by Rye Hart
At first, I'll admit, it was exciting. Now, it feels almost irresponsible. Maybe I'm just biased about that since I have my father's work ethic. There's a time for fun, that time though, is structured. It's scheduled. You don't just drop everything to travel to some foreign land because you feel like it.
Peter, on the other hand, lectures me often about lightening up. He constantly tells me to relax and live a little. I'm trying. It's why I'm here on this jet with him now. It's why I keep doing whatever he has in mind for us, because deep down, on some level, I can admit that maybe he's right. Hell, I know he's right. I do need to live a little. This is certainly living, I think, as I look around at the jet. The leather seats we're in, sitting across from each other, are in a group of four. Each side can be folded down into a bed, and yes, when we took off the last time, I was exhausted from applying to med school and I totally took advantage of it. There's a mini bar on one side, fully stocked and flat panel televisions in case you get bored. It blows my mind, to this day, that this is how some people travel. It blows my mind even more to know that this is how I travel now, apparently.
I sip my champagne and stare down at mountains below us. I can't tell if we're still in California or not, but if I want to know, I can pull up all the information I could ever want on one of the televisions, I'm sure. Anything is an option when you have enough money.
“Did your mother talk to you about UCLA?” Peter asks.
I look over at him and blink. “What about it?” I ask.
A sly smile spreads across his face. Setting his glass down, he steeples his fingers and makes me wait for his answer. It's as if he enjoys watching me squirm. Finally, when he speaks up, I can hear the note of pride in his voice.
“My father knows a guy on the admissions board, and he's put in a good word for you,” he says. “You should be hearing from them soon.”
“Thank you,” I say, blushing as I look down at my hands. “You really didn't have to do that.”
“I know,” he says, continuing to smile at me, as if he expects me to fall to the ground and suck his cock as a way to say thanks or something. “I figure you could use all the help you can get. UCLA is a top tier medical school, I'm told.”
“It's a good one,” I say.
I grit my teeth at the comment about needing all the help I can get though. As if I'm not good enough or smart enough to get into a top tier school like UCLA without somebody putting in a good word for me. It irritates me because I work hard and am damn good at what I do. Hearing him speak about putting in good words for me with the admissions boards just strikes me as completely condescending. “It's in my top ten or twenty, for sure,” I say, carefully trying to keep my tone neutral. “Stanford is still my top choice, but UCLA wouldn't be a bad fallback school.”
Not to mention, I stand a good chance at getting into either on my own merits.
“UCLA is closer to home though,” he says.
“Stanford isn't that far off,” I say. Especially when you have a private jet, I think to myself.
“Well, we'll see what happens, won't we?”
Peter cocks an eyebrow as he takes a drink from his champagne flute, finishing the glass. He presses the buzzer for the flight attendant. When she doesn't respond fast enough, he presses it again. Then a third time, harder.
“Dammit. Where is she? ”
The woman scurries out of the back and keeps her eyes low as she apologizes, “Sorry, sir, I was in the restroom.”
Peter continues to scowl as he hands his glass over to her, not saying another word – not even deigning to look at her. The stewardess disappears and then quickly returns, handing his glass back to him with a fresh napkin. Briefly, I catch her gaze and see her wide eyes, and her lower lip trembling. She looks terrified.
“I'm so sorry, Mr.--”
Peter stops her and waves her off. “Just go sit down,” he says. “And remember, you're being paid to be at my beck and call. See that it doesn't happen again.”
“Yes, sir,” she says. “I'm so sorry, sir.”
She starts to walk away, but I grab her arm. She stares down at me, and her eyes are wide, and she looks at my hand on her arm like I'm scalding her. Her name tag says Amy.
“Thank you, Amy.” I speak the words my boyfriend should – but doesn't – offer her. “We appreciate your help.”
She nods and quickly walks away without another word, toward the back of the plane. Out of sight until Peter buzzes her again. Peter shakes his head at me, muttering something to himself that's so low, I can't make it out. I don't even care what he's saying, honestly, so I go back to looking out my window.
CHAPTER FOUR
JACK
“What day is it, Mark?” Sometimes being so far off in your own little world had its drawbacks – like forgetting the date.
Mark is my project manager based out of Denver, where the company's corporate offices are located. We have conference calls every few days, but if my phone doesn't remind me, I often forget about them. Today is no different.
“It's the twenty-fifth, Jack,” Mark laughs. “Wednesday. In case you forgot that too.”
I scratch my beard and look at the long, never-ending list of e-mails I need to reply to. E-mails I've been putting off, not wanting to deal with the mundane crap they undoubtedly contain.
“That's what I thought. Shit, I can't believe I forgot,” I say, muttering to myself.
“Forgot what?” Mark asks on the other end of the line.
“Nothing,” I mutter. “Listen, I have to get out of here. I have plans tonight.”
“Plans?”
“Yeah, surprising, I know,” I say. “But, believe it or not, I got plans. The rest of this shit will have to wait for a little bit.”
“It can't wait, Jack, it needs – ”
“It needs to wait until tomorrow,” I say.
My voice sounds harsher than I intend it to, but Mark and the rest of the guys at corporate need to remember who's in charge sometimes. I may not be in the office every single day, but I'm still the one calling the shots. It seems like sometimes, they forget that. “I have to go,” I say.
Mark sighs. “I'll tell Harry to hold off, but listen, they need the paperwork signed to move forward on the project. Can you at least do that?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Fine,” he sighs, irritation in his voice. “We'll reschedule this meeting for tomorrow then.”
I click off the call before Mark can continue arguing with me and throw on some clothes. Something a little more practical and acceptable to be seen wearing in public, at least. I'm not dressing to the nines though. I just throw on a t-shirt and some dark jeans. “Come on, Gunner,” I announce, saying his favorite words ever – words that get a full body wag and a goofy doggy smile out of him. “Wanna go for a car ride?”
Gunner is up and at the door in two seconds flat, not so patiently waiting for me. A blast of cold air hits us as we open the door, cold enough that it hurts to breathe. If Gunner is affected by it, it doesn't show. He rushes forward, running to my car with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, excitement radiating from his big, furry body. He beats me to the truck, and runs back to me, then back to the truck as if he's trying to hurry me along.
It's not until we were both in the car that it hits me. I probably shouldn't have brought him along. It's not like where I'm going is dog-friendly. I sigh. It's too late for that now. He's content in the back seat, staring out the window before I even start the truck and back out of the driveway.
It's okay, I tell myself. Not like I'll be long. I'll walk him around town a bit, let him stretch his legs. There's a leash in the glove compartment, but I don't need to go inside, I tell myself.
Yet I know it's a lie even as the thought crosses my mind.
I can't go inside with Gunner, so there's that. Maybe I brought him along intentionally, without even realizing it. Maybe trying to subconsciously sabotage myself or something.
We drive for some time down the long
road, my music blaring. The roads are slick, but my truck can handle it, especially with the chains on the tires. This isn't my first winter in Colorado, I know what I'm doing. It takes about half an hour to get to the shopping district, which is just a square of local shops and restaurants – nothing too fancy. I pull into a spot on the street, shut off the engine and turn to Gunner, who's eager to get out of the car.
As I look at my furry buddy, I realize that I'm in a pickle. I can't leave him inside, it's too cold. I can't take him with me inside the cafe, they won't allow it. So, it's settled. I just won't go inside.
I attach the leash to his collar and we get out of the truck. He jumps down onto the snow-covered sidewalk, wriggling and dancing like he's the happiest dog on Earth. It's still light out, but it won't be for long. People are mingling outside the cafe, going in and out. Shops are mostly empty, though a few locals are running errands as if this snowfall is no big deal.
Hell, to most of us locals, it's not. A light dusting, nothing more.
“Come on,” I say, walking toward Miss Daisy's Cafe.
I'm hit by the aroma of fresh coffee beans and pie, and I know from experience that they have some of the best pie in Colorado. Just the smell wafting from Miss Daisy's makes my stomach growl and my mouth water. Normally, that's what I'd get. Pie. Tonight though, I just hang outside and savor the memories.
“You're so silly,” she said in that perpetually chipper, high-pitched voice of hers, as she tossed her straw wrapper at me.
The memory is still so powerful. Her voice, even still, rings through my head so loud and clear. Her smile was so bright and warm, it could melt the snow right off the mountains of Aspen. It's why I fell in love with her. She was so genuine, so kind – everything I wasn't. She tried so hard to make me see the best in myself, at all times, but her parents could see the real me. They saw me for who and what I really was.
A voice calls my name, pulling me out of my memories and back to the here and now. It's Miss Daisy herself, standing in the doorway, frowning at me. Miss Daisy, last name unknown, is an elderly woman. She's got gray hair that's curly and wild as if she couldn't care less what her hair does – or what people think about it. She's a little round around the edges, years of making the best pies in the state will do that to a person. Her smile, as always though, is friendly and warm.
“What are you waiting for, Jack? Come on inside,” she says.
I shrug, the leash in hand. “Can't,” I say. “I think Gunner constitutes a health hazard.”
“Pfft,” she scoffs. “I'll determine what is and isn't a health hazard in my own diner. Now, get your fanny inside.”
She motions for me, and I look down at Gunner who looks to me for the answer. Do we or don't we? Finally, with a heavy sigh, I follow Daisy inside and she points to a booth in the far corner, tucked well away from everyone else and off to the side.
There's plenty of room for Gunner to lay beneath the table, and with his dark fur and us being so far back, there's a chance no one will even see him. Not that it matters. If Daisy says it's okay, well, it's her restaurant. She makes the rules. Health Department be damned.
We sit down, and Gunner sits at my feet, just as I thought he would. He's a good dog. Daisy brings out a menu along with a bowl filled with water, which she sets on the ground for Gunner. She scratches his ears before standing back up.
“It's about time you made a friend,” Daisy says. “How long have you been coming here? And always alone?”
“Too long,” I laugh.
Ever since Sydney brought me here, years and years ago, actually. It's the only time I came to Daisy's and wasn't alone.
Daisy knows the drill by now. With a soft smile, she says, “The usual?”
“Yes, ma'am,” I say. “And if you have some bacon for Gunner – ”
“Of course. Anything for your friend,” she says with a playful wink.
I come here often, yes, but tonight is different. Some men might toast their exes with booze, but I prefer coffee – the same fresh ground, French roast she introduced me to years ago. I remember that we were sitting at the table across the way, I see it's occupied by a young married couple. Newly married too, from the way they snuggled close, focusing more on each other than on the food in front of them.
Daisy drops off my chicken fried steak, eggs and hash browns. It might be dinner time, but there's no way I'm passing up her chicken fried steak. Day or night, it's easily one of my top three favorite meals. It would probably be the last meal I'd request if I were ever on death row. That with a slice of pie for dessert, which I am very much looking forward to.
“You know, she's not stepped through these doors in years, Jack,” Daisy says. She refills my coffee cup as I continue staring at the front door. “Not since – ”
“I know,” I say. “That's not why I come anymore. I come for the food. And for your scintillating personality, Daisy.”
“Always the silver-tongued devil,” she says and laughs. “If only I were forty years younger.”
“Or I were forty years older,” I say.
It's true that I come for the food, but I also come for the memories. I keep that part to myself, though.
CHAPTER FIVE
SYDNEY
“Before we head to the cabin, I figure we'll stop for something to eat,” Peter says.
His eyes twinkle and he smiles as if he's pleased with himself. He probably is. He usually is when he thinks he's done something special. Bringing my hand to his lips, he kisses it lightly.
I look outside at the shops and the square, recognizing instantly where we are. A little shopping district in Redstone, Colorado. It was always one of my favorite places to go as a kid with my family, and later as a teen. Before the car even stops though, I know where Peter is taking me and feel the chill of old memories wash over me.
“My mom told you about this place, didn't she?” I ask.
He holds the door open for me, and I step out of the car.
“She did indeed,” he says. “Said you always loved it.”
I feign a smile to be polite, but on the inside, I'm cringing. Screaming My entire body is tense as we walk toward the familiar cafe, the waves of nostalgia crashing down over me threatening to pull me under. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quell the churning in my stomach.
Not much has changed about the place. It's still a hole in the wall with one small, brightly lit sign out front. A large window allows you to see inside, and as we walk past, I can smell the coffee coming from the place. I'm in a skirt and blouse, completely underdressed for a wintery escape. Peter throws his coat over my shoulders and that helps a lot, but the cold still stings my face and freezes my lungs in my chest. It's almost hard to breathe. Or maybe, that's just my anxiety.
As we head for the door, so many memories come rushing back, all at once. My heart feels heavy with them. My soul feels even heavier. Peter holds open the door, and I step inside, the warmth of the cafe hitting me, taking me by surprise. It's almost too hot inside, or perhaps my body isn't used to it yet.
Standing in the doorway, I stare into the cafe, amazed at how little things have changed. The tables are still adorned with the red and white checkered cloths I remember from my youth. It even smells the same. French-pressed coffee and Dutch apple pie. Cinnamon and cloves. The sizzling of the fryer as it cooks up something filled with lard, I'm sure. Along with the anxiety, I won't lie, there's a rush of good feelings that come with it to. I glance back at Peter and cock an eyebrow at him.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask. “I doubt they serve food that's Keto-friendly.”
“I'll deal for one night,” he says. “A small sacrifice for the woman I love.”
He winks at me, and we slide into a nearby booth. It's then that a familiar face steps out of the kitchen, running a hand through silvery hair. She smiles over at us, not remembering – or perhaps not recognizing me, since it's been so long. Daisy's smile and personality are so warm and genuine, and her
face lights up whenever she speaks to you. Even if she just met you, she makes you feel like an old, valued friend. It's hard not to smile back at her.
As she walks closer to our table, she cocks her head to the side and I can see the first stirrings of recognition. They're faint, but unmistakable in her eyes. Grabbing the menus, she looks at me, then her eyes widen slightly as she glances toward the backside of the restaurant. It's a part of the diner I can't see clearly from where I'm sitting. When I see the hint of concern on her face, my heart starts to thunder in my chest. It can't be...
No, it can't. It's all of the memories this place is stirring up that's making me paranoid. It would be too big of a coincidence, after all these years – it's just not likely. Like, winning the lottery odds, unlikely. Daisy hustles over to us, menus in hand, putting that warm smile on her face once more.
“Pardon me, but are you – ” she asks haltingly.
“Sydney Bellflower? Yes, ma’am,” I say. “It's been a long time. How are you, Miss Daisy?”
For the first time in my life, Daisy is speechless. She stands there staring at me, her jaw very nearly on the floor.
“I can't – wow, Sydney, you look – so different,” she says, but then quickly adds, “But good. Great, even. A good different. So grown up, I hardly recognized you at first.”
“Yeah, it's been way too long,” I respond. “You look good yourself, Miss Daisy. You haven't changed a bit.”
Her smile is small and faint as she looks down at Peter. Her smile falls from her face completely when she sees us holding hands across the table.
“Thank you, dear,” she says, her voice suddenly without the happy ring to it. I can tell that it bothers her to see me with somebody else. Things change though. Especially after so many years, and so much heartache.
Peter, being Peter, cuts right to the chase. “May we have two waters, please?”
Daisy looks at him, a darkness in her look, but she shakes it off and puts on a smile that doesn't come close to reaching her eyes.
