by Grace, Pella
“Your mouth needs silencing, Honey-girl.”
I laugh, falling against his lips, kissing what was supposed to be a quick peck, but lips on lips have other plans.
“Mm.” Cash cups my face in one hand, pulling back to look at me. “You taste like a campfire at age seven.”
“What?” I sputter a laugh. “Campfire?”
“How the memory tastes. How it feels to remember it.”
“You have weird thoughts, little boy.”
“Nothing little about me. Let’s run to the beach, Lil.”
I laugh as he pulls us to our feet.
“How do you go from kissing to wanting to run two miles?”
“I told you,” he grabs my hand. “My brain is different.”
***
I gulp from the water jug like my life depends on it. Standing in front of the fridge. Water dribbling down my chin, clothes. I only come up for air, than take another long drink.
“Something wrong with you?”
I turn with my lips still wrapped around the mouth of the jug. A shake of my head and I have to pull away for another breath.
“It’s called working hard.”
Adam snorts. “Do you know how to do that?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Jesus, Lilla. It was a joke. Lighten up. And since when do you use words like that?”
“Since now.” I toss the jug of water back into the fridge, not giving a crap where it lands and slam the door before anything can tumble out.
“Used to be a time when you knew what a joke was, Lilla.”
“Used to be a time when it wasn’t my whole existence, too.”
I hear him sigh as I raid the pantry for something to eat, my stomach starving after running all morning with Cash. We have been running every day for the last few weeks, up and down the beach.
Hands that haven’t touched my hips for months are suddenly doing just that. I recoil, not sure what to do.
“What? Now I can’t touch you?”
“It’s just …” You don’t. Ever. Someone else has. Does. Better. I look to the floor. “I …”
“You’re different, Lilla. I’d be an idiot not to notice.”
Actually, you are just that. An idiot. Oblivious. You didn’t even notice another man’s teeth marking my skin. The paint I couldn’t get out of my hair. Where I go every morning.
He touches my chin, lifting my face. It’s all wrong. Alien and chilling. A place inside of me calling out for Cash, wishing he could tell him not to do that. That it isn’t his place.
It is exactly his place.
“Shit, I know I’m not here a lot, but I just want to give us a good life. I want you to be happy.”
I used to be.
We used to be.
A house full of shiny and nothing gleams. Nothing.
“For what it’s worth, Lil, you look really pretty, today.” He places a soft kiss on my cheek, something like what my grandfather would have done.
And if this was Cash, that sentence would have been followed by every day. Not that he would’ve needed to say anything at all—the picture is quite clear on his face. Little gestures. Paper airplanes.
Little paper airplanes.
***
“Give me hell, baby.”
Cash checks the basketball to me.
“I’ll have you know, I was an amazing athlete in my youth, Warren.” I pull the hat from his head and turn it backwards on my own head.
“I didn’t know The Great Depression era had good luck charms, Lilla.” He makes a face at the long white socks pulled up to my knees.
“Handsome and funny. Such a combo.” I check the ball back to him.
“More handsome than Adam?” He dribbles the ball, grinning.
“Stalling, Cash?”
The ball keeps bouncing. Not backing down.
“You’re not the same. I like your eyes, if that makes you happy.”
A ball hits me in the back of the shoulder from another court. Two guys come jogging over. Cash scoops up their ball.
“Watch where you’re shooting that shit.” He hands it back over, pressing it firmly against the guy’s chest. “You hit my … friend.”
“Friend, huh?” The guy looks at me. “Good looking friend.”
Cash points. “Walk.”
***
“Come on, Grandma. Get it past the hand. The hand is all in your face. All in your face. I bet you have on underwear the size of Texas. Don’t you, Grandma?”
I giggle, dribbling past him as he grabs hold, winding his arms around me.
“Foul! Damn foul! This is against all the rules, Warren!”
I can’t stop laughing.
“You looked as though you might collapse of old age. I thought you needed saving.”
“Bullshit. You knew I was going to make the shot and win. You cheated. Dick.”
“For an old lady, you sure do have stamina.” He pants.
“You know what else?” I wriggle out of his hold, going for the easy layup. “Game.”
I go running around the court, arms raised in glorious victory. Cash collapses onto the ground and I stand over him, hands on my hips.
“Maybe you could fold up one of those little airplanes and ride it home, loser.” I kick his side and he tugs me down to him.
“I let you win.”
“You got your ass handed to you.”
“I would like some ass handed to me. That’d be quite nice, actually.”
“I don’t do losers.”
“And yet you’re married to Adam.”
“Be nice. And … like I said.”
His eyes widen. “How long?”
“I think I saw the ice cream truck over there.” I climb off of him and start walking towards the parking lot. His feet follow behind.
“Just give me a number.”
“Five.”
“The number of days it has been since you were last with Adam. In a bed. Naked. Having sex. There, I think I covered it all.”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“Not a number, Lilla.”
“I think I’m going to get one of those Mickey Mouse bars. Do they still make those?”
Cash steps around me, blocking my path.
“Can you be serious for two seconds, Lil?”
My hands slap against my legs. “I told you I don’t know. Why does it matter? Can’t we just enjoy our day and not talk about this crap?”
“Is that what you want?” he asks.
“Of course. Why would I want to talk to you about Adam?”
“No, I mean … I mean is that all you want from me, Lilla?”
“I don’t understand.”
“That would make two of us. I don’t know what you’re looking for with me. From me. If all you want is to have fun, that’s fine. I can do that. But let’s draw the line in the sand, right now. What are we?”
“I thought you were against complicating uncomplicated things or thinking about stuff?”
He sighs in frustration. “That would be the whole point for defining … this.” He motions between us. “Whatever this is.”
“You’re Cash. I’m Lilla. It’s quite simple.”
“Yet, you’re hell-bent on making it difficult.”
“What do you think we are, Cash? I’m married.”
He steps towards me, tugging his hat from my head. I push my messy hair aside and watch as he slides it on, pausing for a moment before he turns around.
He’s walking away.
I’m standing here like an idiot.
Alone.
***
“Have you been working out?” Adam’s voice causes me to jump, not having heard him enter the kitchen. I stir the tomato sauce as it bubbles, lowering the temperature.
“No.” I lie.
“You look different. Tan. More … you. Just … better.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
His cell phone rings. “
Forget I said anything, Lilla. I’m late, anyhow.”
Always are. Always do. Wasn’t thinking about you anyway. I compile two containers, filling one with fresh pasta and homemade tomato basil sauce—the other container gets a hefty scoop of tiramisu.
Am I kissing ass? Yeah. Maybe just a little bit.
As soon as Adam is gone, I pack up my car with the food. Make sure I look halfway decent. It’s probably the longest drive of my life. His black car sits unoccupied.
He’s working another double.
I hope Cash doesn’t hold grudges like his dad seems to.
I think I’m going to vomit as I walk towards the doors, my nerves scattered and buzzing high. Don’t even know why I’m so nervous. Possible rejection? Possibly.
The cool air feels good as I walk inside. I pray I don’t pass out and wander in, seeing him sitting on the back of the register area, where the groceries gather before bagging. Mary is talking to him, but he isn’t paying her attention. He’s looking forward, looking at the wall behind the service desk.
I take a couple steps.
Warren’s head turns, spotting me. No smile. No nothing. Blank. Nothing in that book to read. My feet stop. A line in the sand. One side or the other. I choose to meet in the middle.
Resting the paper bag on to the floor, filled with things no one else would appreciate. I take a step back.
Then another. And another.
I don’t dare look back once I’m out the door. I don’t wait for him and I don’t think about it for the rest of the night.
PART FOUR
WARREN CASH VALENTINE
Chapter Thirteen
I only believed it was possible.
While everyone around me laughed, ripping my dreams from my sights, I simply closed my eyes and chose to avoid the picture they described. The number one reason why your dreams die before they are born, is because you allow other people to pull the trigger.
“More coffee, Honey?”
I nod, ignoring my mother, Poppy, calling me that. It’s sweet, it’s comfort, it’s a reminder of Lilla and that’s the last thing on today’s agenda.
“Thanks for breakfast. It was delicious, as always.”
She scratches my head, smiling.
“You look tired. Up late last night?”
“I was painting. Yeah.”
“Sleep still isn’t a friend to my boy?”
“Nope.”
Poppy sighs, moving around my kitchen to clean up breakfast.
“You don’t have to do that. I’m a big boy, Mommy.”
She laughs, as intended.
“But I like to. I miss you being home. It feels like you’re too far away. Some days,” she blushes, “I feel like I want to take a butterfly net and come running after you. Slip you back inside a jar and tighten the lid.”
“Suffocate me?”
“Steal you back. Bring you home.”
“This is my home.”
“No,” she shakes her head, “this is your house. Where you grew up is your home.”
“Technically, this is an apartment, but, that’s probably just semantics at this point.”
“At least you have a lovely porch. I am quite impressed with the mini garden. I didn’t know you were into gardening.”
“I’m not.”
And only Poppy let’s shit like this go, aside from her smile. I go back to reading the newspaper and she goes back to cleaning the kitchen. Whatever makes her happy, even if it’s damn dirty dishes.
“Honey?” I want to groan, but I hold it in, looking up. “Where can I put these?”
Poppy holds up a collection of papers—some trash, some thoughts. Some ideas, some of the most important things I’ve drawn recently. Some things I haven’t brought to life. Some things I need to read. Some things I need to quit.
“Just toss them on the couch. I’ll deal with them in a minute.”
I take a mouthful of hot coffee, appreciative at how well she makes a cup. I can never get it this good. I think it’s something about being a mom, it allows her to do shit right. I don’t know.
“Who is this?”
I don’t need to turn around. I know what she’s asking about. Who. I stare down into the coffee cup, watching the white foam cling to the rim.
“Her name is Lilla.”
Because Poppy is the only person I don’t/can’t keep a secret from. Even if it were a possibility, I wouldn’t. She’s just too close to my soul. Too connected to me. Same way she knows how to make perfect coffee and soft laundry. DNA of a mother. A good one.
“She’s incredibly beautiful.”
“Yeah.”
“Very similar to that songbird you fancy.”
I laugh, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Yeah. A little.”
“You sketched her sleeping. She must be important.”
“She’s my Eden.”
And I love Poppy because it wasn’t a ‘who is she’ ‘what does she do’ ‘how long have you been dating’. It’s a statement of truth. It’s an open door. Walk in or leave it at that.
But again, moms know how to get shit done.
“Lilla shops at our store. She schooled me on cucumbers.” I smile at the word.
“Warren, I’m a lady and I know I taught you how they are to be treated.”
“I’m not being dirty. She’s like … her food is my art. You know what I mean?”
“She’s a Foodie,” she looks back to the patio. “Oh.” Finally the garden makes sense to her.
I shrug. “If that’s what it’s called. She told me how to pick a good cucumber.”
“Well,” she sighs, “that would make quite the story.”
“For?”
“For how you met, if you ever you know …” she begins humming that march. Her fingers walking like legs.
“I love you dearly, but no. Not happening.”
“A woman who is beautiful and can cook—What am I missing?”
“She’s already married.”
A hand has never been pressed to a chest for such a long period of time.
“Warren.” Those motherly disapproving eyes. Like when I got caught looking up Jenny Miller’s skirt in fifth grade. Damn.
“Don’t worry, we’re just friends. I told you, it’s not gonna happen.”
“Boys don’t sit around drawing pictures of girl-friends as they sleep, or keep food they cook in the fridge.”
“How the fu … what are you some type of secret spy?”
“Just a mom who knows everything and misses nothing.” She puts her hand on that hip. That you’re not going to do this shit hip. “You’re playing with fire, boy. These aren’t the type of wounds that heal.”
“Why do you have to be in my kitchen getting all metaphoric and philosophical on my ass? You look amazing today. Did I mention that? Your hair is fantastic.”
“Save the sugar for your coffee. I need you to listen to me.”
“I always do. I need you to trust me.”
“It’s not about trust. It’s about a young man who is not old enough to understand things he thinks he is old enough to understand.”
“I get it. Lilla is off limits. It’s fine. I’m going to eat the shit out of that dessert she made and that’s that. No more pictures or cucumber lessons. Alright? Calm down. Shit. You’re too damn old to get this riled up.”
She runs her hands through my hair, not amused by my mouth. As intended.
“And if Lilla doesn’t want to quit you? Then what happens?”
“No one ever wants to quit me, but …” I shrug.
Her face disapproves of my inflated ego. She realizes she made me this way, right?
“You curse too much. You’re too pretty for such ugly language.”
“Men aren’t pretty, Lady Bug.”
“I was telling it to my little boy who will never be a man. Now,” she looks around, “where is your dirty laundry hiding?”
***
I only believed someone would say yes.
Soft pats of encouragement on my head. A fridge full of alphabet magnets holding colors in place. Various scenes depicting the world through the eyes of a seven, eight, nine-year-old child and I bet she still has those magnets hidden somewhere.
Sometimes the window was small, but the world was always huge.
“Come in, come in.” Melanie Lockhart waves me inside of her home. An impressive pile of bricks, stacked by her husband, Timothy. “I’m so glad you have finished. I’m shaking with excitement.”
She smokes through a skinny cigarette holder, propping it between her boney fingers. Thick eyeliner surrounding her baby blues. Hair coiled properly into a tight bun. I wonder sometimes if she likes to be called Audrey in the bedroom. If she lets Timothy have a little Hepburn fantasy when he’s inside her.
“Beth,” she snaps her fingers, “get Mr. Valentine a drink, please.” Beth is an older woman, short, white hair, way too old to be working—anywhere. She looks at me in question.
“Whatever is easiest,” I shrug, not wanting to be rude, to either of them.
We sit at a table in one of the large rooms downstairs. There are papers scattered about. A presentation of some sort. My eyes are trying to figure it out when …
Lilla rounds the corner, pausing in place as soon as she sees me.
“Oh,” Melanie rises excitedly from her chair, going toward her. “Good, you’re back. Lilla, this is the young man I was telling you about. The one I want you to work on the campaign with.”
She ushers her toward me. “This is Cash. Cash—Lilla King. She is in charge of the advertising for a new project we’re working on.”
Dead-ass silence. Awkward.
“N-nice to meet you, Cash.” Lilla extends her hand.
We shake hands and Melanie asks us to sit down.
“Okay we’ll talk business in a moment, but right now, I just want to see what is under this paper.” She places the long cigarette in her mouth and I rise, holding the painting for her to unveil. Her eyes widen with excitement. A kid on Christmas.
Hands to her chest, taking a step back to admire it.
“It is every bit as beautiful as the last painting.” She takes the canvas from my hands and twirls, walking towards the parlor adjacent to this room.
