Random (Going the Distance) (19 page)

So he goes through the flow of the kitchen, where the servers make salads or add soup to an order, the walk-in where extra produce and milk and various other things are kept. Orders go in on a computer in the corner and show up on a screen in the kitchen. “Mollie will show you how this all works, the codes. Have you used a computerized system before?”

I nod. “They didn’t have one at Billy’s, but they had one at my other job before that.”

He gives me a little frown. “When did you start working?”

“When I was fourteen, not including babysitting.” I give him a raised eyebrow. “That’s what people do in my world.”

His mouth gets tight at that, but he doesn’t say anything, just takes me through the rest of the kitchen, the dish room, things to do when the restaurant is slow. There’s color on his cheekbones, and I realize I’ve goaded him. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair,” I say.

“No, it wasn’t.” He doesn’t look at me, though, and I realize I’m disappointed.

Make up your mind!

Tyler says, “Mollie won’t be here for another half hour or so. You can help prep.” He hands me an apron to put over my clothes and grabs a flat of strawberries from the walk-in. “We’re putting a spinach strawberry salad on special today. Hull and slice these.”

“Got it.” He turns on the radio and starts on the tomatoes, slicing them quickly, like a chef. It’s a side of him I haven’t seen.

We don’t talk, but it isn’t really awkward. He’s focused on the tasks he has to do for the day, first the tomatoes, then the onions—sliced ultra thin, which he does across the room, tears streaming down his face. I grin when I notice, and he wipes his face with the back of his wrist, keeps going.

Mollie arrives at ten. She’s probably a couple of years older than me, but no more than that. More noticeably, she’s six feet tall and her red hair sports a choppy short cut. Her voice is as big as she is. “Hey, you must be the new girl. I’m Mollie.”

“Jess.”

“C’mon, you’re shadowing me today. I’ll show you the ropes.”

I smile, wiping my hands. This feels better already.

* * *

Just before we open the hipster bartender arrives, the one who was there the day I first applied. Tyler’s ex. She’s wearing a plain red tank dress that skims her long lean body. Her right arm is covered in a complex colored sleeve with what might be a dragon in the center. Her hair is black and very short over eyes lined with sharp, cat-eye liner.

She stops dead when she sees me. “They hired you,” she says. “Fuck. It figures.”

I look at Mollie, who cocks her head. “Who pissed in your cornflakes, babe?”

Hipster ex turns away, slams things around behind the bar, ignoring us.

“You know Lena?” Mollie asks me.

We’re setting up the tables. “No. She was here the day I first applied, but we didn’t really talk.”

“Huh.” She looks over her shoulder. “She’s not usually a bitch.”

Aside from Lena, who fills orders for me without speaking or looking at me, but does fill them, it’s one of the best first days I’ve had at a job. Mollie is full of energy and laughter, and we’re fast friends in five minutes. She’s from Minnesota, came to Colorado to go to school in Boulder, and followed her boyfriend down to Colorado Springs a year ago. They live in an apartment not far from downtown. He’s still in school, studying for a master’s in psychology. She has a degree in geology but hasn’t found work. “I don’t mind this,” she says. “It’s fun.”

Tyler keeps his promise and is totally professional all day. In a way I’m disappointed, because for me it’s a moment of electricity every time I look at him or notice his hands. My brain is just too full of images from yesterday.

But after a while I get used to this, too.

At two Mollie sends me off with a quarter of the tips for the day—I protest, but she insists—and a sandwich from the kitchen. I don’t bother to change my clothes, just grab my stuff from the locker, punch the clock on my new time card and head out through the kitchen.

“Hey,” Tyler says. “Want this soup? Not enough to put on special for dinner, so we’re making a batch of minestrone.” He gestures to the carrots and potatoes a couple of guys are dicing on the prep table. He’s holding a paper tub of soup, which I know is split pea and looked delicious.

“Sure,” I say, half smiling. “Thanks.”

“Have a good one. If you need anything, you know how to reach me.”

I lower my eyes, torn. After a second I look up, but he’s gone on to another task and doesn’t see me looking at him. “Thanks for the soup!”

He waves.

Out in the bright day, I feel happily tired. I have food for the evening, a little bit of money in my pocket, and what might have been really awkward wasn’t. Things are going to be okay.

On the windshield of my car is a magazine. No. As I get closer I realize it’s a catalogue for the local community college. It has little post-it tabs here and there on some of the pages. I put my stuff down on the hood and pick it up, flipping it open to the first red tab.
Humanities,
it reads.
Degree requirements.

A piece of paper is stuck in another spot, and I flip to that one. In elegant, spiky handwriting, Tyler has written,
This is how you apply. If you need help with anything, the forms, the financial aid, please call me. I’m happy to help. NO STRINGS ATTACHED.

Staring at the note, I feel a piercing sense of loss. Again I feel
seen.
Did he go to so much trouble with all his girlfriends, all his lovers?

Why am I so sure he’s a bad guy?

Maybe it has more to do with me than with him. Maybe I’m not sure of myself.

On the other hand, I really don’t have a lot of experience with guys. I don’t want to give him my heart and then feel shattered and used afterwards. If I’m going to get into this thing with him, I have to know I can trust him. How do I figure out how to do that?

I know who can help me sort things out.

Chapter SIXTEEN

H
enry’s truck is in the driveway, and I head into the backyard as always, trying not to trip on the dogs. He’s not in the workshop, and I poke my head in the house. “Henry?”

No answer. I don’t want to wake him up if he’s napping, so I tiptoe in, and there he is, sprawled across his bed, snoring. His feet hang off the mattress.

I find a soda in the fridge and carry it into the living room, move some magazines and a couple of shirts off the computer chair, and sign in under my account. There’s nothing in my email except a bunch of ads. I’m not 100% sure I want to go to Facebook, considering the drama with Rick.

And Tyler.

I frown. Is it me creating all this craziness?

Maybe it is.

And there’s my other dad, too. I remember with a flip of my stomach that I sent him an email, too.

There’s nothing to do until Henry wakes up, so I might as well check out it all out.

There are 9 messages in my inbox. With a sigh, I open it. Rick, Rick, Rick, Rick, Rick. Most of them are from last Saturday, two are from today, so he’s out of jail. I wonder if I should be worried about that. After a moment of hesitation, I delete them all without reading them.

One from Lucy. One from a girl at Billy’s:
  Did you get yr check?  

One from Tyler—

And two from k.pears.

My dad! My hands shake as I open the first one.

Dear Jessica,

I can’t believe it. It’s you! All these years I’ve been hoping and praying I’d be able to see you again, and here you are. I’m crying like a little girl right now.

You look exactly like your mother did at your age.

Let’s talk more, can we? I want to know you, know everything about you. My phone numbers are 011-67-03-51-983, 011-67-03-51–481. Call me anytime. Here is a picture of me in my vineyard. Good thing you look like your mum, huh?

Your dad,

Keiran Pears

The photo shows him tending the vines, mountains behind him. My dad. My stomach suddenly feels so nervous and strange and uneasy and happy and excited that I have to put a hand to it. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Henry is still asleep. I can just see the end of his sock, exactly where it was five minutes ago.

I open the second message.

Dear Jessica,

It’s been a couple of days and I don’t want to seem like a nutter, but I’d really love to talk to you. I’m not a lunatic, I swear. Just excited. Can you Skype?

Your dad,

Keiran Pears

I hit reply. For a minute, I dither over how to open the message, like do I call him “Dad” or “Keiran” or “Mr. Pears”? Finally, I just avoid it.

Hi. I’m really glad to hear from you. Sorry I didn’t write back sooner, but I don’t have a computer at my house and although everybody usually has a smart phone, I like to be frugal (restaurant pay, you know!) I only get on FB once a week or sometimes even less.

I’d love to talk to you, too, but I’m sure long distance charges are a lot! I can probably figure out a way to get on Skype, but it might take me a little while.

My friend just took me swimming in a lake in the mountains yesterday and I remembered swimming as a little girl on some beach. There were some big round rocks and…a cliff, maybe? I remember giant seagulls and you were swinging me around and then we were splashing into the water.

Okay, that’s probably stupid, so I’m going to go.

Oh, by the way, it’s Jess, not Jessica. :)

Jess

My heart is pounding, but there’s a smile on my face the size of the sun. My dad! He wrote back! This is so cool!

It makes it easy to open Tyler’s message, which by the time stamp he wrote really early this morning. It touches me that we were both awake then.

Hi, Jess.

I said I wouldn’t be your stalker, and I won’t. I’ll try to respect your wishes, but I need to explain about my sister. I can’t really do it like this, in email, because I don’t like to write it down. Let me just say that you can’t judge a book by its cover. It might look like we had all the advantages, but cruelty is not limited to a particular segment of society.

You think I’m using you, that I only want you for your body—for sex or for my work—but it’s just not true. I haven’t ever felt like this before, not even close. I took one look at your face and it felt like my heart was gone. Gone. Not because you’re beautiful, although you are, but something else, something ancient and wild and—God, that sounds crazy, but I want you to know this isn’t an accident.
You are not like other women
. Our connection is something important, and I know you feel it, too. I know you feel it when we touch, when we kiss, when we make love. That was crazy intense, on the beach yesterday. You know it was. That was magic, that was truth, that was something I hadn’t even known was in the world.

You have a beautiful body and a face that haunts me, but that’s not why I want to be with you, spend time with you. You’re smart and somehow innocent and also an old soul. You make me laugh and make me want to be better than I am.

My sister would do anything that might hurt me or the people I love. I will explain that to you in person if you will let me. If you still want to keep me at arm’s length, then I’ll have no choice but to walk away and leave you alone.

But please, Jess, give me a chance, will you? I will show you my paintings. I never have to paint you if you don’t want me to. I’ll live with whatever rules you think will protect you.

This is one of the sketches I made of you the other day. I think it shows the direction of my vision. So you kind of know what I’m doing.

Tyler

He’s taken a photo of a sketch on the easel, a large drawing, with a stylized curve of shoulder and hip, my braid somehow luxuriously pooling beside me. My face is the focus, my eyes are exaggeratedly large, clear. The drawing shows the things he said, the wild and the ancient and the innocence. Looking at it, I’m aware of my heart expanding, softening.

That was something I hadn’t even known was in the world.

Me, either. But it makes my heart beat unevenly to admit it to myself. For a minute I sit with my phone in my hand, debating.

What if there are soul mates and he’s mine and I’m so afraid of getting hurt that I don’t even give him a chance?

I pick up my phone and text him. On this phone, it goes fast, with auto-correct and no punching buttons three times. The whole alphabet is right there.
  Read yr FB message. Come over tonight if you can. I’ll hear yr story.  

It’s not even two seconds before he texts back.
  Come to my house instead. I’ll feed you and show you the paintings.  

I think of his house, high on the hill, of the bed in the studio and the rain pouring down. It calls to me. I text back.
  OK. See you around 6-ish? Visiting Henry.  

I’m here. Come whenever you want.

I think of the way his voice, low and warm, sounds in my ear. I think of his hands, touching me, cooking, sketching. I think of the way the hair on his chest felt against my breasts, and I want to lie in his arms while the rain pours down around us, while the air is soft and dark. I want to read the words written on his body, and examine every one of the scars and let them tell their story.