by B. N. Toler
I got to the Mean Bean Coffee Shop twenty minutes early. He was thirty minutes late—as if I wasn’t already feeling pathetic enough for begging him to meet with me. As he sat down, he wouldn’t even make eye contact with me, and it crushed me.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I managed.
“I only have ten minutes. I have to get back to work.”
The blood drained from my face as a new wave of pain set in. Ten minutes? That was all he could spare for me? Damn, that hurt. I’d never felt so shunned in my life. Even if he didn’t want to be with me anymore, couldn’t he show some kind of . . . feeling? Some respect? I was his wife, and we’d spent years together. Didn’t I deserve that?
I pushed down the hurt and inhaled deeply. “I miss you.” It was hard to say. Not because it wasn’t true. It was so true. Why I missed him, I had no idea, especially when he was acting so cruelly. Scratch that. I knew why this was so difficult to swallow. I’d lost my parents through a cruel twist of fate. I didn’t take being left very well. I was lonely. It was also hard because I was opening up to him. I was handing him the power to intentionally hurt me more by dismissing me or belittling my feelings. Not to mention my pride. His rejection would be the final blow to what dignity I had left.
He closed his eyes for a minute before opening them again and meeting my gaze, as if I was exhausting him. “Daisy is pregnant.”
I went numb.
Sometimes, something hurts you so badly, and the pain is so much, your body and mind somehow shut down to it. So this was what it meant to be shocked. I was in full-on shock. His face contorted. He knew what that news was doing to me—how it was killing me.
“It’s still very early,” he continued, without a care in the world. “Only a couple of weeks. She just took the test yesterday. I thought you should know. Maybe now the calls will stop.”
When I didn’t respond, he must’ve realized how cruel he had sounded. He made me sound like a pesky telemarketer. Maybe now the calls will stop. He went on to assure me they hadn’t slept together until after he and I had split. But just as quickly as his integrity had shown up, it went away in the snap of a finger, and he informed me that she was going to move into our apartment with him. That I was to look for a new home because he was tired of staying in her tiny studio. I guess he didn’t stay with his parents like he’d said he would. At some point, in spite of my inability to respond to his news with words, my body shook and my eyes teared up. This was when he decided to make his exit.
“I’m sorry, Clara, but I have to go.” Yep. I was on the same level of importance as a goddamn telemarketer. Standing, he pulled a large manila envelope out of his briefcase and placed it on the table. “We can save a lot of money if the divorce isn’t contested. I’m happy to pay for it, if that’s the case. I just need your signature for the separation agreement.”
When he turned to go, I panicked. I didn’t want him to leave, but I knew it was over. He didn’t want me anymore. And even if he had, there was no going back. He’d made irrevocable decisions. It didn’t matter how much I loved him, there were just some things a person couldn’t overlook. I panicked because I couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving believing I was pathetic; believing I was just going to be sitting around pining over him and crying myself to sleep every night. I couldn’t bear to look that weak.
“I’m moving to Virginia,” I blurted out. He turned back, tilting his head to the side in question. “I’m not selling the business. I’m moving there and starting fresh.” In my brief time with Paul James and his small friend, I hadn’t realized my capacity to hate a situation. They were nitwits running a business half-assed. But as awful as they were and as scary and risky as it was to move to Virginia to start over, it paled in comparison to how truly awful staying in Texas where Kurt and his expecting girlfriend would be.
“I thought you didn’t want to work there—that it was too painful?”
Standing, I picked up the envelope and approached him. I was trembling, barely holding it together. His news had destroyed me. It took all of my strength to hold strong; to stop my body from shaking with emotion. But somehow I managed. I ignored his statement. He didn’t get to know my feelings anymore.
“I’m leaving at the end of the month. I’ll be out of the apartment by the twenty-ninth. Then you and Daisy can move in and start your lives together. I’ll make sure your attorney gets my forwarding information.”
“Clara,” he said my name as if he didn’t understand.
My grandmother, who raised me, always said in moments like this, when you want to scream and yell, you should take the high road. Kill them with kindness, she’d say. I’d like to say I heeded this advice often, but that would be bullshit. Frankly, I rarely took the higher road, but this time, I did. Standing on my tiptoes, I held his shoulder with one hand as I kissed him chastely on the cheek. Leaning in so my mouth was to his ear, I whispered, “I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
I walked out and didn’t look back. The moment I got home, I called Richard Mateo and informed him I would not be selling my half of the business.
“GPS says ten minutes,” Ally said, pulling me from my memories.
“Praise Jesus,” Vanessa moaned. “I have never had to pee so bad in my life.”
“Except for the last time you needed to pee two hours ago when you said the same exact thing,” Ally replied, as I glanced in the rearview mirror. Vanessa whipped off her mask and chucked it at Ally, hitting her on the shoulder.
“Okay, guys,” I interrupted. “Get ready. Traffic is moving again, so we’ll be there soon. And these guys are douche bags.”
“Do they know you’re coming?” Vanessa asked.
“Unless Mr. Mateo told them, no.”
“Well,” Ally sighed. “This should be interesting.”
It’s two weeks after Clara’s first interview, on a Wednesday evening, and I’m sitting in front of the pimple committee, about to recount my past. “You seem nervous,” Ashley notes as Mills slips the tiny mic on the collar of my shirt.
“Do I?” I snort. “Done a lot of interviewing in your vast career of journalism? Who’s the last person you interviewed? The lunch lady? Covering the hot story of high calories in school lunches?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “It’s not my interviewing experience that leads me to believe you’re nervous.”
“Oh, no? Then what makes you think I’m nervous?”
Raising one cocked brow, she sasses, “The sheen of sweat across your forehead. The way the light is hitting it, it’s almost blinding me.” The guys snicker.
I can’t help smiling slightly. For such a young girl, she sure is a smart-ass. “So . . . how does this work?”
“I ask a question, and you answer.”
“How’d Clara do?”
Ashley smiles sadly. “She did well. We covered a lot of hard . . . topics.”
“Oh, yeah?” I raise my brows, wondering what hard topics she spoke of.
I saw Clara just before I came in here for my part, but she wouldn’t make eye contact with me. She’d walked out mentioning she had some errands to run, which I knew was bullshit, and that she’d meet me later on at her house. Since I moved in, things have been a little . . . off. I thought maybe she was still feeling awkward about us falling asleep on the couch together. That would be my only guess as to why she’s been avoiding me. Neena had insisted on staying here with me but after a few minutes she got tired so Marcus took her back to Clara’s office so she could nap.
“Well, where do you want me to start?”
“How about . . .” Ashley taps a pencil against her chin as she answers, “The day she came back to Virginia and you discovered she was your new partner.”
I lean back in my chair, releasing a long breath. What a day that was.
“So, just start telling it?”
“Yep. I’ll stop you if I have any questions.”
We’d just gotten in from our last dive of the day. Marcus was waiting in the f
ront with everyone’s checks. Bowman rushed in, grabbed his, and split with a wave to us all. He had a date that night and was in a rush. Sap moseyed in behind me, taking a long swig from his flask as he did. Without a word, he walked up to Marcus and offered it to him. Marcus took the flask and Sap took his check. Sap had worked here since my uncle began and ran the joint, and I imagined the old goat would never retire. He liked this shit too much. Marcus threw his head back and barely managed to choke down his sip before he began coughing and hacking.
“What the hell is it?” I asked.
“That’s some shine my cousin made,” Sap laughed as he slapped Marcus on the back a few times. His face had turned fire engine red.
“Maybe a little warning next time, you old bastard,” Marcus managed. “I thought it was bourbon.” He slid a piece of paper across the table to me. “Found this today. Looks like you have a new partner.”
I hadn’t heard from Richard in weeks, and last we’d spoke, he’d said he believed my potential co-owner of Sky High Skydiving was going to sell. “They decided not to sell?”
“The envelope was postmarked two weeks ago. Might have known if you’d open the damned mail once in a while.”
“I do the labor here,” I argued. “Not the paperwork. Besides, I thought you would do it once Dennis passed.”
“I’m an accountant/business advisor. Not a secretary.” Marcus had worked for my uncle for years before I did. He was a foster kid that had been bounced around from home to home. Supposedly, Marcus was an emotional kid. Growing up with his condition earned him a lot of unwanted attention and undeserved bullying. He’d come into my uncle’s office, begging for a free dive. When my uncle said no, Marcus returned that night and broke every window in the front office. This was Marcus’s second arrest and by all means, my uncle should have pressed charges. Instead, he adopted him. Dennis Falco was a man I respected on so many levels. He’d always treated me like his own son and helped my mother—his sister—when my father bailed. When my career ended as a stunt man, he’d welcomed me here with opened arms. Skydiving was an amazing rush; something I’d needed badly at the time. This was the perfect fit for me.
“Pretty sure the will stated you became secretary when he died,” I jested.
“Maybe we need to hire someone,” Marcus ignored my joke and continued yapping.
“Yeah, maybe,” I snorted. “But no hot ladies,” I warned. “We’d never get Dirty Sap out of the office. He’d be in here flirting with her all day. Isn’t that right, Sap?”
But Sap wasn’t paying attention. He was looking out the large front window into the parking lot, a grin slowly spreading across his stubble-filled, wrinkled face. “Well I’ll be . . .”
I dropped my pack as we watched Clara, aka Ms. Chickenshit, and two other women walking toward the door.
“Oh shit,” Marcus groaned. “I wonder what she wants.” The woman was sure one to leave an impression. After Clara had stormed off that day not so long before, we’d had a good laugh about it. What else could we do? It was obvious to us she simply had no sense of humor and a very large stick stuck up her ass. One of the women with her, a tall, dark-skinned woman, zoomed past her and rushed in the door.
She was bouncing like a two-year-old as she asked, “Bathroom?”
“For paying customers only,” Marcus replied as he slid off his chair and moved to stand beside me.
“I have to pee so badly, my eyeballs are floating, sir,” she argued with a hint of attitude. “So unless you want me to go right here on your floor, I suggest you tell me where in the h-e-double hockey-sticks the bathroom is.”
Marcus and I cut a look to each other. Was this chick for real? Who in the hell says, ‘h-e-double-hockey-sticks’?
“Third door on the right, down this hall,” Sap replied, his face still lit with a grin. Dirty bastard. As the woman bulldozed through us like a defensive lineman, Clara and the other woman entered. Clara had her hair up in a messy knot and she wore those weird capris sweatpants things, with a white tank top. The tiny woman with her wore a pair of black shorts that I later noticed had Juicy written across the back, with a huge sweatshirt with a picture of a skull on it. When they walked in, the small woman looked around. Clara met my stare dead-on and squared her shoulders.
“Mr. James.”
I’d almost called her by my favorite nickname. For the few days we laughed about her after her failure to jump, we’d called her a shrew. I doubted that would go over well just then, so, crossing my arms, I replied, “That’d be me.”
Darting her gaze to Marcus, her mouth twisted, and she rolled her eyes before looking to me again. “I’m sure you remember me.”
“I remember you,” Sap piped up, flexing his eyebrows up and down a few times.
The woman standing beside Clara snorted a laugh out at his words. Just then, the tall one came back in from the bathroom. She stopped, looked to Marcus, and said, “You’re out of toilet paper.”
Marcus scowled at her. “We’ll get right on that.”
“So this is it?” the tall woman asked as she took a slow spin around, taking in the room. “It does need a little revamping, but you’ll get it there.”
“Excuse me?” I laughed at her absurd statement.
“Just needs some TLC,” Clara sighed, as she too looked around.
“Where’s the bathroom, Vanessa?” the short woman requested.
“Down the hall, third door on the right. But they need to put some TP in there.”
The short woman looked to me, then to Marcus, where we both stood with our arms crossed. Neither of us offered to restock the bathroom for her, nor would we. Who in the hell are these women and why did the shrew come back here?
“Come with me, darling,” Sap told her as he gestured a hand down the hall. “I’ll get you what you need.” Goddamn it, Sap! As he led her down the hall, he walked about two steps behind her, stopped, twisted his head, his brow wrinkled in confusion. “Juicy?” he almost mouthed the question before turning back and following her. Marcus gave me a sly look as his mouth curled up on one side in humor. Obviously he was checking out her ass. Sap was a dirty old man, but we loved it.
“So this is the guy?” the tall one questioned as she jabbed a thumb in my direction. Before Clara could respond, she added, “Great day, girl. You weren’t lying about how hot he is.”
Clara’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head as her cheeks flamed red. “Vanessa!” she hissed as she slapped her friend’s arm.
“What?” Vanessa whined as she rubbed her arm. “You said it.”
I couldn’t help but take a stab at her. “You hear that, Marcus? I’m hot.”
Clara closed her eyes and breathed deeply, willing herself not to respond to me goading her. Marcus fluttered his lashes at me and chuckled, and started coughing because he wanted to outright laugh, but was fighting it. The one we now knew as Vanessa bolted toward him and raised his arms above his head, smacking him on the back. “Get it out, little man,” she said.
Marcus immediately jerked free and backed away from her. “What the hell are you doing, lady?” he choked out.
“When my kids cough like that, I raise their arms above their heads and it helps them get it out.”
“I’m not a kid, lady!” Marcus wheezed.
“She was only trying to help,” Clara defended her friend, her hands on her hips.
“Well, I don’t want her help,” Marcus argued.
Clara shook her head in disbelief. “Okay, Vanessa,” she said sternly. “Why don’t you and Ally go grab a bite while I look around? I saw a sub shop up the road.” Then moving her gaze to me, her mouth quirked up in a small smile, as she goaded, “I need some time to get to know my new business partner.”
Widening my eyes, I let my mouth drop open. Fuck. Marcus looked to me, his eyes rolled back as if they were stuck in the middle of an eye-roll. “No fucking way,” he droned out.
The room fell silent for only a split second until Sap’s hoarse and raspy laugh bello
wed from down the hallway, killing the quiet. Apparently he overheard Clara’s last statement and found something about it incredibly amusing. He walked in, still chuckling. His body shook as he attempted to control his laughter, his gaze darting between Marcus and me. Taking a few steps toward Clara, he tipped his worn-out Chevy hat and rasped, “Well, welcome to the family, sweetheart.”
“So you had no idea who inherited the other half of the business?” Ashley asks, staring at her notebook.
“My uncle wanted it kept private until Clara made her decision. I wouldn’t figure out until much later why that was.”
Ashley peeked up slightly, her head still down as she continued to scribble on her pad. “And why was that?” I hate—and have always hated—knowing exactly how my uncle was affiliated with Clara. It repulses me to know why he left her half of his business. Rubbing my palms on my pants, I answer, “I think that’s a story for Clara to tell. Not me.”
“Fair enough.” Ashley nods. “So Clara arrived, you found out she’s your partner . . . and what happened next?”
I gave her a less than thrilling tour of the office and a basic description of everything. She listened, took notes on a legal pad, and didn’t speak a word to me. At the end of the tour, we walked in to the back office and I plopped down in the chair, putting my feet up on the desk.
“I’m curious,” I began. “Why did my uncle leave you half of his business?”
“I’ve asked myself that a few times,” she snorted.
“Were you his . . .” I didn’t finish my thought. Lover? No. Even then I knew that couldn’t be. Uncle Dennis was a stud in his prime, and it was weird he’d kept something of this caliber to himself, almost sub rosa, for so long, but I doubted he could’ve pulled in a woman of Clara’s youth and looks at his age and no one be the wiser. But what else could it have been?
Clara narrowed her eyes at me. “His what?”
I shrugged, somewhat uncomfortable with what I was asking, but not at all afraid to ask. “His lover?” I finished.
