Unwrapped

by Amelia Wilde

  “Hello?” I growl into the phone.

  “Dash,” says a woman, and at the sound of her voice, all the rage in my chest is set loose. “How are you? How are things?”

  It’s Serena.

  “Can you hear me?” There’s a muffled rustling on the other end of the line, something like static. “It’s one of those internet phones from a café. We’re back in from the countryside for a day or two and I thought I’d call.”

  “Serena—”

  “How’s Rosie? Oh, I miss her,” she says wistfully as if it were Rosie who decided to flee halfway across the planet. “Is that her?”

  It almost kills me on the spot. Is that her? Rosie is wailing now, her cheek pressed against my shoulder. There are so many things I want to shout at Serena that I can’t choose. Not now. Maybe not ever. Does she know she signed away custody in the divorce agreement? Does she know there will be no second chance to waltz back into Rosie’s life? “It’s not a good time.”

  “Is that Rosie?”

  “Can you fucking hear her?” I spit into the phone. “Yes, Serena, that’s our daughter. I’m busy. Did you have anything important to say?”

  This is her big chance, and I suck in a breath, waiting to see if she’s going to make anything of it. She could apologize right now, and it might lower the heat a little bit. If she’s any kind of mother at all, she’ll use these precious few seconds to tell me that she’s on her way back to the United States, that she wants to try harder, that she understands the damage she’s doing.

  “No,” Serena says finally. “I’ll—I’ll call back another time.”

  “That’s it?”

  I can’t believe I ever married her. I can’t believe I ever loved her. There are no feelings left for this woman. None.

  “I’ll call back another time,” she repeats, and I can tell from her tone that her mind is already elsewhere. A screaming child? No, not for her. She wants the laughter and the light. She doesn’t want to put in any of the work. The weight of it settles on my shoulders, heavier somehow in this moment.

  “Goodbye.”

  I hang up the call.

  Rosie finally settles, relaxing against my shoulder, but I walk her outside into the night air, my chest pulsing with hurt.

  At the lakeshore, I stop and sway, Rosie’s breath deepening in my ear. “Maybe we should go,” I say to her, though she’s eleven months old and sleeping. “There’s only one person here I want to talk to. Besides you, anyway. And she’s done with me.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Ellery

  “What are you doing?”

  Honey squints at me from a nest of blankets on the couch. She’s decided to stay at my house until her place is free of the renters who were taking it over while she was trekking all over the planet. Who am I to say no to my best friend? I’d never turn her away. But waking up early is the ballgame this time around.

  “Going to work.”

  “In that?”

  I’m wearing my oldest jeans, so ragged they can hardly be called pants, and a Medium Roast shirt from Aunt Lisa’s first run—a burnt orange color so hideous that it’s never seen a good day in its life.

  “The store’s closed.”

  “Then where are you going?”

  “The store.”

  Honey pushes herself up on one elbow. “You’ve lost it. Or you’re still drunk.”

  I’m not. I’m completely sober, and I have been for hours. I slept a little. Then my eyes shot open in the dark and I haven’t been able to sleep.

  It’s time.

  “I’m good. I have to go and get some paint.”

  She runs a hand through her hair. “Talk me through this.”

  I turn to face her, smoothing a stray tendril of hair back into my all-purpose bun. I’ve already showered. I’m good to go. “I’m going to make some changes to Medium Roast,” I say slowly because I know Honey woke up so recently. “I need paint. The paint shop in town doesn’t open until nine. I’m not going to wait that long, so I’m headed over to the big city.” That’s what we’ve always called the town half an hour down the road. They have a McDonald’s...and a superstore open twenty-four hours a day that happens to have a home improvement department. “Then I’m going to get started.”

  “So you need paint.” Honey throws the blankets off and stands up, stretching her arms above her head. “Anything else? Tools?” She mimes using a drill, and it makes me laugh.

  “I don’t know if I’ll get that far today.”

  “Oh, you think you’re going alone?” She tosses her hair up into a messy bun that somehow still looks perfect and wraps her hair tie around it with practiced precision.

  “Honey, it’s five thirty in the—”

  “Give me five minutes,” she says. “I’m coming too.”

  First stop: Medium Roast. I scrawl out another sign and Honey runs up to the door to tape it on. The sun peeks over the horizon. They’ll be coming soon, and they’ll be disappointed.

  “Can you really decide to close like that?” Honey slams the door behind her and hurries to buckle her seatbelt while I pull away from the curb.

  “Who’s going to stop me? The owners are in Florida.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Because my aunt has been acting like I don’t have a stake in this place,” I tell her as we cruise through downtown Lakewood. The regulars haven’t made a move yet. My heart pounds in my chest. This is a calculated risk I’m taking. I spent several minutes weighing the pros and cons. Pro: new paint, which will at least be some improvement over what we have now. Con: the regulars might decide to give The Coffee Spot a covert try while I’m not looking.

  Whatever. In the long run, they’ll go there, loyalty be damned. Who can resist the siren song of a brand-new place when all I can offer is a rundown shop that can’t even keep coffee in stock more often than not.

  “She doesn’t mean it that way,” Honey says diplomatically, putting her feet on the dashboard.

  “Does anybody mean what they say?”

  “You have a point. Is she going to be pissed?”

  I shrug. “Even if she is, we need it. If we’re going to compete with The Coffee Spot, we have to start somewhere.”

  “What about the—”

  “I’ve already called the delivery guy. He won’t answer.”

  “Did you use vinegar or honey?” She laughs at her own joke.

  It’s full daylight by the time we get back to Medium Roast, hauling all of the supplies Honey insisted we needed. Drop cloths. Rollers. Brushes. Trays. Paint sticks. Four gallons of a cheery yellow that’s going to take the interior from drab brown to splashy sunlight.

  I can see when we park that I’ve caused a stir.

  The regulars are milling around, anxious and agitated. Walt stands at the corner with his hands in his pockets, and Morris stands next to him, an agonized look on his face.

  They don’t see me coming at first. I’m not in my usual outfit, so I’m nearly on top of them when I’m spotted.

  “Evelyn!” shouts Morris, and heads all around him turn. “What happened? Why are you opening so late?”

  “Did you read the sign, buddy?” I shout back. “We’re closed today.”

  “Closed?”

  “Renovations!” a whisper moves through the crowd.

  “We have to move fast,” I mutter to Honey, and she tucks her chin and speed-walks up to the door, pressing herself flat against one of the windows. I have the keys in hand, ready to defend. The plastic bag of supplies cuts into my arm and the wire handle of the paint can is cutting into my palm, but I have one mission, and that mission is to get inside of the store before the regulars make a move.

  I stab the key into the lock and turn it, yanking it open. “Go, go, go,” I whisper to Honey, who neatly steps around me and into the store.

  I risk one glance over my shoulder. Morris is looking toward the entrance, and I can tell by the way he’s holding his cane that he’s about to cha
rge. Once he does, there’ll be no stopping them.

  I hustle in behind Honey and pull the door shut. For once, the rickety door closer is doing its job, fighting against me every inch of the way.

  Lou gets his hand on the handle as I yank it home and flip the lock. He rattles the handle anyway, looking down at it, bewildered. I give him my most apologetic smile and point down toward the sign that’s inches in front of his nose. “Renovations,” I say through the glass.

  Then I turn away.

  It’s on.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Dash

  I’m so swamped with customers that it doesn’t register until noon that something’s different.

  I didn’t bother to look across at Medium Roast when I got in this morning. I don’t want to see her over there, hating the hell out of me. There was no spare time, anyway, what with all the coffee to brew and suppliers to double-check with for the Tuesday morning delivery. Everything might be in shambles, but I’ll have coffee to sell.

  They start coming in the moment I open the doors—hesitant people, caps pulled low, like they’re ashamed to be here. One woman in a hot pink exercise outfit looks down at her shoes the entire time she’s in the shop, shoving a ten into my hand for her latte and calling keep the change over her shoulder while she rushed out. Her yoga bag knocked against her leg with every step.

  Brew the coffee. Make the drinks. That’s all I’m thinking about, other than how Rosie’s doing. I know how she’s doing. She’s with Norma, so she’ll be having a wonderful time.

  At noon, there’s a sudden slacking in the traffic until at twelve fifteen, I’m behind the counter at an empty shop.

  I give myself three minutes to breathe deeply, and then I go out into the shop with the cleaning spray and a fresh rag.

  The sight through the front window stops me short.

  There’s almost nobody standing in front of Medium Roast for the first time in three days. I wrack my brain. They were definitely out there this morning when I drove up. I noticed at least that much. It was the usual crowd, plus a few more, and nobody that came in all morning mentioned a curiously empty sidewalk.

  It’s empty now except for one man stalking across in front of Medium Roast. It’s Walt, and he’s conspicuous as hell, hands stuck in his pockets and a scowl on his face.

  But Walt’s not the most interesting thing.

  The most interesting thing is that Medium Roast is closed. The door is shut tight. And all the windows are covered in butcher paper.

  Did Ellie’s aunt and uncle have the shop closed overnight? I guess it’s a possibility. After I didn’t back down, maybe she decided to do something else with her life and they decided to abandon ship. I try to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut. I’ve got her number, but that can change in an instant. If she’s already gone, I might never see her again.

  But then—no, there she is, running from around the corner. There’s a little-used strip of parking spaces back there. Ellie’s wearing a baseball cap, but I’d know those curves anywhere. She sprints to the front door of Medium Roast and knocks on it. The door swings open right away to reveal a tall blonde whose ragged clothes are doing nothing to hide a model physique. Who the hell is that? Once Ellie’s inside, she sticks her head out the door and peers across the street, right at me. I spin away from the window and pretend to be furiously wiping at an already clean tabletop. It’s a good look.

  The next time I check, the door is shut. There’s no sign of anything going on inside.

  I’m left to wonder.

  Until the sun sets.

  Rosie is fussy all evening. She doesn’t want to lay in her bed. She doesn’t want to be held. We’re both at our wit’s end by the time I bundle her into her car seat and start the engine. I don’t know where we’re going, but we’ll drive all night if we get a break from the fuss.

  There’s no reason Ellie should still be at Medium Roast. I’m dying to know what they’re doing inside. I’ll look like a fucking stalker if I go up to the door to read the sign, though, and nobody who’s come in has mentioned anything to me. They were tourists desperate for a caffeine fix. What’s it matter to them if the shop across the street is closed?

  I drive five under through downtown, playing a Tom Petty album on my car’s speakers. Aside from The Song, this is the only music that calms Rosie. No surprises there. When she was a newborn baby with her clock reversed, I’d play it softly while I rocked her in her nursery. She wouldn’t sleep then—try convincing her of anything she doesn’t want to do—but she would lay in my arms, content.

  I expect to see nothing when we roll through downtown. It’s late.

  My heart leaps when I see something.

  “Yite,” pipes up Rosie from the backseat. That one word, and then she starts singing a little wordless tune, so sweet it breaks my heart all over again.

  She’s right. There is light. Everything on Main Street is shut down, but Medium Roast, in its perch on the corner, is glowing from the inside. The light comes through the butcher paper like one of those flaming lanterns everybody loves to light during festivals. They’ve got to have some kind of work light in there because the regular lights would never glow so brightly.

  As I pass by, a shadow stands out on the paper. I recognize her from here. Every inch of me tenses. I want to pull the car over and go in and help. I want my own store to succeed, too, but it would feel good to be there for her right now. It would feel great to be in that room with her alone, work clothes and all, side by side.

  Or on the floor.

  I’m hard before I can stop the thought, before I can shove it back into the Pandora’s box it came from. That’s over now unless a miracle happens, and I saw the look in Ellie’s eyes. She’s not going to suffer that more than once. She finally got herself to safety. There’s no way she’d risk it for me. Not a second time.

  I want to stop, but I don’t. I keep driving, away from downtown. Under one of the last streetlights, I glance in the rearview mirror. Rosie has fallen asleep.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ellery

  Turns out that renovating Medium Roast isn’t a one-day job.

  Honey and I discover in the course of trying to paint the walls that there are several parts that need to be plastered over, sanded, and then primed. There are chunks—actual chunks—of trim missing all around the tiny space. One good spill could do some serious damage.

  To hell with Aunt Lisa’s tight fist over all the finances. I’ve been dropping off deposits every night for months. We hardly get any supplies. The bank gives me no trouble with a withdrawal—I’m authorized on the account to pay suppliers—and when Monday rolls around, I make some calls. Honey throws herself into the work alongside me. I submerge myself completely. It’s the only way I can stop myself from drowning.

  Martin, who owns his own construction company, takes one look at the shop with his builder’s eyes. “Floors,” he says, and then his eyes travel up the walls. “Trim.”

  “Drywall,” I say, pointing to a section of the wall down low that’s been covered by a potted plant since time immemorial.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “The necessary stuff,” I warn. “We’ll paint.”

  I don’t even blink when he tells me it’ll be four thousand dollars. Aunt Lisa can thank me later. And if she doesn’t thank me, she can take it out of my salary. I have savings upon savings upon savings from living in Lakewood. There aren’t many bars to party at all weekend and with Honey gone on her trip there wasn’t a lot of incentive for me to do anything but work, exercise, and devour seasons of shows on Netflix.

  I keep the shop closed.

  One day turns into two, which turns into three, which bleeds into four, and five. Martin and his guys come and go, ripping up the stained, worn tile on the floors and putting down new tile in a pattern that somehow reminds me of hardwood. They come and cut out entire sections of drywall, hanging the new sections in a quarter the time it would have taken me. Okay, faster t
han that, but give me some credit—back before my dad left his job to become a farmer, I helped him around the house on weekends.

  We live on takeout, on pizza and sandwiches from the little deli a mile from my house. I’m constantly in clothes covered in paint. Six days, seven days, eight. If Lisa has heard about Medium Roast closing, she hasn’t bothered to call. I can’t imagine anyone would rat me out on this. With a project this big, they’ll assume it has her blessing. It should have her blessing if she wants to make any money at all now that Dash’s operation is in full swing. It is in full swing. In the mornings the regulars are still parked on the side streets, but I’ve seen more than one of them sneak in there for coffee when they think nobody’s watching. Mary Marshé goes before yoga, keeping her eyes on the ground. If she can’t see anybody else, they can’t see her.

  Every project we finish unearths another project. The tile in the main store can’t be replaced without also tiling the bathroom, which needs a new toilet. The new toilet makes the old sink look terrible, so we get a new sink installed. Martin is good-natured and fits us in around his other jobs, so he’s my first call when I find out that some of the cupboards above the back counter have rotted through in places. That’s another day.

  I go to Medium Roast. I sand. I paint. I sand again. I paint some more. I paint until my hand is a frozen claw, until Honey and I have talked through every single thing that ever happened to us from elementary school right on through graduation, and then I go home. I sleep. I wake up. I start again. It’s all I do, and I can’t imagine any other life. Reopening is out there, hovering, like a bad dream, but I refuse to acknowledge it.

  I’m standing behind the counter, wiping down the new stainless steel countertop when Honey’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts. “Hey.”