AMABEL
DANIELS
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2018 Amabel Daniels
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Dedication
For Trudy
One
Lexi
“Hey…” The mom in front of me squinted and tilted her head, studying me.
Please, no. Not again. By the fire of Mordor, no.
“Aren’t you that girl who—”
“Welcome to Cuddly Creation!” I nearly shouted it. Maybe it came across as hyper-enthusiastic, but with the scowl I couldn’t smooth from my face, it had to seem like I wasn’t in control of the volume of my voice. Or sanity.
I wasn’t. I’d lost it all at noon. My patience. My mind. All because of one even bigger “loss”—my boyfriend. I’d be damned if I surrendered my dignity, though.
“Thanks,” she said, hefting her purse strap up as her boy tugged on her arm, pointing at the toy he wanted. “But you look just like that girl who was—”
“Dumped.” I slammed my fists down on the counter between us. This stranger didn’t deserve my wrath. But my buttons could only be pushed so many times in one day until the damn things stuck. “Yes. You’re the eighteenth customer today to remind me that my ex dumped me. In a post on social media”—I flung my arms out like a circus barker—“for the whole damn world to see. Yes. I look like her because it was me. And I’d kindly appreciate it if one speck of a human could manage to not rub—”
“Lexi.” My store attendant Traci—sorry, my ‘Cuddle Master,’ as if that made the employees feel as special as glitter poo—yanked on my sleeve. She didn’t stop hauling me away from the check-out counter until we were in the “office.” Glorified closet. No, literally, it was a closet, but theoretically, it was also my office. Convenient hideaway, so who was I to complain?
“Lexi,” Traci repeated her plea and held onto both my biceps as though she feared I’d dash back out there and shove cotton stuffing into the customer’s mouth to mute her. “I know it’s been a long day.”
I jerked my arms free. With my eyes closed tight, I massaged my forehead. “No. Not really. Same amount of daylight as yesterday. But today’s sure as hell been a shitty one.”
I peeled my eyes open to glare at the mess on my “desk” which was a glorified shelf. Traci’s bright blue eyes shone with sobering pity. Eh. Even with my craptastic day, no thanks. Cuddly Creation was a stuffed animal store, and while that wasn’t very prestigious of a workplace, I was the manager. Professionalism had to fit in here somewhere. God knew I’d been tested over the last seven years of supervising this place of forced glee. I would not let one significant little ex make me lose my cool—anymore.
“So, on a scale of one to ten. You think she’s likely to call corporate on me for swearing?”
“What, ’cause you said damn?” Traci huffed. “Isn’t that a Disney kinda curse word?” She waved both hands before crossing her arms. “Never mind the repercussions. Just get out of here. Head home, boss.”
“Hide, you mean?”
Her answering wince had me sighing. Yes, she’d likely already figured that was what she’d do in my shoes. Who wouldn’t?
If Carrie Bradshaw thought a Post-It note breakup stung, it was a good thing they didn’t have social media back then. A breakup post, complete with a not-so-flattering picture and hashtag of #youredumped, was infinitely nastier.
“People are gonna keep on bringing it up if you stay in the store any longer. It’s already gone viral, and—”
The clunk of my jaw hitting the floor must have silenced her. Another wince messed up her face.
Viral?
“Why? How?” Good Lord, I was an ordinary woman. Why would the whole world pay attention to the fact that some asshole had dumped me? This was as much of breaking news as the story of that woman who pooped in people’s yards while jogging. Actually, some jerkface dumping me had to be way less newsworthy. Come on, who did that? Crapping in someone’s yard while exercising? That was what a public dumping looked like.
Traci shrugged. “Well, he did post that picture of…” At least she had the decency to shut up.
I held up my hand. Please. I didn’t need another description. I wouldn’t want to hear about the image my ex used for, oh, for as long as computers would exist.
There was no hiding, though. Like it or not, I was a public dumpee. I’d never given thought to whether I’d like to be famous, but now that I’d fallen into celebrity status, I wished my name would fit in a different context. Like RIP Lexi Regan, the brilliant biochemist who found the cure for cancer. Or, Lexi, from Kentucky, you’re the next contestant on the Price is Right!
Traci rubbed my shoulder. “Besides, I’m supposed to close tonight. I guess you’re just all out of whack from the breakup that you forgot. You only scheduled yourself to be here ’til five.”
Oh, my God. No. Not again. “What?” I dragged Traci’s hand to my eyes and groaned at the time on her watch. That smug little face declaring my tardiness. As usual.
Why surprise always popped up with the realization that I was unpunctual, I couldn’t say. My presence was a limited edition, and I only showed up at opportune moments—sounded better than admitting I was always late. I was. Being on time had always been an unreachable talent, like completing Sudoku puzzles or avoiding chiropractic aid after yoga. I just couldn’t. School, church, parties, dates—it didn’t matter. If I was expected, I was going to be late. Take it or leave it. Actually worked out well that I could never be late to work since I was there all the damn time.
“I gotta go.” It was already forty-five minutes past. The drama and headache of my breakup being broadcast to the globe had riled me up enough to forget my “date” for the evening. Made me forget to eat lunch, too.
In a fluid orchestration of multi-tasking, I secured my coat, sprinted out of the store—knocking into only one display stand, dodged the evening shoppers walking past in the mall, searched for a granola bar in my purse, and reached for my phone in my back pocket. If functioning like Inspector Gadget was an Olympic sport, I’d nab gold—if I made it on time to the event, of course.
I unlocked the screen. “For the love of—” Fifteen missed calls from my cousin Bev. One missed call and a text from Carly.
Okay, so that was the culprit for my being late to meeting my best friend. Not me. It was never my fault
I was late. All the stars and powers of anything otherworldly could never line up for me to be on time. Some variable always fucked me up. Like the device I glowered at right now. If I hadn’t set my phone on silent, I would’ve received Carly’s first text from fifteen minutes ago.
Carly: You stiffing me? Class starts at six!
As soon as the first customer after my no-food-involved-because-payroll-was-due lunch break had recognized me from the breakup post, I’d scurried to the office/closet and checked my newsfeed. Horrified didn’t even cut it. The post had only been live for an hour and there were already hundreds of comments and goddamn laughing responses. It was enough to make me erase it all, like flushing down a rancid shit in the toilet. I’d wanted to delete my account, to just nip the humiliation in the bud, but the service was spotty in the closet and I couldn’t get the log-in thingy to work. Plus, not knowing the password because I relied on password save to help a fool out, I couldn’t authorize murdering my profile. Hence the shortcut solution: uninstalling the app from my phone and setting the sucker to silent. But like any nasty doo doo—even if you flush it, the stink still follows you. Even though I’d removed myself from social media, my breakup had to become viral.
A groan left my lips. 5:49. Unless I could teleport, there was no way I was making it.
I’d let some douchebag interfere with my best friend time. A felony. I choked down the niggle of guilt with the first bite of my dinner. Oats and Honey. Not the worst flavor of the variety pack, but it did make me feel like a horse chomping out of a bag. Regardless, I had to get some kind of food in me before consuming a few much-needed glasses of alcohol. I hope. When Carly had insisted on having an art night, I figured I’d focus more on the wine drinking, not the painting, and still have our girl time. Win-win.
I replied and ate as I speed walked: On my way. Swift swipes brushed away the other summons on my phone. Bev’s calls were like pop-up ads during other ads. Annoyance at my cousin’s attempts to reach me chased away the guilt trip of being late with Carly.
Fifteen calls in four hours? What the hell for? And those calls were all before I became a pitiful celeb of sorts. Bev was well-past the nervous bride phase and had clearly landed in freaking-the-hell-out bridezilla stage. We’d chatted in the morning. Whatever could be amiss in the pre-wedding chaos could wait. Or, maybe Bev had gotten word of my breakup and was treading carefully with me.
Oh. Ha. Ha. I was a funny woman. Bride Bev had no compassion.
I was only one of her five bridesmaids. Not a damn servant or counselor. Whatever Bev was needy about this time could wait until after some quality catching up fun with Carly.
Twenty minutes later, I arrived at the community college in the next suburb over. Late September in northern Kentucky should mean a crisp autumn night, but the tree branches bending backward in the wind told me what I already felt in my heater-less car. An unwelcome early hint of winter. Premenopausal Elsa gifting us cold flashes instead of hot. A sudden chill set me shivering, and I patted at my bra, hoping my nipples wouldn’t show too much through the thin fuchsia shirt I’d worn at the overheated shop all day. Pausing before I rushed into the building, I checked my reflection in the visor mirror. My ponytail was already falling apart, and whatever was still tied up would be destroyed in the wind on my run inside. Makeup was okay because breakups hadn’t caused tears in years. It was as good as I was going to get for a single night of faking I cared about art.
Inside, I followed the arrows in the hallways until I located the room Carly had told me to go to. I’d never found the time—read, interest—to sign up for one of these drink-and-paint kind of gigs. Give me a bottle of bourbon and a Sticker-By-Number in the peace and quiet of my home, all right? Same thing, much comfier. But I could have sworn these things were normally at little funky shops or trendy gallery-type places. Not the local mediocre art campus at Louisville’s middle-class college.
“Lexi!” Carly craned around an easel and waved me into the room.
“Hey.” I beamed at her as I rushed into the painfully bright-white space. Like trespassing into a sixties modernist nightmare. Blinding, harsh lights shone at odd corners of the studio and it screamed of too much seriousness. Too sterile and tidy. Almost like waiting for an ob-gyn appointment.
“Sorry I’m late,” I offered as I plopped onto the unoccupied chair—no, stool—next to Carly. I shifted to sit more upright, bummed I couldn’t slouch and relax instead. I needed to slouch for a week after keeping my game face at work all day.
“Like I’m not used to it.” Carly shrugged and slid a wide-ass drawing pad onto the empty easel in front of me. “Hard time getting out of work?”
Hard time surviving the day. Wait. Carly wasn’t very into social media. She probably hadn’t heard about the breakup. Relief teased my mind. I’d explain later…like after at least five glasses of wine.
Staring at more white blankness on the paper before me, I nodded and then studied the room. A circle of a dozen other people were either seated at a stool or fussing with junk in their bags on the floor. One goth-ish dude at the opposite end of the setup glared at me while he sharpened a pencil in his hands, twisting his ghostly pale hands as though he’d like to wring my neck instead.
Oh. Excuse me for my not-silent entrance. Made me want to find a bag of Doritos and chomp on them loudly. It wasn’t a damn funeral. I was free to speak to my friend.
“Geez. Friendly group—” I winced when I realized the blaring cell phone came from my bag. Another call from Bev.
Not now, dammit. After dismissing the call, I buried the device in my bag.
“Were you held up getting out of the mall?” Carly asked again.
With a deepening frown, I watched as my best friend arranged three pencils in the slim slot at the base of her easel. Pencils. Not paint. Casting another survey around the studio, I took in the academic feel of the room. Something wasn’t right. “Yeah… You know how the after-school crowd can be.”
Carly snorted and cozied her ass onto her stool. Why is she staring at the middle of the room? “At least it’s not Christmas season yet.”
“Uh huh.” Twisting to search the wall, I said, “Um, Carly… Where’s the wine?”
“Huh?”
“Wine.”
“We’re at a school, Lex. Why would they serve alcohol?”
I gaped at her. “Because this is a wine and paint night?”
Carly’s brows slanted. “Said who?”
“You!”
Sure she did. Right? After Carly’s divorce and a minor heart attack, her shrink and family doctor recommended she find hobbies that would help her relax and reduce stress. Hence the random yoga classes. Meditation courses. And the latest, fun with art.
Maybe I assumed…
“You’re a student, here? You do this regularly?” Voluntarily? I stuck to whispers as our chat seemed too loud for the other frowning members in the room. Goth man glowered.
Try me. I was going to the vending machine in the hall and getting all the bags of chips now. I’d suck the crumbs from my fingers as loud as I could, too.
“Yeah. Jesus. You listen as much as my worthless ex-husband does.” Carly rolled her eyes. “I told you I wanted to try drawing. And it’s really fun. I’ve been coming for the night classes for a couple of months.”
No wine then. I leaned back to the space of my stool and tried to smile. I wasn’t a drunk, but after the day—week—I’d had, a drink would’ve been nice. Week? I checked my phone. How is it only Wednesday?
I cleared my throat. “Right…” Maybe back in the summer, there was a phone call about my best friend’s newly found love of sketchbooks. But I’d never realized she meant it. Carly often found lots of new little things she thought she might like to try. Like cooking with fondue. And learning Chinese. And every latest diet cleanse fad… Sue me for mistaking her drawing fascination as an actual hobby.
“I had a free recruitment pass, to bring along a friend for a night.”
And s
ome great friend I am not even knowing you’re the next up-and-coming artist. “Well, thanks. I mean it.” I glanced at the others again, feeling very, very unprepared for a real art endeavor. “And hey, I listen. I try to.”
“I know. I know. We’ve both got busy lives. Just thought you might want a new experience is all.”
Lay me down with some more shame. “I’m game. I’m game.” I’d be damned if I let any more of my stress wedge in more of a rift between me and my best friend since kindergarten. Adulting kept us too busy to hang out enough as it was. “So, what are we drawing?”
“Not sure. Normally Monsieur Eggpriene is here already.” Carly shrugged and glanced at the front door.
I let my bag drop to the floor. A senior woman across the room huffed at the thunk. Doritos. And Bugles, people. Just watch me. It wasn’t a library. I’d be as loud as I wanted. “Mons— Mr. Egg-what? Mr. Eggplant?”
Carly silently cackled. “Monsieur Eggpriene.” She growled and rolled the consonants like a wannabe Parisian. “He’s the instructor.”
“Oh, hell.” An instructor? “Carls, I’m not cut for this kind of gig. I can do a mean stick figure, but drawing for some Frenchy art master?”
Giggles fading, Carly gave me a softer smile. “You’ll be fine. It’s not like you’re being graded. And he’s not that bad. Really, I just meant for you to get out and try something new.”
“For fun.”
“Exactly.”
We’ll see about that.
It wasn’t that I was anti-art. Parodies of Lichtenstein prints covered my apartment. And I wasn’t near alcoholism. But after a viral breakup post? I was only human. Something had to numb my mind from reality tonight.
“Hey, we’ll go get a drink after, okay? You’re normally not this harried.”
Coming from the frizzy-haired brunette sporting dark circles under her eyes, that had to mean I looked like more of a disaster than I felt. “It’s been a long we—couple days.”
Across From You Page 1
