He’s staring at me, directly into my eyes, like he might actually be able to read my mind. I should note that it’s not a serial-killer kind of stare, where red flags are going off and every hair on your body is standing up like a Chia Pet. I actually feel kind of calm. His face is eight inches from mine, and I have to tell you, I’m a personal-space kind of gal. Normally I’d go all air traffic controller on him and fly him right out of my safe zone. But I don’t. I just stand there like a geek, worried about my purple pen but not worried why this man is staring at me.
In a quiet, controlled voice he says, “You want your love story. So much so that you fight tears every night, wishing there were someone beside you.” He points behind him. “Someone to sleep right there on that side of the bed. He has to be a left-side-of-the-bed sleeper because you’ve been sleeping on the right side far too long to change now.”
I scratch my hairline, trying to hold back tears. “It’s just personal preference. I’m not a bed zealot or anything.”
He smiles. “You leave space for him. You want the one who matches the man you’ve written about year after year.”
Drip. One tear down my cheek.
He walks into my bathroom. I follow him. “You’re not asking too much,” he says. “A guy who wipes up at the sink, who wears cologne to enhance and not cover up, and, these are your words not mine, someone who understands the importance of Lysol.’”
I feel weak. “What are you doing here?”
“I want to help you.”
“Why? I don’t even like you. I haven’t stepped foot in a church since—”
“August 15, fourteen years ago.” He exits the bathroom. I glance at the sink. Water droplets! I quickly wipe them up and hurry to follow him. He’s standing near the window…like in my dream the other night. “I know it’s hard,” he says. “There are some things I just can’t answer for you yet.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” I can also see him twirling my purple pen between his fingers like it’s some kind of good luck charm. I let go of that theory—that it’s a good luck charm—four years ago, but I still don’t like anybody touching it. Blake grabbed it once to jot down a phone number. He never made that mistake again.
He smiles and stops twirling the pen. “I can write this story for you, if you’re willing to give me the pen.”
I stare at the pen. “Everything I’ve accomplished in my life, I’ve done myself. Me. Alone. Why should I trust you now?”
“You haven’t asked me for help.” He looks at the purple pen, and I study his expression. He seems to know its importance. “Of course, you can keep doing things your way. If that’s working for you.”
I look him in the eyes, study every minuscule movement on his face. He sits down on the edge of the bed and slips his boots on.
“So you take the pen. Then what? You want me to sit down, shut up, and stay out of your way?”
“Oh no. You’ll be busy.”
“Doing what?”
He finishes lacing up his boots and stands. He holds out the purple pen. I snatch it from him, my fingers quickly running back and forth over the feather. I take a deep breath of relief.
“You have twenty-four hours to decide if you want to give me that pen.” He brushes by me and toward my bedroom door. I clutch my pen, thankful to have it back, then turn to follow him.
Except he’s gone.
I hurry to the door to look down the stairs, but there’s nothing. No movement, no footsteps. All is quiet.
I turn and go back into my bedroom. Not all one hundred nine journals are on my bed. Just a few, scattered around the bedspread like there’s no particular order to them. There is an order to them, and I promptly return them to my closet and refile. My heart’s not into it, but I straighten the bedspread anyway. Wrinkles bother me. But not as much as what just happened. I’m still having a hard time figuring out if I need to exorcize a figment of my imagination.
It’s a weird thing, but I feel peaceful, like I’ve just had a spa day.
I decide to go brush my teeth, because cleaning anything always makes me feel better. I brush a full five minutes as I stare into my mirror, trying to find that nine-year-old girl who was so confused and so lonely. Is she back?
I finish up and decide to change into my pajamas and say goodbye to this Valentine’s disaster once and for all. I go downstairs, check the locks, turn out the lights, and head for the bathroom to do a final wipedown.
But as I wipe up the water droplets and step outside my bathroom, I hear a loud thud downstairs.
five
I scurry down the stairs, waving my purple pen. I knew it! The guy’s already gone back on his word. “Hey!” I yell into the darkness as I actually fly off the fourth stair and hit the carpet, barely landing on two feet. “Hey! You said twenty-four hours!”
“Do you have a guy in your room?!”
The front door shuts, and there stands my sister, Brooklyn. Even in the dark, her bright blond hair shines like the moon is hovering above her. I flip on the light, only to notice two suitcases in her hands. She blinks at me, her heavy eyelashes batting in spite of themselves. Her gaze slowly climbs the stairs.
“Good grief, no. Not that I know of.” I add this because the guy has proved he can appear without warning. I glance upstairs. Everything seems quiet.
“Then who are you talking to?” Brooklyn flops onto the couch, tossing a pillow to the floor. I walk over, dust it off, and put it back in place.
“No one. What are you doing here?”
She sighs and sulks. Vintage Brooklyn. “My play closed tonight. Gary kicked me out.”
Not sure what one has to do with the other, but somehow everything in Brooklyn’s life is connected. She goes through men like cats go through mice, and I am having a hard time feeling any bit of sympathy for her.
“I won’t mention he fell for the leading woman.”
Oh. Ouch. Okay, that helps. “Wow. You okay?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I’m more concerned about why I didn’t see this coming.” She kicks her feet onto the coffee table. “I can read men, Jessie. You know that. I can look across the room and tell you if a guy is interested in me or not. So where did I go wrong with Gary?”
Where should I start? I keep my mouth shut and straighten the magazines she’s kicked to the side.
“I think I need to reevaluate my life, Jess. Just try to understand why I seem to end up with dysfunctional men over and over.”
I know this seems harsh, but it’s the truth: these guys don’t strike me as dysfunctional until Brooklyn gets ahold of them. Just a candid observation.
One of her suitcases has tipped over, and I lift it back upright. She is glaring at me. “I’m taking my room back. I don’t care what you say!”
“I know. Your suitcases did the talking for you.”
That steams her. She hates when I talk to her in a matter-of-fact voice. She’s kind of a drama queen and tone is everything to her, so when I don’t have a tone it freaks her out. I smile as she clomps upstairs. It’s not the first time she’s barged back in. My place is like her own personal halfway house.
My gloating fades as I find myself alone in my living room. It’s been a Valentine’s Day repeat, except for the weird God thing, but I’m halfway certain I’m going to wake up tomorrow to find myself remembering this dream.
Usually on a disastrous Valentine’s Day, I would fill up at least five pages of my journal, but I don’t feel like journaling at all. I fall into the cushions of my couch, adjust the pillows, and stare at my purple pen. Maybe, with the night I’ve had, it will start writing all on its own.
“What are you doing?”
I whirl around in my desk chair like I’m not expecting anyone to show up. The truth of the matter is that I keep expecting him to step right out of the wallpaper. But it’s not him. It’s Brooklyn, rubbing her tired eyes.
“It’s three-thirty in the morning.”
“I know,” I say. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
/>
“No.” She leans over me and snatches up the pill bottle that is on the desk. “What’s this?”
“Give me that!” I claw at her arms, but she backs away and holds it up, squinting to read it.
“St. John’s wort?” She raises a curious eyebrow and tosses it back to me.
“It’s not what you think.”
“You have a wart?”
Obviously it’s not what she thinks. “It’s an herb.” I swivel back around and continue typing.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Why are you awake?”
“I can’t sleep. I’m having life crisises, you know.”
“Crises.”
“Whatever. So what are you doing?”
“I’m just looking up drug interactions.”
“For the wart stuff?”
I swivel to face her again. I look into her tired-yet-remarkably-taut-and-bright eyes. I don’t think she has the ability to look disheveled. Her pajamas include a tight-fitting cami with matching figure-flattering pants. I look down at myself. I’m wearing running shorts and a T-shirt that would fit a gorilla.
“I had a bad night,” I say. “A bad Valentine’s.”
She grabs a cushion off the sofa and sits on the floor. I try not to be bothered by it, but why not grab a chair or nearby stool? Why remove a cushion? “Me too.” She smiles a little and explains the whole night to me. I hurt for her. As immature as she is, I don’t like to see her hurting.
I lean in to hug her. “Maybe we should’ve spent Valentine’s together, watching romance movies.”
“Or,” she says, holding up a finger, “action flicks. Kind of sticking it to the idea of romance.” She tilts her head to the side. “Except you can’t let go of romance.”
“I’m getting close.”
“No, Jess. You’re the very definition of hopeless when it comes to romantic.”
“It’s funny.” I sigh. “You’re independent and always have a guy. I’m codependent and can’t find an eligible man to save my life.” I lean into my chair and stare at my cuticles. “Brooklyn, do you remember when I was nine? I don’t know, maybe you were too young to remember what happened.”
“I was one, but I figured it out later,” Brooklyn said.
“You did?”
“I knew something was wrong when I was playing tea with my dolls and Mom totally freaked out on me. I was just doing voices for all the girls, and she’s asking me if I’m seeing people.”
I laugh. “I had no idea that happened.”
Brooklyn stands and moves to the kitchen. She puts the kettle on. “Well, Mom was very diplomatic about the whole thing, I guess. She told me you had a ‘sunny’ imagination but that sometimes it went a little too far and that if I started having more than dolls show up at my tea parties, I should talk to her about it.”
“Wow.” I join her in the kitchen, pulling up a bar stool to the breakfast bar. I open the St. John’s wort bottle. “Well, it wasn’t a good experience. It was the first time in my life that I started feeling like I was different.”
“Different is good, Jess.”
“Except in speed dating.” I dump a couple of pills in my hand.
“You didn’t.” She hands me a glass of water.
“I did. It was awful.” I throw my head back and down the pills. “And now look at me. I’ve become a pill popper.”
“Jess, you’re not a pill popper.”
“I am! You can pill pop herbs too.”
“Pill poppers don’t stop to determine if there will be drug interactions.”
“I just thought…” I set down the pills. How do I explain that I’m hoping an herb will keep God away from my purple pen?
“So you okay?” Brooklyn asks as she retrieves two tea mugs. “I hear women mostly have nervous breakdowns in their thirties.” All right, that was as deep as she is capable of going. Sometimes you just have to accept people for who they are.
“I’m fine.” I smile and nod.
“Good. Can you fix the tea? I have to get back to bed and meditate.” She’s about to leave the room, and then she turns back and smiles. “The good news is that I should sleep good. Gary used to suffocate me in bed, you know? Arms around me, feet next to mine. Now I have the entire bed to myself!”
And off she goes, bounding up the stairs to freedom. I wait for the kettle to whistle, make two cups of Sleepytime tea, and head upstairs. I deliver the tea to Brooklyn, but she’s fallen asleep in her yoga position, except she’s now face forward into her comforter, where she’s snoring. I take my bottle of pills to the bathroom. At this point, I decide, an herb is not going to help my delusions. I’m beyond help, I think.
I sit on the edge of my bed, my tea in hand. The sheets are cold. The room feels empty, and not in a clean, organizational sort of way. Just a few hours ago a man was here, and as weird as it was, it was at least another warm body. But now I’m alone again. I force myself to finish my tea. Then I fold back the comforter, turn off the light, kick off my slippers, and slide under the sheets.
The darkness is suffocating.
Nicole has come with me to get coffee, desperate for caffeine. One of her kids had croup overnight, and she’s talking about how she had to hold him in front of the freezer for twenty minutes. Frankly, compared to my evening, it’s just a little boring, but I listen anyway. Or try to. I’m very distracted because as we approach Starbucks, I realize the man I saw earlier this week, staring at me by the wall of mugs, was the man in my bedroom last night. It jolts me to a stop. Nicole turns around.
“You okay?
“Yes, sorry.” I start walking again, keeping a wide eye open for him.
I order for Mr. Coston and then glance up at the menu. “I’ll have whatever drink you have that has espresso but doesn’t taste at all like coffee.”
Nicole leans in. “What are you doing?”
“Ordering.”
“For yourself?”
“Yes. I’m tired.”
“You hate coffee.”
“I’m desperate.” Oh, how I wish I could explain how desperate. Really, I am hoping that this legal form of drug will somehow get the blood flowing back to my brain. Caffeine is supposed to help migraines, so why not hallucinations?
Nicole looks very worried. “The last time you tried espresso you were shaking so badly you couldn’t type.”
“I’ve got the presentation this morning, and I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”
The barista clears her throat. “So, you want to try a mocha, extra chocolate?”
“Sure. Tall, please.”
As Nicole orders, I wait for mine and stare at the wall of mugs, waiting for him to vaporize into the room—but nothing happens. I glance around at the customers, searching for his face.
Nicole slides up beside me. “You know, I think it’s a big deal that Mr. Coston is asking you to do this. It means he believes in you.”
“Ten years later.”
“He’s not an easy man to work for, but he’s a good businessman.”
Our coffee is ready. I dump sugar into Mr. Coston’s, and we head back to the office. I sip pure putridness. The extra chocolate is barely helping.
“You haven’t mentioned how your Valentine’s event went,” Nicole says. “You were supposed to call me.”
I cough. “How do people spend this much on coffee every day? Three bucks? You could buy a sandwich!”
“You’re avoiding the topic, so I have to assume it went poorly.”
I glance behind me. I feel like I’m being followed but see no one. “It was fine. Four or five guys picked me. None of them my type.”
“Sorry, babe. Better luck next time. But you know what, I’m proud of you. I mean, you go to extremes, but at least you’re not waiting around for Prince Charming to show up on your doorstep, you know? I think a lot of women have this false expectation that the one that is meant for them is just going to poof! appear out of nowhere.”
“Oh…uh, yeah. That??
?s, um, ridiculous.”
We arrive back at the office. I’m about to head to Mr. Coston’s to deliver his coffee when Nicole grabs my arm. She is staring at the banner. “Why is the exclamation scribbled out?”
I shrug. “It just didn’t fit.”
“Why?”
“It’s too much excitement for me in the morning.”
“Honey maybe you need to start drinking coffee if that’s how your mornings are going.”
I’m sipping as fast as one can sip a hot nasty beverage, but I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. I check the time and hurry to deliver Mr. Coston’s coffee. I place it on his desk. Normally he doesn’t even look up, but this morning he says, “I bet you had some trouble sleeping last night, didn’t you?”
“Pardon me?” I about drop my coffee.
“Nerves?”
“Huh?”
His eyebrows flatten out. “About today. The presentation.”
By “presentation,” Mr. Coston is referring to the thirty seconds I’ll stand and give a short report on listings to the senior agents. “Oh. Yes. Up all night.”
“Don’t be nervous.” He smiles. “You’ve been with me a long time, Jessie. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t think you were ready.”
I try to play the role. “It’s an honor, sir.” Yes, occasionally, I have been known to suck up to the boss.
Twenty minutes later we are filing into the conference room. Three senior agents from the other offices, all in white shirts and gray ties, sit on one side of the table, looking as if they’d rather be somewhere else. I never can remember their names because they only come in once or twice a year. Usually I’m there taking meeting notes, and I just call them Larry, Moe, and Curly in shorthand. But that small detail of their names might be helpful today.
I lean in to Nicole, who is sitting up straight with arms on the table and hands connected at the fingertips. She is smiling and nodding to everyone. If she starts to wave, this may become her Miss America moment.
“What are their names?” I whisper.
“Who?”
“The suits.”
“From left to right, Mr. Wallace, Mr. Keegan, Mr. Brown. You should shake hands and introduce yourself.”