain, and as the setting sun blankets downtown Charleston with shadows, he glances at me fast. His mouth becomes small and his pupils dilate—he resembles a hawk, a super-hot hawk with broad shoulders and a jawline that could cut butter.

  “You’re staring,” I say after we’ve walked two blocks.

  “Oh, sorry. I’ll stop.” He uses his hands as blinders. “I just like the way you look.”

  His compliment is devoured by my heart before I can block it with a shield of self-talk. Beautiful is what girls expect to be called. Pretty is the second best compliment. Jack didn’t tell me I was either. He simply said he likes the way I look as if I have an appearance as unique and desired as a good wine or French Roast. I’ve never been given a better praise.

  I wipe sweat from my forehead and grip the bike’s handlebars. They imprint my palms with rectangular grooves. “People usually like you, don’t they?”

  “Usually.” He smiles. “I’m determined to make you like me, Julie.”

  “Why? Why do you want to be my friend? We just met and you’re already walking me home. I know nothing about you except that you like apocalypse books and good espresso.”

  “It’s a feeling I have,” he says after a moment of thought, “like we need to be friends.”

  Music resonates from bars. People crowd the sidewalks, wait in line at restaurants. They all smell of sunshine and sea breeze, alcoholic joy, southern pride. Their laughter drifts through the streets. Welcome to the happiest place in the USA.

  “I moved around a lot as a kid,” Jack says as we stroll toward the harbor. “My parents divorced when I was seven years old. I moved to Athens to live with my mom but … she died five years later in a car crash. So I packed up and moved to Albany to live with my bigwig, military dad. Simply put, we didn’t get along. He worked constantly, practically hated me, and I never liked him.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry.”

  “Now you know something about me.” He stretches out his arms and walks backward so we’re face-to-face. “What about you? Any family problems? I don’t want to guess your life story.”

  “Dead sister.” Is anything sacred? What’s wrong with my tongue?

  “Damn, I was hoping you’d have a perfect life. You deserve a perfect life.”

  “Nobody deserves anything. We live each day trusting in a tomorrow we may not have, trusting that our hearts will keep beating, trusting we’ll be able to provide for ourselves and our families. Life is a game of survival and in the game, we’re all equal and undeserving.” A monologue—isn’t that attractive? Boys adore chatty girls, said nobody ever. “I don’t understand why bad things happen. I don’t understand why my sister died, but she did. There’s no use dwelling on what I cannot change so I cling to the hope of a brighter tomorrow. Believing that life could get better helps me survive the day.”

  “I’m glad you’re an optimist.” He jumps and high-fives a crosswalk sign. “I don’t entrust my hope in a brighter tomorrow because tomorrow is just another day. The world doesn’t change because the sun sets and rises. We can either adapt to survive our circumstance or we can change it. And I know we can’t control fate, but I’m sure not going to spend whatever time I have left sitting around and waiting for my life to get better.”

  There’s something to be said about an assertive lifestyle, but I’m not sure what. Is it productive, safe? Brave? Will battling my circumstance save me from it or worsen my discomfort? Jack’s perspective is rational, daresay brilliant. And yes, change doesn’t happen overnight. But do I really want a better life, or is clinging to the hope of it my excuse for staying the same?

  We saunter past Vendue Wharf, along a path lined with park benches and oak trees. Jack grabs an old newspaper from a trashcan and folds it into an airplane. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the craft into darkness, a universe far from Charleston where beautiful boys fall in love with pretty average girls. If I could shrink myself down to size, I’d climb aboard and stray from home-sweet-home.

  “Tell me more,” he says, “about your game of survival.”

  One trip on his charm and I pour voice into what’s been bottled-up in my head for the past nine years. I tell him about Sybil, Mom and Dad, even my thoughts about life and the future. After half-an-hour of my blabbing, he knows me on an above-personal level. I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want to give him exclusive insight into my life, but he’ll be out of Charleston in a few weeks. No harm done, at least, no harm will come to my routine and singleness.

  “You shouldn’t let those college jerks screw you over.”

  “They don’t.”

  “Sounds like they do. Make them stop. You got to pull out your guns…”

  “I don’t have any guns!”

  “Oh, you have guns. I can tell,” he says with a smile. “And you really like sushi? That’s gross. Ugh, raw fish and seaweed…”

  “It tastes good.” I laugh. “There’s this incredible restaurant downtown that makes the best spicy tuna roll. And the calamari salad is to die for.”

  Jack’s eyes sparkle like stars in the dim light. “We should go together sometime.”

  “Sure, okay.” Dang it. I’ve broken my own rules. Not only have I trusted him, I’v
e allowed him to become my friend. This was supposed to be one night of openness. Now there are strings attached, a commitment for more. To change the subject, I ask, “What does a freelance researcher do?”

  “Researches things.” He winks at me and helps lift my bike onto a cobblestone walkway. “It’s not an interesting or particularly sexy job. Nobody wants to date a perpetual studier, but I bet there’s an army of guys crawling over each other to get to you.”

  More like crawling away. “You’re ridiculous. Who’d ever want to date me?”

  “Someone like you? There’d be a line at your door as soon as work got out.”

  “Oh, would you be in the line?” Sarcasm. Not a real question. I don’t care if he responds—heat burns my toes, ears, and everything in between—well, maybe I care a little.

  Jack pauses and gazes into me. “Yeah … I’m in the line … and I’m better than all the other guys so you should really pick me. I’m funny. I’m strong, like, I could sweep you off your feet and run without breaking a sweat. I can also blow milk through my nose, but only if I’m drunk and the milk is warm.”

  “Gosh, that’s weird.” And random. Did he say he was in the line? For me?

  “I know.” He laughs. “I’m a freak.”

  “No, you’re a flirt.”

  His grin swallows most of his face. “Shameless.”

  Electricity makes my hair stand on end. I grip the bike’s handlebars. How could Jack do this, trip me on his charm? He is the person I’d want to catch fireflies with on hot summer nights when the cicadas hiss and the bullfrogs croak, the person who’d tell me to stick my head out the car window so I could feel the estuary’s breeze on my face. He would be a plot twist in my story, a spark of different in my daily sameness. But he’s leaving soon. If I get attached, if I like him more than platonically, saying goodbye will be another tragedy I’ll have to survive.

  Maybe I don’t have to be daring and fearless…

  Maybe I don’t have to be more than what I am…

  Maybe I won’t get hurt…

  Streetlamps illuminate the open space of greenery and reflect off the flowing river. An acoustic band, situated by the water’s edge, plays for a crowd of onlookers.