She calls out after me. “You know, you have more than one soul mate in this world, Rory.” She pauses to let this sink in. “There really are plenty of fish in the sea.”
“Yeah, and most of them are slimy eels or boring sand dollars,” I shout back at her as I dump my coffee into the steel sink. “I want a smart, spunky dolphin. Is that too much to ask?”
A smart, spunky dolphin named Houston.
Just thinking these words makes me sick to my stomach.
My mom arrives in the kitchen with her tea mug. “A smart, spunky dolphin? Is that how you remember Houston? Because I remember him being an arrogant frat boy.”
After five years of hearing these kinds of insults directed at Houston, it still makes me as angry as it did the first time. “This conversation is over.”
She follows me out of the kitchen and I brace myself for more criticism as she trails behind me. “Rory, you don’t need to be ashamed for loving Houston as he was, but it’s been five years. You need to stop remembering him through the telescopic view of young love. You need to look at the big picture. At reality. And the reality is that he left you. He. Left. You.”
“That’s enough, Mom.” I stop in the hallway and round on her. “That’s. Enough.”
Her eyebrows knit together as she nods. “I’m sorry. I just want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy again.”
Why is everyone always trying to tell me what I deserve? My mom insists I deserve to be happy. Houston insists I deserve to decide whether or not he should sign a contract. It’s as if everyone knows something about me that I don’t know about myself.
I’m no more deserving of happiness than anyone else. I’m just a screwed-up girl with a billion stories racing through my mind on any given day. And only one story I really want to tell.
9. Rory
August 17th
* * *
My nerves are buzzing as I make my way through Zucker’s icy warehouse. Taking a deep breath, I push through the swinging door and enter the store. Right away, I busy myself with tidying up a display of dried apple chips in the produce section. Then I keep my head down as I make my way to the cash register. I don’t know if Houston is coming in today, but I know he came in yesterday to sign the contract, which is the real reason I switched shifts with Kenny.
Kenny and I are both working today and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see him standing behind register four. He’s the only person in this store that I could maybe call my friend, though I’ve only hung out with him outside of work on one occasion. He’s also the only person in this store I would trust to balance my cash drawer if I were to suddenly drop dead while ringing up a bottle of organic shampoo.
Kenny is ridiculously attractive and completely gay, so he’s as safe as a children’s book. But that doesn’t stop him from flirting with me. I’m sure in his twisted twenty-two-year-old mind, I’m as safe as a children’s book to him, because I’m hopelessly incapable of forming new attachments. He knows I won’t misinterpret his flirtations.
“Hey, beautiful,” Kenny says as I slide in behind register three.
Unlocking the drawer, I pull it out completely. Then I walk past Kenny’s register toward the service register at the front of the store, where Jamie is on the phone. We exchange my empty drawer for the drawer she has waiting for me under the counter. Checking the amount on the register slip, I sign it and hand it back to her. She time-stamps the slip and tucks it beneath the money tray inside the service register.
Carrying my cash back to my station, I easily lose myself in the monotony of setting up my drawer. I don’t notice there’s someone at my register until I hear the unmistakable sound of a woman clearing her throat. Looking up, I want to say something, but I find myself stunned into silence. The girl at my register has the same straight, light-brown hair as Hallie. She’s wearing a crooked smile as she tucks her hair behind her ear while holding out a pack of gum to me.
“Are you open?” she asks so softly I can barely hear her over the sound of Kenny’s scanner beeping.
I nod hastily and turn back to my register to punch in my password. “Yeah, just a minute.” The system takes a few seconds to log me in and I smile as I take the pack of gum from her to ring it up. “Do you want a bag?”
“No, thanks,” she replies, taking the gum back and walking away, completely oblivious of her resemblance to my dead friend.
“Hey, sexy, can I trade you a ten for a roll of quarters?”
I look up and Kenny winks at me as he holds out a ten-dollar bill. I grab a roll of quarters out of the drawer and exchange it for the ten, then I turn back to the keypad in front of me, trying not to think about Hallie.
The one thought I couldn’t escape after she committed suicide was the idea that I may never have truly known her. Hallie and I had both known of kids who had taken their lives and, at the time, we could see how it was inevitable. Joe was always wearing black… Stacy never had any boyfriends… Paul was always playing those violent video games. But in the end, it was my own best friend’s death that stumped me. I didn’t see it coming.
It didn’t help that she didn’t leave a note.
Closure is a weird word. It implies that something is closed. Finished. But how can you find closure when someone you love dies? They’re already gone. The case is closed. There’s nowhere to go from there.
There’s no one to give you answers that make any sense. Which is why, after the shock of Hallie’s death wore off, I became very angry with her. How could she leave me behind without any explanation? Did I not deserve to know her story?
There goes that word again: deserve.
I make it through the rest of the workday without any appearances from Houston. Kenny walks me out to the back of the store where my bike is parked.
“Want to go to Ración with us tonight? We have a reservation at eight, but someone in our party canceled. You know you want to come.”
It’s been about five months since I’ve taken Kenny up on one of his offers to get out of the house. I’ve been using the excuse of writing my book, but I can’t really use that anymore since I haven’t written a single word in six weeks.
I kneel down next to my bike to punch in the code on the padlock. “Who’s going? I’m not going if Lina’s there.”
Lina is Kenny’s bisexual friend who hit on me the last time I went to dinner with him and his crowd. She made some pretty crude remarks after I rejected her, too. I would have left the restaurant right then if it weren’t for Heather, Kenny’s straight friend who explained to me that Lina was going through a bad breakup. That was something I could relate to.
“Lina moved to Seattle with her new boyfriend months ago.”
I climb onto my bike and nod. “Sure. I’ll meet you there.”
“Yay!” Kenny shouts as he throws his arms around me so suddenly I almost lose my balance. “I’ve missed hanging out with you.”
I hug him back and refrain from reminding him that we’ve only hung out once before. “I’ve missed you, too.”
He kisses my cheek as he lets me go. “What are you going to wear?”
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. My gaze is locked on a white SUV parked at the end of the service alley behind the market. I know it’s just my mind playing tricks on me again, my subconscious fear of running into Houston.
Kenny follows the direction of my stare to the SUV. “Who’s that?”
“No one.”
The driver’s side door opens and my breath hitches as Houston steps out. What is he doing here? Is he following me?
“Sure doesn’t look like no one,” Kenny says. “Looks like a very delicious someone.”
I swallow hard and turn back to Kenny and throw my arms around him again. “I’ll see you later.”
He chuckles as he seizes the opportunity to squeeze me firmly. “Oh, yeah, baby. You know how I like it. Hug me tighter.”
I squeeze a little harder. “Is this tight enough?”
“No, harde
r!”
I laugh as I push him away. “Go home.”
He kisses my forehead before he turns to walk away. “Don’t stand me up, gorgeous.”
I slide my helmet off the handlebars and try to pretend I don’t notice Houston walking toward me.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a bit breathy, as if he’s nervous.
I look up and try to think of a response other than Go home to your wife. “Hey,” I reply tersely.
Houston looks back over his shoulder at the corner of the building Kenny just disappeared behind. “Who was that?”
I should slip this helmet onto my head, ignoring his question as I ride off into the sunset. But I can’t.
“Why does it matter?”
He smiles at my impertinence. “I guess it doesn’t. Do you need a ride?”
I narrow my eyes at him in disbelief. “Are you seriously offering me a ride?”
The muscle in his jaw twitches. “Rory, I don’t know what’s going to happen when I come in here to oversee the setup of the bar, but I know that this”—he wags his finger to indicate the space between us—“can’t continue. We can’t work together with all this animosity.”
“Why?”
His eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Because it’s not healthy.”
“Suddenly you’re worried about maintaining a healthy relationship with me?”
He sighs as he looks down at the asphalt. “I deserve that.”
“Look, Houston, if you want to maintain a healthy working relationship with me, I think the first part of that would entail not questioning my friendships with other guys. The second part would probably entail not showing up at my apartment. How about we start with those two things?”
That muscle in his jaw is working again and I wonder if he’s going to explode from all that pent-up emotion. Finally, he looks me in the eye and his face relaxes, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a soft crooked smile.
“You haven’t changed at all.”
“Is that an insult?”
He shakes his head. “Quite the contrary.”
I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly as I stare at my helmet in my hands, unable to respond. When I look up again, I catch a glimpse of the inside of his forearm as he runs his fingers through his hair. He got the old tattoo partially covered. He quickly tucks his hand into his pocket so I can’t make out the new tattoo.
“Let me give you a ride, Rory.”
My stomach cramps at the idea of being alone with him in the car again. “Does your wife know you’re here?”
“Yes. I told her I had to give a friend a ride home.”
“You lied to her?”
“About you being my friend?”
“About having to give me a ride home.”
He smiles, his eyes lighting up with hope. “Does that mean we can be friends?”
“Houston… That hopeful look in your eyes is making me very uncomfortable.”
He laughs and takes a step back. “Sorry. I guess I suck at this friendship thing. Maybe I can get some pointers from your friend… what was his name again?”
“I didn’t tell you his name.”
He bites his lip in a sheepish expression and my heart flutters with longing. I should not be alone with him. Ever.
He nods toward his car and smiles. “Come on.”
I stare at his SUV for a moment and I suddenly remember the last time I gave him a blow job in his old Chevy truck. We were leaving a UO football game. The traffic around the stadium was horrendous and both our phones were dead, so I jokingly offered to strip for Houston to keep him entertained. He offered to do all the dinner dishes for a week if I followed through. Dishes being one of my least favorite chores, I quickly yanked up my green Oregon T-shirt and flashed my breasts at him.
“Houston, we have liftoff,” he replied with a sexy grin.
I groaned as I tried not to laugh at his awful pun. Then I glanced around the crowded streets. When I was certain no one was looking in our direction, I ducked down to undo his jeans.
I chuckle to myself as I recall how crazy we were. “Thanks, but I have a ride,” I say, tapping my handlebars. “See you later, Houston.”
I pedal away, trying to pay attention to motorists while contemplating what just happened. Does Houston really want to be my friend? Does he only want to do what’s best for his business? Or was he feeling me out to see if I’d be open to having an affair?
Ración is a Spanish tapas restaurant that’s quite popular for its mastery of molecular gastronomy. I’ve never been to Ración, but I’ve read some of their reviews online and heard people talking about the place. The moment I walk in and see the tasting menu on the blackboard, I know this is going to be the kind of eatery that serves tiny portions that will break my budget.
I’m starving, since I normally have a late lunch when I get off work at four p.m., but I skipped lunch today to save my appetite for this special dinner. I love food, which is why I ride my bike to work most days, even when it’s raining. So I can burn enough calories to justify my need to stuff my face.
I rode my bike to the restaurant tonight. I figure if I get a little tipsy, the worst-case scenario is I have to push my bike to the bus stop or the rail station. It will take me forty minutes to get home instead of fifteen. No big deal.
Kenny stands up and waves at me from the far left end of the bar. I make my way over, taking in the laid-back attire most people are wearing. A lot of vintage dresses paired with cardigans, plaid shirts and thrift-store jeans, and Gor-Tex jackets. I sigh with relief as I dressed pretty casually in my only pair of designer skinny jeans, an airy coral blouse, and some nude flats.
Kenny bumps his cheek to mine and wraps his arm around my shoulder. “Everyone, this is my gorgeous friend, Rory, short for Aurora.” He stretches the syllables on my given name and I try not to blush. “Some of you may remember her from that one wonderful night in March when she graced us with her presence. Well, it only took five months for me to convince her to give us another shot.”
I wave as everyone says hi, some of them offering me a handshake. Kenny asks Judy, the girl sitting next to him, to scoot over so I can sit next to him, then he orders me a Looking Glass cocktail.
“What’s a Looking Glass?”
He shakes his head. “All you need to know is it contains absinthe. You’ll like it.”
Two drinks later, Judy and two of her dining companions have to leave and a group of three guys is seated at the bar on my right. The guy seated next to me has a full beard, which I’ve come to appreciate after two years living in Portland. Around here, growing a beard is a pissing contest; the fuller and longer the beard, the more virile and manly you are. It’s cute to see men publicly fluffing their feathers in an attempt to attract mates.
The guy glances sideways and catches me staring at him. I quickly look away, but not before I catch a glimpse of his smile and the perfect teeth underneath that beard. I press my lips to keep from smiling and I hook my arm around Kenny, my social lifeline.
Kenny turns to me and smiles. “Are you having fun?” His eyes widen when I reply with a clumsy nod. “Oh, my goodness, Rory. Are you drunk off two cocktails?”
“Cocktails? Why do they call them cock-tails?”
“Oh, you’re too adorable.” He waves at a waiter, who quickly comes over. “Can you please hurry with the food?” He nods toward me and the waiter nods back, as if he can divine how tipsy I am with a single glance. “Thanks, man,” Kenny calls out as the waiter walks away.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I’m starving.”
“Then you came to the wrong place.”
I whip my head to the right and Beard-guy is sporting a twinkle in his eye, looking very pleased with his comment as he takes a sip from his beer. I slip my left arm out of Kenny’s and sit up straight so I can respond.
“Excuse me?”
He smiles, showing off those perfect teeth again. “I said you came to the wrong place if you’re hungry. This place is
for tasting, not eating.”
“Are you saying I have to spit my food out after I taste it?”
He chuckles as he sets down his beer and turns his shoulders a bit so he can get a better look at me. His eyebrows scrunch up. “Rory?”
I squint at him through the dim lighting and I can just barely make out the crystal blueness of his eyes. “Do I know you?”
“You probably don’t recognize me because of the beard.” He holds his hands up to cover the lower half of his face.
My eyes widen with surprise. “Liam?”
He drops his hands and smiles. “In the flesh.”
I lick my partially numb lips and reach for my glass of water, taking a few gulps before I set the glass down. “How long have you lived here?”
Liam was in my Art of the Sentence class junior year. We partnered up during an exercise where the professor asked us to construct a five-sentence-minimum short story. The catch was that it had to be done one word at a time, going back and forth for each word. The experience was memorable. Liam and I met at the local Starbucks and spent four hours sipping lattes and laughing at our ridiculous short story.
It was the first time I’d felt comfortable in the company of a man since Houston had left almost two years earlier. I was having such a good time, I didn’t even notice he kept hitting the ignore button on his phone. Until we left Starbucks and he apologized before making a quick phone call—to his girlfriend.
“I actually just moved here a few months ago,” he replies. “Got a job at Intel.”
“Intel? What do you do there?”
He smiles as he reaches for his beer. “Corporate affairs. Totally boring. What are you doing these days? Still writing?”
Nothing like a question about what I’m doing with my career to sober me up. “I work at Zucker’s for now. Yeah, I’m still writing.”
“Zucker’s? The grocery store on Burnside?”