I can’t help but feel when the tourism boom passed by, moving further south to Orlando and Miami, Jacksonville planners simply threw up their hands and gave up. But in Jacksonville I can see its raw potential—and I can’t help but feel a strong kinship with the very imperfection of it.
I feel truly at home in Jacksonville, especially living in my actual childhood home, but Albuquerque, New Mexico, will always have a special place in my heart, too. I think, because my childhood was split between the two, causing me to grow up in part in both places, my soul will always be divided, torn between them. Forever doomed to be torn between the lush green, soulful beauty of northern Florida, and the hot, dry, mystifying enchantment of New Mexico. My dad used to joke that maybe I could be happy somewhere in between, like Texas, but the truth is there is something about the very extremeness of both places that calls to me. The cypress trees and Spanish moss along the river frame a view so unique and distinct that it’s heartbreaking. In stark contrast, the rolling landscape of New Mexico, with its mountains, prairies, and scrubby trees, that give way to towering pines and mountains in the high country, is about as awe inspiring as anything in this life is possible to be.
My capricious mood continued until... I pulled into the office parking lot. All of the lightness and whimsy I felt that morning instantly deflated. How best to explain the dread I feel every time I get to work? It’s irrational, I know that, but I feel my insides withering and shriveling up as soon as I get here. Only after I’ve been home and had an hour or two to unwind do I begin to feel like myself again. I know I’m not imagining it.
The other thing is that, a lot of my co-workers are kind of weird. Everyone seems to watch these reality shows about dancing or dating, or worse, shows about people with no talent or personality whatsoever—I just don’t understand it. It’s as though the world passed me by when I wasn’t looking, and I’m at a loss to understand it. I kind of puzzle, mouth slightly agape, when those shows are being discussed in our break room. After listening in a state of considerable consternation to our entire office recounting the prior night’s reality show lineup, I must finally concede who the truly weird one is.
Luckily, I don’t generally share any of my personal tastes with the others, but for some reason, I get a lot of odd looks from them anyway. You’ll see what I mean. I need psych music and a few deep breaths before going in there.
“Hey, Evangeline, how’re you doing?”
No less than five people ask me this, without waiting for a response, before I get to my office. Sometimes I try saying something odd back, like, “I just got struck by lightning,” just to see what happens, but I’m not up for it this morning. Don’t bother trying it, though. They’re likely to say, “Great,” or “Me, too!” Even after I’ve replied, “It really hurts,” in a somber voice, I’ve still been told, “That’s awesome!”
These days I just grimace and nod. Generally, the less I speak, the better.
As I pass Robert Morrison, he walks hurriedly, keeping his eyes on the ground.
Guess I left out that the majority of people in the office prefer to say nothing to me—and a few will actually flinch if I happen to catch their gaze, demonstrating the sad extent of my antisocial tendencies.
I settle in, checking my voice mails and emails in a robotic, trance-like way before starting my research for the morning.
“Good morning, Evangeline.” Gavin Lattimer and Simon Orrick, two of my few friends, both engineers who work upstairs, called from the hallway just beyond my door.
“Hey guys.”
Simon is tall and athletic, with rich brown, perpetually unkempt hair. He’s a difficult person to describe. Any description sounds like it’s meant as an insult, but that’s all wrong. Not that I think about such things anymore, but I heard someone say that he’s strangely attractive, but it takes awhile to realize it. I’ve never said he’s handsome. I’d known him for more than two years when he finally let slip some things about his childhood. I guess it was pretty bad. He’s been on his own since he was 16 or 17. No one knows for sure why. All that is known is that everything he has and has done, was done on his own.
We used to spend hours just discussing crazy ideas, imagining possibilities. He’s an engineer, but he told me his dream was to build things, to bring to America the kind of timeless architecture of European cities. We both agreed that, instead of just slapping up buildings haphazardly, each city should have its own overall identity, with each new building having to fit that personality.
I told him of my own amateurish ideas about Jacksonville, and he politely hung on my every word as though I’d actually said something profound. He’s hands down the most intriguing person I’ve ever met.
Gavin is shorter and leaner, with blackish hair and pale, piercingly blue eyes. He often wears a slight, closely cropped goatee and is just about as stylish as a man as can be. He has a different girlfriend on a near weekly basis.
They’re affectionately known as Simon and Simon by a number of our co-workers.
In the past, the three of us had gone for coffee nearly every Saturday. Nicky joins us whenever she can—she’s often tied up with activities for her two girls. For the past few weeks, however, it has just been Gavin and me. Here’s an example of one of the times he and I met up for coffee:
A sizeable number of women stare at us from across the café. I fidget uncomfortably. Gavin seems not to notice. Funny how I never took much notice either, before it was just the two of us.
His manners, as always, are impeccable. He holds out a chair for me—I snatch the raw sugar packets out of his hand before he can stir them into my tea. Though he would do no less for any female, this kind of behavior leaves me feeling uncomfortable. I wouldn’t tolerate it from anyone other than him or Simon. I do everything possible to avoid giving any man the slightest romantic encouragement, and I know don’t need to worry about that with Gavin, but still.
Gradually, awareness begins to flicker, and I envision the thoughts of the women around us. Some are thinking about flirting with him as soon as my back is turned. Many seem to feel I would be no competition at all for them, and any shameless tactics would be more than worth it for a gorgeous guy like Gavin.
“So this is what it feels like to have coffee with a celebrity?” I finally ask, ignoring the surrounding glares.
“What? For me or you?” He replies, oddly sincere.
A bemused head shake is the only response I can manage.
Today, Simon finally walked into my office. “You going to Steve’s party tomorrow?” he asked distractedly while sort of looking at the ceiling, waiting for Gavin to catch up.
“Don’t think so. Parties aren’t really my thing.” Not really a lie, actually. For quite some time I have been automatically deleting, without even opening, any messages with “happy hour” or “get together” in the subject. When you stop unnecessary social interaction with most of the people that you work with and never attend any of the things you’re invited to and never invite anyone to do anything with you, it’s surprising but, after awhile, you stop getting invitations. But on this occasion, Steve had actually sent me a personal invitation yesterday, via email, with “Question” as the subject. The gist of the email was him feigning offense at my snubbing his parties all these years. I wasn’t sure quite what to make of it. I’d always done my best to avoid him. What had I done to merit such an invitation?
Simon and Gavin exchanged odd looks for a moment, before Gavin finally said, “That’s too bad, Evangeline. I...” he shot a look at Simon, “I mean we were really hoping to see you there. It just won’t be the same if our little group isn’t all together to make fun of Steve’s cheesy love nest. Don’t tell me you aren’t just a little curious to see what you’re missing out on by not dating Steve?”
I drew in a sharp breath; just the thought of dating Steve made me feel a little sick. Of course, the force of the breath tickled my throat just wrong, and I burst into a coughing fit.
Steve is ol
d money—rich, pompous, and completely lacking the natural humility the rest of us must possess for acceptance by our fellow tribesmen. On the occasions of our few conversations, I’m quite sure he heard not one word I said—and they were very few of them at that.
“Wow, Evangeline, I was just kidding—I didn’t mean to hate on your boyfriend.” Gavin raised his eyebrows. “So just how long have you and Steve been going out?”
As I struggled to gain control of my breathing, I threw a paperclip at him.
“I was about to say, curious, but not that curious,” I finally managed. “Sorry guys but I’ll pass—you can fill me in on the cheesy details later. See you at lunch?”
Gavin sighed and looked at Simon for a moment. Finally he said, “I don’t know how you’re going to survive to lunch knowing you’ll never see the gilded mirrors above Steve Richardson’s bed, but if you do, we’ll see you then.”
Simon didn’t even look at me before the two walked away. Gavin lagged behind, rapping twice on my doorframe and nodding as way of saying goodbye for the both of them, or perhaps even apologizing.
After the guys leave, I have trouble concentrating. Gavin is always warm and cheerful. You’d think his sincerity would be a bit tarnished because of all of his socializing, but it’s just the opposite, in fact. He’s real, and he genuinely shows me the same level of respect he would any guy.
Simon is another story. He’s harder to read. He used to be so hilarious. He would play practical jokes all the time and routinely crack us all up. For instance, I once mistakenly told him about my phobia of male strippers, explaining that I think anyone can appreciate the beauty of female strippers, whether you agree with the occupation on principle or not, but that there’s just something unnatural and sad about male strippers.
And then, like an idiot, for some reason I told him about the time I was at a bar with some friends where, to my horror, two male strippers appeared, unannounced, for some kind of a promotion. As if that alone were not bad enough, one of the strippers would just not take the hint and refused to leave me alone, giving me a shamelessly executed sex show. It was just embarrassing for everyone involved.
So, the very next happy hour our little circle of friends participated in, the bartender made an announcement to the entire bar that there would be special performers for the evening, especially to help Miss Evangeline Johnson with her little problem. Before I could escape, Simon and Gavin pranced out from the back of the bar wearing the cheesiest outfits I had ever seen. Cliché shirtless tuxedo ties, black bicycle shorts—the works. They performed a mock dance routine in front of the entire bar, which had obviously been choreographed just for me based on the conversation I’d had with Simon, though no one else was aware of that. Simon even had his hair pulled into a teeny tiny ponytail on the top of his head. The entire bar clapped for them in time with the music, and Gavin and Simon performed the most heartfelt, mockery of stripper routines anyone anywhere has ever seen. Everyone present, including and most especially me, clapped and cheered and showered them with dollar bills.
And now, wherever I am when the topic happens to come up, instead of feeling revulsion, a delicate, involuntary smile forms on my lips.
Of course, I countered with a few of my own modest little pranks, but it just wouldn’t be lady-like to brag about it.
Because of this relationship we’d shared, I’d like to say we were really close friends at one point, but I’m not even sure of that any more. What’s it been now… six months or so that things have been weird between us? Now I’m afraid maybe we were never really friends at all. I gel with so few people—it’s entirely possible he finally realized something about me is just not right.
Lately, however, it seems to be getting even worse. I’ve been getting the feeling Simon does not even want to talk to me. When I see him in the halls by himself I’m lucky if I get a rigid and formal hello of some kind. Other times I get an awkward nod with a deliberate lack of eye contact—this from someone who was perhaps my closest friend until a few months ago. Sometimes I’m aware of actually feeling some sort of hostility between us... like he’s actually projecting his hatred of me, which is ridiculous. I think. Did I mention these aren’t even the “weird” people that I was talking about? Up until recently, Simon was the nicest, most original man I’d ever met. I wish I knew what had changed him.
After a few troubled moments worrying about this last interaction, I decide it’s time for a mid-morning cup of tea. Yes, I have a mountain of work to do, but tea is a necessity for me to get started on it.
Cradling a hot cup of tea in my hands, I’m just on the way back to my cubicle with a window when I hear a bunch of guys around the corner. Ugh. It’s Steve and his disciples. Steve, who has notoriously slept with half of the women in our office building. I can’t even walk past him without an uncomfortable leer or tawdry comment. Today avoidance is not possible since he’s standing between me and my office, and hearing my name froze me in my tracks.
“I thought you said that weird chick Evangeline was coming to your party for sure, man. She just told the Simon and Simon losers she’d rather die than go to one of your parties,” I recognized John Maverly relating inaccurately.
“She’s going to be there, don’t worry. You can tell by her sexy tomboy vibe and hot-ass shoes that she’s a very depraved girl, that Evangeline. She just doesn’t know it yet,” said Steve to a chorus of laughter.
I scrunched my nose, examining my four-inch ruffled grey peep-toed heels with growing distaste.
“Steve, you should be careful with her; I heard she’s into really weird stuff, and the guys she dates end up running away, or worse. Apparently there was some really bad stuff happening with her, and that she probably moved here from New Mexico to avoid a scandal. I heard this one guy even...”
I couldn’t hear the rest of what was said. Please no, was all I could think. No one else has ever witnessed one of these attacks, and I don’t want anyone to, ever. It simply is not fair. This hasn’t happened in so long—I thought I’d gotten better. But, it always starts with the hands. The trembling starts slowly, with the left hand first. Usually it’s just a faint twitch; sometimes I’m not even sure if it’s anything at all... at first. But once the shaking starts, there’s no longer any doubt what it is.
After that it spreads to my right hand, and next my chest starts to tighten. Try as I might to stop it, once I reach that point, my breathing begins to have an uncontrollable, erratic mind of its own, which is followed by a kind of hollow roaring, lasting for several moments. The attacks usually culminate in a mind-bending, deafening silence. It is the kind of unnatural lack of sound that comes from being underwater, knowing that you’re drowning but there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ve never come anywhere close to drowning, but I can tell you exactly what it feels like.
Although I can’t stop it once it starts, over the years, I’ve gotten better at pulling myself out of it—most of the time. It slowly dawns on me that this little episode has been brought on by shock, surprise, so it’s not the real thing, just like a small aftershock, really. It takes me a moment to clear my head. I think about all of the progress I’ve made over the years, which usually helps (I like to keep moving forward, no sense going back). I leaned against the wall for a few moments and gripped my hands together to stop the shaking. I steadied my breath. One thing I am proud of is that, despite these embarrassing little episodes, I have never, ever fainted. Fainting is for simple-minded idiots and lesser televangelists.
Gradually the pounding subsided and my hearing returned.
“...she’s just a very pathetic girl with hardly any friends. She never goes anywhere, doesn’t get asked out on dates. She’s the dark, scary girl that no one likes. Still, she’s got that edgy sort of hotness going on… so what if she’s a little crazy? All the better, as far as I’m concerned.” There was a chorus of sniggering in response.
“I’m going to make her feel special, that’s all it’s gonna take,” Steve continu
ed, “She’s going to end up begging me for it... on her hands on knees...” More laughter.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Just then the laughter and chatter started getting closer. They’re headed this way. Shit. I quickly wiped my eyes and took a few steps back toward the break room; anyone would think I was just coming from there.
“Well, looky here, it’s my girl, Evangeline,” said Steve, flashing me a large, phony smile and oozing the kind of phony charm that always turns my stomach. Before I was given a chance to say anything, he continued, “I wanted to tell you how sad I am that you’re ditching my little party.” He twisted his face into mock sadness, bending his shoulders forward. “With my big promotion, I just bought a huge place right on the beach. It’s so big, and... I’m dying to show it to you.” Several of the guys tried unsuccessfully to hide their laughter.
Beloved Evangeline (A Dark Paranormal Urban Fantasy Trilogy for Grown-ups - Book 1) Page 3
