by Lisa Sorbe
Attraction.
Jeremy. He’s handsome in a bookish way, tall and smart-looking in a black leather jacket and black jeans with a gray scarf slung casually around his neck. Strapped across his chest is an army green messenger back, and as he adjusts the strap, he nods at the smashed box in my hand. “If that’s a cake, I doubt it survived.”
I glance down, grimacing. “They’re cupcakes, actually. And yeah, I’m pretty sure they’re squished beyond recognition.” I lift the lid and a quick glance inside tells me I’m right.
Jeremy frowns, and even with his downturned lips his face emits sunshine. “Someone’s going to be disappointed, huh? Anyone, uh, in particular expecting those?”
I nod. “A five-year old and her friends.” I flip open the lid again and show him what’s left of the princess-themed cakes.
Jeremy sighs. “Damn.” Then, casually, “Is it your daughter’s birthday?”
“My daughter? I don’t have a daughter—” When I realize what he’s referring to, I shake my head. “No. These are—were—for a client.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder, indicating a storefront three businesses over. “I work at Sif’s Bakery. Just down the street?”
Jeremy is beyond delighted by this information. “No kidding? I go into Sif’s all the time!” He cocks a finger at me. “You guys just started serving these amazing cheesecake brownies. Well, it’s been a couple of months now, but still. Best I’ve ever tasted.”
My insides swoon; those are my brownies. Sif Abel, the eccentric owner whose voice boasts a Norwegian lilt, hired me on the spot after trying the samples I brought in for my interview. So far, they’re my only serious contribution to the shop. She brought me on as an assistant, which means I do the boring office work like answering the phones and taking inventory and putting orders through and covering for various employees when they call in sick. Which is exactly how I literally fell into this situation. Our undependable delivery guy partied too hard on New Year’s and now, a few days later, is still down with a bum ankle.
Deliveries, man. Definitely not the highlight of my job.
We’re quiet for a moment, though the flurry of city traffic eats up the silence, makes that fact that we’re trying to draw out this moment between us less obvious.
“Well,” I say eventually, hugging the box to my chest. “I should get back and see what we have to replace these with.” I offer him a little wave. “Thanks for, you know, trying to keep me upright.”
I’m half turned when I feel his hand on my arm.
Jeremy screws his features into a serious expression. “I think I’d better walk you back. This is, after all, extremely dangerous terrain.” He nods, though the grim severity he’s using to entice me with is cracking. One corner of his mouth perks up, shattering his severe façade. “Minnesota sidewalks in January. There’s nothing deadlier.”
Then, offering me his arm, I take it, figuring why the hell not?
Right?
Why the hell not?
When an answer pops, unwilling, into my head, I refuse to acknowledge it.
The truth is, I can’t forget Ben.
Maybe I just don’t want to.
Maybe I just want to live in a prison of self-imposed pain, where the guards are my shoulda coulda regrets and my cell is barred by a stubborn will hellbent on self-destruction.
I think there’s a tendency to self-destruct in all of us. A tendency to run away, sometimes leaving a trail of devastation in our wake, from the things and the people and the places that make us happy. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the fear that once we obtain those very things, we’re in immediate danger of losing them. So we look for excuses, any excuses we can find—big or little, trivial or monumental—that support the rejection of everything we hold dear so that we never have to endure their loss.
I remember once, back in high school, liking a boy so much that the infatuation actually made my heart ache. For hours upon hours upon days, I wished for nothing more than to snag his attention, his interest. It all sounds pretty juvenile now, I know. But when you’re fifteen and in the throes of puppy love, your vision can tunnel, warping your thoughts and stunting your focus. I carried on in this ridiculous manner for months before, rather randomly, the thought popped into my head that if I somehow did manage to attract this guy’s attention, I’d have to hold it. The notion alone was so daunting, and my self-esteem so nonexistent, that I killed the crush that instant. The funny thing is, that very boy called me one week later, nerves fluttering in his voice, and I immediately made up some excuse about being too busy to talk before ending the call as fast as I could.
Self-fucking-destruction.
Jeremy is talking, something about the middle school kids that he teaches and an upcoming science fair that he’ll be judging, and I find myself slowly slipping away from the conversation. He’s sweet and his words are animated, and he’s potentially the friendliest, happiest guy I’ve ever, ever met. I watch him over the melting candles on the dinner table, grind amaretto chicken between my teeth, and smile every now and then so he won’t know how much I wish I’d said no to this date.
Ben and I didn’t have pretentious dates in fancy restaurants. It wasn’t our style. Our relationship was filled with luxurious homemade breakfasts in the mornings and boxed take-out dinners on the couch in his office at night. Ben didn’t romance me with candles or wine or expensive food on too small plates. He didn’t need to. Hell, in the beginning, I don’t think he tried to romance me at all. He just went about his life, doing what he did the way he’d always done it, filling his days with selfless acts of heroism grounded on a stubborn will of his own.
And I fell in love with the way he was. The way I saw him…then.
But now? I don’t know what to make of him.
In the end, there was proof, as flimsy as it was, that he’d been telling the truth.
Roman brought Lenora’s file to me the following day, pointing out pertinent documents and allowing me to rifle through the rest. I’m not sure as to the legality of it all—how it went down, the execution and the aftermath. Roman remained somewhat vague on how the pills were obtained, only mentioning that it took a number of forged prescriptions to get the right dose and that an old student of Lenora’s smuggled them from Washington State to Minnesota where someone—he refused to use Ben’s name—took possession of them.
I’m pretty sure I was breaching some sort of attorney-client trust, though I hardly cared about Lenora’s privacy at that point. I wanted answers. I wanted the truth. And when I got it, I found that it didn’t make me feel any better.
So I left.
Maybe because I’d made a fool of myself by throwing a temper tantrum before getting all the facts. Or maybe it was because I didn’t have the faith to believe in Ben, the man I supposedly loved, without a shadow of a doubt before getting said facts.
Doubting Ben led me to doubt myself. It brought back the ugly guilt I had about letting my relationship with Lenora become so distant. About how I wasn’t there for her, in the end.
My leaving wasn’t a noble act carried out in defiance against what I believed to be an immoral deed. Because, despite everything, if I were in Lenora’s shoes, facing the last years of my life with a mind that couldn’t be trusted, I’d want the very same thing—someone who loved me by my side, who’d hold my hand as I faced the unknown, and the comfort of knowing that the very last thought running through my head was mine.
As for the person by her side, the person she chose, I’m pretty sure she knew what she was doing.
Would I have had the strength to do for her what Ben did? Would I have been able to be selfless enough to let her go, to help her plan her exit from this world, despite the mark it would leave on my own heart?
I doubt it.
And perhaps Lenora sensed that.
Now, after months of sleepless nights to ponder it all, I can see the fallacy in my haste. My rush to judge when, as Ben claimed, true love doesn’t judge. My tether to the home I love
d and the person I thought I knew was cut, and now I’ve drifted so far, been away for so long, any hope of reattachment is gone.
In the end, it wasn’t Ben’s actions that put the space between us.
It was mine.
Knee-jerk responses and a lifetime of regret.
“Lenny?”
I’m not sure how many times Jeremy has said my name, and the fact that I’ve been so distant all dinner makes my face heat. “Sorry, I…” There’s no excuse, at least not an adequate one, that supports my lack of attention, so I just sigh in defeat. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
He doesn’t appear bothered, though his laugh is self-deprecating, as if he knows my mind is miles away, maybe even on someone else. “I was just wondering about the cupcakes that took the brunt of our fall yesterday. Were you able to find something to replace them?”
“I did, actually.” I pause, taking a sip of my wine to temper the excitement his question ignited. “In fact, it turns out that patch of black ice was a blessing in disguise.”
A better listener than I’ve been all evening, Jeremy leans forward with interest. “Well, I know why I feel that way,” he says, flashing a warm smile, “but I’d love to hear your reason.”
Oh, boy.
His comment contains more than a hint about how he feels and where he’d like to see us go, despite my flimsy conversation skills. Perhaps there’s hope for me after all, managing to live a full life without Ben. But I brush it all away with an airy laugh and a demure smile before filling him in on everything that happened today, starting with a phone call from the mother of the five-year old whose birthday party I almost ruined. “We didn’t have any more of the princess cupcakes, which kind of threw me into a panic at first. So, completely desperate, I rounded up the batch of chocolate and vanilla swirl cupcakes I’d made that morning before my shift, added some berry cream for flair, and boxed them up along with some complimentary macaroons that I hoped might compensate for the botched order.”
Jeremy folds his hands and rests them under his chin. “Let me guess? They loved them?”
He’s fully invested in my story; his smile is stretched and easy as he listens. If my heart wasn’t such a torn-up wreck right now, I’d find him so easy to fall for.
But just thinking about the possibility of loving someone else, of touching him in the same intimate way I used to touch Ben, leaves me practically nauseous, makes my skin clammy with a revulsion that has nothing to do with the man that’s here with me, but everything to do with the one who isn’t.
I take a big cleansing breath, focus on my good news.
“They did. The client called this morning, demanded to talk to Sif, and complimented the switch and the way we handled the situation for a full ten minutes before,” I pause for effect, “ordering more of the same cupcakes for some fancy board meeting she’s having next week. Sif was so happy, she promoted me the minute she got off the phone. Well,” I amend, “promoted is sort of a stretch, but along with assistant bookkeeper and jack of all trades, I’m now also assistant baker. Which, for me, is huge. Now I get to make more than just cheesecake brownies day after day after day.”
Jeremy laughs. “So those are yours.” He takes a sip of wine and nods as he swallows. “I should’ve known.”
“Yeah, well. I can’t take all the credit. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
His smile widens. “I bet she’s proud.”
I struggle for a response, because discussing Lenora isn’t something I want to do here, tonight, with him. Thankfully, the waiter arrives to clear our dishes and I’m spared, at least for the time being, of the need to answer. Jeremy asks if I’d like more wine, and I nod because yeah, yeah, I think I’m going to need more to get through this date.
We talk some more, his musical laugh pulling stares from the tables around us. Women and even a few men regard him appreciatively, which is hardly a surprise. But for me, it feels liked I’m being lured into a trap, his charm wooing me into another relationship that will inevitably just crash and burn.
The evening is as pleasant as pleasant as pleasant can be, and yet I can’t wait to party ways. There’s a squirming in my stomach that has nothing to do with the food but, rather, everything to do with the fact I feel like I’m cheating…on Ben.
But Ben is a ghost, a memory that haunts me and nothing more.
And you can’t be unfaithful to a ghost, can you?
Jeremy drops me off at my door, and the chaste kiss we share does nothing for my libido.
But that’s okay. Because with some people, it just takes time.
It just takes time.
I repeat the phrase over and over again as I slip my key into the lock, step through the door, move to shrug out of my coat.
It just takes ti—
A squeal rips through the room, and before I know it, I’m completely engulfed in a cloud of red.
“What the hell?” I push back from one of the tightest hugs I’ve ever received and stare, slack-jawed. “Mimi?”
“Oh, my God! I’m so excited to see you!” She pulls me in for another dance-hug, and I just go with it, laughing, clinging to her affection like it’s a goddamn lifeline.
Her enthusiasm is like a pin prick, the pop of a balloon, the straw that broke the camel’s back, and it’s as if a dam breaks inside of me, right in my center, unleashing a flood of emotions I didn’t even know I was holding in.
No, not a flood. A freaking tidal wave.
“I went on a date tonight.”
I blurt this information so fast the words blur.
There’s no reason to say this. Not when there are so many other things that, at the moment, need to be said. But it comes out anyway, like a sinner baring confession, as if Mimi’s absolution is the very air I need to breathe.
The rush to purge is desperate.
My lower lip trembles; I don’t need to say anything else.
Mimi takes my hand and gives it a squeeze, the gesture alone releasing the weight of a thousand regrets from my chest.
“Tell me all about it,” she says.
• • •
“I feel like I’m at a slumber party.”
It’s one in the morning, and Mimi and I are sitting cross-legged in my bedroom, an open box of pizza between us. I lift my third slice of pepperoni from the greasy container and close my eyes as I take a bite.
Heaven.
Mimi chews her own slice, swallows. “This is a slumber party. We’ve got pizza, cupcakes, wine, and,” she adjusts the volume on her phone, “Madonna. 80’s Madonna.”
I laugh. “Face masks next?”
She licks a finger, releasing it with a pop. “You know it.”
I’m feeling so much better now than I was two hours ago, when Mimi’s sudden presence instigated a breakdown that left my eyes puffy and my cheeks a splotchy red. At the time, I couldn’t even articulate why I was crying, why I was suddenly feeling both lost and found at the same time. Or how feeling like that was even possible. There was no explanation other than the fact that she was a part of everything I once held dear, a stark reminder of everything I so desperately missed.
Bear, the chocolate lab that Mimi brought with her, is sprawled next to me, his eyes tracking the slice of pie in my hand. His nostrils flare every once in a while, and when I glance his way, his tail gives a hopeful wag. But he’s well behaved, a sign he was, at one time, well cared for. The white peppering his muzzle indicates he has a story, one that he’ll get to continue living out thanks to Ben’s rescue. According to Mimi, his elderly owner passed away and there was no one to take him in but an already overcrowded shelter. After a month with zero adopter interest, he was set to be euthanized. But Ben found him first. “I’m surprised Destiny let him in the house.”
“She certainly wasn’t happy about it. I would have visited you first, but if I didn’t pull him today, the likelihood of him still being there tomorrow was slim to none. I had to snag him as soon as I got into town.”
�
��I still can’t believe you finagled my address out of Gary.” The post office in Lost Bay is apparently as lax about the law as a certain attorney. “Small towns,” I mutter. “But at least you brought my mail.” I wave toward the pile now sitting on my bed, stacked about a foot high. “I can’t believe they didn’t forward it.”
“I’m sure they would have gotten around to it eventually,” she says, clearly oblivious to how the postal system is supposed to work. “Besides, you didn’t give me a choice.” She lifts her brows. “I could hardly give you hell when you walked in tonight, because you got all blubbery on me and everything. But now? Now it’s time to chew some ass.”
“Really, Mimi? Chew some ass, huh?” Chuckling at her choice of words, I swipe my hands on a napkin and lift them in mock surrender. “All right, then. Chew away.”
“Okay.” She crosses her arms and wiggles her butt until her back is ramrod straight. “What the hell? You just left. Totally disappeared, like, overnight. And then when I called your phone, Ben answered. And shit all if I could get any information from him other than you blew town and he didn’t know where you went. So, inquiring minds want to know. What. The. Fuck?”
I sit for a moment, trying to decide what to tell her. Because what I can tell her, I shouldn’t, and what I want to tell her, I can’t.
I want to tell her that Ben conspired with my grandmother to kill herself, supplied the pharmaceutical cocktail for her to do it with, and sat by her side as she swallowed the pills that ended her life. Not to mention, the fact that he walked away from it all close to three million dollars richer didn’t exactly paint his intentions in the best light.
I want to say how I added fuel to the fire by not believing him, in him, and flew off the handle like a crazy person when what I should have done was calmed the hell down so I could look at everything rationally.
I’d love to tell her about how much I miss him, Lost Bay, her and her brother, Asha, and even Jerry’s goddamn delicious onion dip. I want to admit that I made a mistake in leaving, or at least in leaving the way that I did—like a bat out of hell—and wish more than anything I could go back in time and do it all over again.
