Breakaway: A New Adult Anthology

by Jay McLean

  I narrowed my eyes. “Thanks for your permission.”

  He finally stood up. “Look, I don’t want to fight with you Kiera.”

  I was about to snap back, but some flash of sanity stopped me. What the hell was I doing? This was my boss’s brother and I was arguing with him in my boss’s house. I just needed to get the hell out of here before I said anything else. “Let’s just forget this weekend ever happened.” I couldn’t have meant it more. The last two days had been a freaking disaster.

  He eyed me for a moment, his face thoughtful. “I hope I’ll see you around. Come by the nursery sometime.”

  This guy had nerve, but I needed to hold it together. His smile looked genuine, but who the hell knew. Boss’s brother. “Sure, yeah. Thanks again for the help with Mocha.”

  “It was my pleasure. Have a Mai Tai for me.” He stepped toward me and my skin tingled.

  “I’ll have more than one.” Was he going to give me a hug? Where the hell was my bag? I eyed it on the floor next to the kitchen counter. I ducked past him and scooped it up. “Tell Will I said hello.”

  Jeremy ran his hand through his hair. He was pretty attractive when he wasn’t being an asshole. “I will—and don’t worry that’s all I’ll tell him.”

  “Thanks.” I crouched down to give Mocha a last scratch on the ears. The anger and irritation started to melt away. Nothing really mattered except that she was safe and sound. I stood up and gave him a genuine smile. “I’ll see you around.”

  “I hope so,” he replied quietly as he held open the front door.

  I didn’t delay in making my exit.

  Chapter EIGHT

  I rubbed some sunscreen on my pale legs. I wouldn’t mind a bit of color, but with my complexion I’d just burn to a crisp. A hazard of living under the grey Seattle skies for too long. It didn’t matter. A frosty blended Mai Tai sat on the little table next to my sun chair and the clear aqua water of the infinity pool glistened just past my feat. I was in paradise.

  My phone buzzed, but I ignored it and grabbed my Kindle. I was off the grid. I felt bad about how I left things with Rob—for about a second. I finally replied to his text asking when I would arrive. “I can’t wait to get to the beach.” were my exact words, typed on my phone as I rebooked my ticket. One round trip ticket to Cancun, and a reservation at an all-inclusive resort.

  I’d never been to Mexico. I’d never traveled alone. Until now. I’d have to face Rob eventually, perhaps. I’d definitely have to face Will. Hopefully Jeremy would keep his word and keep our little adventure to himself. I wondered what he was doing. Probably hanging out with Callie. Ugh. I took a drink of my Mai Tai. My phone buzzed again. I guess it could be my mom or Avery.

  I picked up my phone. New text from a number not in my phonebook. Weird. “Call me when you’re back in town. I have something I wanted to tell you. Take Care, Jeremy.”

  What a stalker. I couldn’t help but smile.

  THE END

  CHERIE BLAKELEY

  Cherie Blakeley lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and children. lives in the great Pacific Northwest with her husband, kids and one very rambunctious American Eskimo. She has spent most of her career behind the glow of a computer screen, but still manages to get out into the fresh air as much as possible.

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/cherieblakeleyauthor

  M-E GIRARD

  In a Daze

  Must be hard to concentrate when some douche is staring at you while you’re trying to keep your eyes up front. The douche is me, and the girl I’m staring at—the girl in the poufy dress—doesn’t seem to have any trouble keeping her gaze on Professor Jenkins, who’s rambling about a disease that ends in “osis.” Pathophysiology—I was looking forward to it before the start of the semester, and I enjoyed the shit out of it for the first four weeks. Then the girl showed up two weeks ago and stole all my attention. I’m not sure I want it back.

  Hyperhidrosis? No—that’s when you sweat a lot.

  Why am I staring? Because she’s asking to be stared at. She probably figures the chances of leering are pretty low when you’re in a class full of girls hoping to earn their nursing degrees. She probably has no idea I’m here, wondering if her skin is as smooth as it looks. Her legs start at the feet, the way most legs do, with those feet resting inside shiny red heels. The legs go up until the dress starts, just at the knees. The dress is just…shit. Well, it poufs right out with layers of lacy stuff. Then it goes tight at the waist, and ties around her neck. There are curves and tattoos everywhere. And her face—I can’t even look too long. Red lips, black eyeliner that flicks out at the edges, and her red hair is in big messy waves. She might’ve been sent here to kill me.

  Or kill herself, from hypothermia and frost bite. It’s March, and the snow’s created little hills and valleys over every surface. Even my car.

  Halitosis? Are we seriously talking about bad breath?

  She hasn’t looked at me once, and I’m not finding this bit odd. She looks like a woman. A woman who wouldn’t have time for a kid like me. See, I’m twenty-one years old, but no doubt this girl would assume I’m more like, seventeen. My roommate keeps telling me I have a “baby face.” This is not a compliment.

  I don’t know the girl’s name. She never raises her hand in class, and we don’t do roll call. She just sits there, a couple rows ahead, a couple seats away, ruining my entire college experience. Where was she, the first six weeks of class? It makes no sense to me. Patho isn’t something you just drop in on.

  I have this recurring fantasy of holding the door open for her.

  Fuck, I need to get a life.

  Tomorrow is Friday and we break for Reading Week. One week with the dorm room to myself. One week to get three papers written. One week without…her.

  #

  Professor Jenkins also teaches Health & Wellness 3 on Friday mornings. It’s a bit of a mind-fuck to have this prickly, angry lady teaching us starry-eyed Florence-Nightingale-wannabes about being caring and empathetic. Everyone in this class is a Florence. Not me, though. I just knew I can deal with blood, and I can handle people in various states of “fucked up,” and that I could never put my mom through the hell of worrying about having a police officer for a daughter. So, nursing it was, and other than being weirded out by how far a urinary catheter goes up a man’s hose, I’m good. Second year into it, and I’m still good.

  Class starts with Professor Jenkins handing out our papers from two weeks ago. See, we have to write a total of three papers for this class, but only two of them will count. Anything above eighty on this one means I can put the next paper on the back-burner, maybe even ignore it altogether. Professor Jenkins moves up and down the rows, bringing out more frowns than grins. My hands are clammy so I rub them against my jeans.

  Then I see her up there, in the front row, bouncing that foot rhythmically while running an emery board against her red fingernails. Another dress, and now, a big white flower tucked into one of her thick twists of red hair.

  An eighty-seven on my paper. I know I’m happy about that, somewhere inside.

  Outside, it’s still March, like it was yesterday, but this girl is all summer. She’s making me feel weird, in my salt-stained work boots, with the laces undone and my jeans tucked inside. In my t-shirt and my dad’s beat-up bomber jacket. In my messy tied-back hair, and chewed-up fingernails.

  What is she doing here?

  Not looking at me. That’s cool; I’m doing enough looking for the both of us.

  #

  Everyone in this nursing program is looking for a husband. Even the two gay boys, one of whom gets off wearing pink scrubs during our Simulated Patient Care labs because he knows it weirds out our professor.

  I’m looking for no one. I’ve never wanted anyone. Picturing myself with another person—well, it just never makes sense when I do.

  But her—I want her. Badly. I think about her at night, when I’m on my side of the room, without my body ‘cause it’s lost in the d
arkness, so I can be anybody. Maybe even someone whose hand she’d want to hold. I think about her when I have no idea who’s in the mirror when I stand in front of it. No idea who I’m supposed to be. I think about her harder than I’ve ever let myself think about another girl. She is so full of her womanhood that it leaks off her, and turns into a puddle I want to dip my feet into. She could be the Daisy Buchanan to my Gatsby. Except that was the ‘20s, and this girl’s more like a ‘50s pinup.

  It’s turning me into some kind of emotional douchebag.

  Back in class, with my paper in my hands, Professor Jenkins says, “Don’t think just because you got yourself passing grades for papers One and Two, that you can just slack off for the third. Well, I guess technically you can, but…do you really want to, guys? Do you want to take the easy way out?”

  “Yes,” I blurt.

  That gets a couple laughs I don’t care about. Somewhere at the front, the girl stops filing and something about the way her neck shifts tells me she chuckled. Fucking right, she did.

  “Funny,” Professor Jenkins says. “See me after class.”

  I don’t know what this means, but I keep my face blank. Can I get in shit for making a sarcastic comment? Is this high school? To the left, a couple blondes are snickering and shooting me dirty looks. It’s definitely high school.

  When class ends, the girl is the first one out, as usual. The rest of the bodies vacate and then it’s just me and the professor.

  “I’ve submitted your patient-care worksheet to the Faculty of Nursing committee to have it reviewed,” she says.

  “Oh. Really?”

  “Yes. I think it’s a comprehensive tool, and the rest of our students would benefit from it. I’d like it to be our standard student worksheet,” Professor Jenkins says, packing her things up into her little crate on wheels. “I’ll let you know once the decision’s in.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Great work on your papers, by the way, Martina.”

  “Thank you,” I say. She drifts off, wheeling her crate behind her and this feels like the right moment to go: “Um, who’s the new girl? The redhead?”

  “I’m not sure. She asked to sit in on a few classes for some kind of research. I allowed it as long as she doesn’t cause any disruption.”

  “Does she, uh, have a name?”

  “Daze,” Professor Jenkins says

  “As in Daisy?”

  “That’s what I asked her, but no, as in ‘being stuck in a.’”

  Too late. I’m already picturing myself offering her a bouquet of daisies, slipping one into her hair.

  “Do you have a problem with her being here?” Professor Jenkins asks.

  “Nope. I was just curious.”

  Professor Jenkins nods and just for a second, I think I see a little smirk on her lips. But, I’m pretty sure I made that up. My vision’s all blurry because of Daze. See, Daze is highly disruptive. And I hope she still has a shitload of research to get done.

  #

  After last class, I stop by the shitty café in the old part of the college. The lineups are always at the Tim Hortons by the main entrance. The Co-ed Café has the stupidest name, because this place was never an all-girls or all-boys school, but I guess it sounds collegy. The lady who works there always seems pissed off when customers walk up to her counter, like we’re interrupting her real job, as professional iPhone Scroller. I’m pretty sure she’s stuck on level nine-thousand in Candy Crush. She knows what I want, though, so as soon as she sees me, she reaches for the largest cup and pours coffee to the halfway mark, then fills the rest with hot chocolate.

  “They phased out pennies, you know,” she says to me, when I drop a handful of coins into her palm.

  “Well, I still have some. I have lots,” I say.

  “No more pennies. The government said so.”

  “Fine. I guess I’m short twenty cents.”

  “I can’t give you this then.”

  “Yeah, you can.” I try to wink, which is so stupid. I don’t even know why I did it. See, I’ve been feeling weird lately, doing things before I properly think them through. Like when I asked Professor Jenkins about the girl. Daze.

  A quarter lands on the counter. Next to me is a cloud of vanilla threatening to eat me up. There’s a navy dress with white polka dots.

  She cocks her head to the side, staring into my face. Then, she’s in front of me, reaching up to fist her hands around my collar, like she’s my stepmom making sure my dad’s jacket collar is turned out just so. Just for a second, then she lets go. Two fingers rise to eye-level, scissored on an envelope.

  I take it. I lick her face with my eyes, because I’ve never been this close to it, and because I can’t use my tongue. Eyes, green. Of course, green. Nose, sort of turned up. Lips, red. Skin, olive. Body…shit, from up close, it’s too much.

  She turns. She’s gone.

  The lady behind the counter is still holding my drink, giving me a funny look. I take the drink, with the other hand ‘cause my right one is holding the envelope.

  “No more pennies, okay?” she says.

  Fuck, pennies. Fuck this drink. I put it back down on the counter and head out the side door, a finger already prying the envelope open.

  You are cordially invited to the “Saturday Night B&F Soirée.”

  Begins at 10 p.m., at the Blue Lounge, 1428 Silverthorn Ave.

  Invitation is required for entry.

  Formal male attire expected, or no entry will be granted.

  Your escort for the evening: Daze.

  #

  That night, Shellie’s tearing our room apart trying to fit her half of it into a suitcase. What I really wanted when I moved to this Toronto suburb university was a room in one of those 5-person suites, where everyone gets a tiny bedroom with a door that locks, and they share a living room, kitchen, and bathroom. But they had a limited amount of those, and living in residence already costs a shitload of money I don’t have, that my mom doesn’t have, that my dad and his wife don’t have. My grandfather has it, but he’s a dick, so I’d rather live with Shellie than go there. Shellie is in her second year of a graduate degree in Kinesiology, but what she really wants to do is work in a karaoke bar, or move to Cabo San Lucas to pretend this kind of spring break shit is actually the way to live year-round. She goes two weeks in the summer, and for Reading Week. This year, she’s taking three of her friends with her. She tried to take me, too.

  “Cabo, baby!” she says.

  “Yeah, that means nothing to me.”

  “You need to leave Canada, Martie. Seriously, there is more to life than this land of winter tires and salt trucks.”

  “It’s only winter for a few months a year. You act like we’re stuck in igloos. And, beaches aren’t my thing.”

  “It’s not just about going to the beach,” she says. “Come on, pack your shit and come with us.”

  “I’ve got papers to write. They’re due next week.”

  “So? I’ve got a paper, and three reports to get done. Spring break means telling school to go fuck itself for a week. You’re totally doing it wrong.”

  “In this country, it’s called Reading Week, because you’re supposed to be catching up on all your school reading.”

  “Boring.”

  “It’s not all boring,” I say. “I get to sleep in for nine days. Nine days without your creepy sleep-talking.”

  Shellie looks up from the dresser, where she’s crouched. “Shit—again? What did I say?”

  “Something about purple birds flying into black holes. What’d you dream about anyway?”

  “Fucked if I know,” she says. “So, what else are you gonna do when I’m gone? Besides school.”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Maybe—and this is just a suggestion,” she says, turning to catch my gaze. “Maybe you should try getting laid or something. That Prof Jenkins is pretty hot, huh?”

  “She’s like, fifty.”

  “So? I’d do her.”
/>   “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “Okay, I wouldn’t. But I’d do the male equivalent of her.”

  “You’re special, Shel. Now, finish packing and go so I can start my break.”

  “Cabo, baby!”

  In my back pocket, the invitation waits. Once Shellie’s out of here, I’m gonna Google this Blue Lounge to see what’s up.

  #

  There’s nothing online about the Blue Lounge. A directory search gives me a phone number only, and it just rings and rings when I dial it—not that I was going to stay on the line long enough to ask anything; I just wanted to see if someone would pick up. Next, I try Google Earth. It gives me an aerial view of a big, colonial-style house bathed in sunlight, and surrounded by quite a bit of green land and a shitload of evergreens. It’s only fifteen kilometers north from here. It looks nothing like a lounge.

  #

  Later that night, I’m still thinking about Daze. I think about driving up to that house, with her waiting for me on the stoop, wrapped in another one of those dresses. In my fantasy, it’s summer—probably ‘cause of Shellie’s Cabo, baby! crap rubbing off on me. In my mind, I’m smoking a cigarette and looking like a mash-up of whatever James Dean pictures I’ve seen, with what I remember of the way dudes looked in the movie The Outsiders. None of it is very formal.

  I have some guy clothes, but they’re not formal. See, I’ve never really wanted to stand out, so what I wear is pretty casual and boring. My hair is shoulder length and pulled back in a short, loose ponytail. Sometimes, when I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflective surface, I wonder if I stand out more, just by trying not to. Why else would I have received Daze’s invitation?

  I wonder who she thinks I am.

  #

  The next morning, I pop in at the thrift store, just to see. It’s all I could afford anyway. I pretend it’s Halloween. I pretend everyone else thinks it’s Halloween. I won’t pretend I’m shopping for my boyfriend—not even for the old ladies who may or may not be giving me weird looks. I try nothing on, because…well, this is a fucked up enough moment already.