Random (Going the Distance) (4 page)

“I appreciate it,” I say, standing up.

“I hope I’ll be calling you soon,” he says.

“Thanks, Sam.” I shake his hand again, as professionally as I can, even though what I really want to do is throw myself on him and beg for a job. “Hope to hear from you.”

I feel like a spotlight is shining on me when I walk out. I fumble my keys out of my bag and head blindly for the car. My heart feels squashed, and I just want to go home and cover my head with the pillows until morning.

As I’m unlocking my car—with an actual key, which some of my friends think is hilarious—I hear my name. “Jess!”

I turn, and there’s Tyler, jogging toward me. He’s shed his cook’s apron, and his hair is flying, the gold streaks amid the brown glittering with sunlight. A little blood comes back into my heart and it starts beating again.

He looks like a prince, a long-lost prince of some nameless northern country who should be ruling but has tragically been stolen away from the family.

“How did it go?” he asks, and before I can answer, “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” He points to the coffee shop on the corner.

What I should do is go home and get ready for the show tonight, the show my
boyfriend
has been nervous about all week. Rick. I keep forgetting about him.

“Something wrong?” Tyler asks, touching my arm.

I look up at him, all the drama and trauma of the day washing over me. “It’s just been a crazy day. And I have a boyfriend.” It sounds stupid when I say it like that, like I’m expecting something.

“It’s just a cup of coffee.” He tugs me away from the car and puts my hand over his elbow. “I only have about twenty minutes, anyway. Can’t get in too much trouble that fast, can you?”

I’m pretty sure Rick would throw a fit over me having coffee with a guy, but right now, I don’t care. So close, I can smell his skin, and his arm is strong beneath my fingers. I think of the way he took charge of a bad situation this morning, and I don’t actually want to be anywhere else. “Thanks.”

“Everything’s going to turn out fine, you know.”

“Really.” My voice is droll. “Easy for you to say, Rich Boy.” It sounds mean when I hear it out in the world. Accusing… “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

“My parents are rich,” he says. “Not me.”

“Mine are poor and so am I.” I smile ruefully at him. “Believe me, it’s different.”

He pauses at the door of the coffee shop. “The basic issues are the same. Love, hope, disappointment, disaster.”

I can see he believes this, and I don’t know why I’m persisting, but I do. “Except that when
you
have a disaster you probably aren’t facing eviction in a month. Someone will send you money.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

His eyes again have that bright heat, evidence of pain buried somewhere in them. What happened to him? And really, why is he working as a cook in a restaurant if he really is a rich boy?

“Sorry,” I say again. “I’m being pretty hostile, and you’ve been nothing but nice.”

He gives a faint nod, and beneath the tiny gesture I can see that this is ongoing and deep, a pain that wrenches him. It makes me curious, and somehow we are one step closer before I know it, just talking with our eyes. His thumb moves on my upper arm. “How about that coffee, huh?”

“Sure.” As we step inside, I say, “Isn’t this against the rules, to go down the street for coffee when you work at a place that serves coffee?”

He grins. “Don’t tell my boss.”

There are approximately 900 billion coffee shops in this town, not including Starbucks, so I laugh. The Musical Spoon has set itself apart, selling special beers and all that tea in special pots, and bringing in the bands. This is just an ordinary coffee shop with little tables lined up along the window and a barista who gives us cups to fill up from vacuum thermoses. I stir in sugar and cream. He drinks his black, which is startling. “Isn’t it bitter like that?”

“Yeah, but that’s why I like it. I went to Italy when I was in high school, and they drink espresso. I learned to like it.”

Mine suddenly seems unsophisticated, but I take a sip. It’s heartening, easing my dark mood. “Have you traveled a lot?”

He shrugs. “Some. My parents like it. They took us around.”

“Like where?”

He gazes at me steadily. “I don’t want more class distinctions coming up.”

I half-grin. “Class distinctions? Fancy.” Teasing, which I hope he gets. Then I think maybe fancy sounds poor white trash and look down at my cup.

A silence falls. I finally look up and he smiles. His fingers loosen, relax around his cup. Is he
nervous
with me?

Mostly, guys talk to me, taking up the slack of my shyness, but he’s been so good to me so far that I muster up my courage to make conversation. “Your boss asked me if I’ve traveled, and I told him I came here from New Zealand when I was little girl, but that was it. I’d love to go places, though.”

“Like where?”

I glance up at the menu board, thinking, but the main thing that comes to me is that wavery memory I have of turquoise ocean and mountains rising into a blue sky. “I’d really like to go see my dad again, see if New Zealand really looks like it does in my imagination.”

He nods. “I’d like to see the Outback in Australia. And the Terra Cotta Soldiers in China.”

“China kinda freaks me out. Like, it’s so gigantic and there are so many people, and—I don’t know. What if you end up eating weird meat?”

He laughs. “That’s travel, right? You take your chances.”

“Don’t you think some places are easier to visit than others?”

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely.”

I sip my coffee. “Back to the original question, where have you been?”

He lowers his eyes, and I see that his lashes are long and thick and black. When he bends his head, the angles of his face are so elegant you could draw them with five lines. “We went somewhere every year. Europe, South America.”

I kick him lightly under the table. “C’mon, deets, deets. Which countries?”

He raises his head and leans forward, catching the tip of my index finger between his thumb and forefinger. He holds it almost too firmly, but I don’t pull away. His eyes are blazing bright aqua and green, the colors swirling together like a hypnotist’s ring. He says, “Spain, England, Iceland, France—although I don’t really remember it because I was young. Romania, Sweden. Then Patagonia and Brazil. I wanted to go to Peru but was voted down because it was dangerous right then.”

His voice makes me think of a slow dance, easy and seductive. I blink. He blinks back. I realize that I’ve been watching his mouth, seeing the way his lips move as he shapes words, glimpsing his tongue and teeth. It sends a shiver down my spine, which finally wakes me up.

I sit up straight. Glance at my phone. It’s nearly five. “I guess I need to go pretty soon.”

“See, it scared you off, the list.”

I meet his eyes, and it feels like I’m taking a very adult step when I say aloud, “It wasn’t the list.”

He smiles very faintly. “I know.”

Chapter FIVE

W
hen I drive into my parking space behind the house, I see Electra out in the garden. She is six feet tall and skinny, with a hard way of looking at you. She intimidated me when I first moved in.

But then I started hearing her music. Not what you’d expect—she’s big on Janis Joplin and all those sixties guys, the Rolling Stones and the Crusaders and Marvin Gaye. Not that I knew one from the other until she started telling me. Music is her thing, and she loves classic vinyl. There are pictures of her on the walls of her house wearing dashikis and an Afro the size of the earth, looking fierce and hard with men wearing black sunglasses and leather jackets and jeans.
Black Panthers
, she said proudly. 
We did some good, back in the day
. 

She never says why she left Oakland and came to Colorado, but I gather some people died.  She’s a nurse in the emergency room. Not easy work, she says, but it makes her feel like she’s doing something with her life. 

“How are you, girl?” she says, straightening in the garden, shaking the dirt off her gloved hands. “I saw on the news about the restaurant and about had a heart attack.”

“I should have called. I’m sorry. It was just—”

“No, no, don’t apologize.” She waves a hand. “You all right?”

“Yeah. My friend is in the hospital, though. I called, but they wouldn’t tell me anything. She’s at Penrose.”

“I can probably find out something when I go to work tonight.”

“That would be great.” I nod toward the garden. “Need some help weeding?”

“Always.” She gestures to a patch of squash plants.

I check my corn, too. She gave me a little space to plant what I wanted. I keep peering at it every day, wondering what the corn will look like, and it’s more thrilling than I expected.

I also have a small plot of flowers by my front step, bachelor buttons and marigolds, and somebody a long time ago planted a climbing rose on a rickety old trellis. I noticed last night that it was starting to bud, and I glance over my shoulder now to see if I missed the flowers starting to bloom, but nothing is open.

Electra says, “Come on over and look at the tomatoes, child. It’s the best crop I’ve had in a while.”

I’m not a child anymore, but she means well. I dutifully traipse over to peer at the star-shaped yellow flowers on the plants and the green globes in clusters. In between the tomatoes she has rows of carrots, and around the perimeter of this square is basil. She says it helps keep bugs off.

“You can pick the last of the peas if you’ll eat them,” Electra says to me, and hands me a weathered basket. She’s been feeding me things from this garden since I moved in: snow peas, crisp and fresh, from beneath a plastic tunnel, asparagus, peas, lettuce, spinach; last summer there was corn on the cob in August almost every day. I never really ate vegetables that much before, but I’m learning. She gives me tips on what to do with them, too, showing me how to stir fry or pan roast with garlic, or steam them in the microwave. Easy.

The peas are growing up a trellis next to the garage, and as I pluck the remaining pods off the vines I realize I’m feeling okay again. My shoulders have stopped aching with tension. I hear Electra humming as she hoes down the weeds in a nearby row.

I split open one of the pea pods with my thumb and pop the bright green peas right into my mouth. They’re sweet and crunchy and healthy, and my brain offers a vision of me lying on my couch, reading all evening while I eat fresh peas.

I
really
don’t want to go tonight and wish there was some way to get out of it. But even as I think about how I could maybe just call and tell Rick I can’t make it, there’s a rumble of a motorcycle in the alley and he roars in on his red bike, hair flying. The sun slants through the trees over him as he comes to a stop, and I straighten, thinking the whole scene looks like a commercial. His shoulders are broad beneath his jean jacket, and his face is sulky and handsome beneath the sunglasses. He smiles, raises a hand as he swings off the bike. “Hey, babe!”

I glance back at Electra wistfully. “See you later.”

“Take the peas, sweetheart,” she urges. “I’ve had enough of them this year.”

“Babe!” Rick calls. Electra gives him a sour look. She doesn’t like him.

Whatever. All of a sudden, I am too tired for any more drama. I step over the one-foot fence and walk up to Rick. “Hi. You’re early.”

He slings an arm around my shoulders and hauls me close. “I missed my girl,” he says, and his other hand sneaks up my thigh beneath my dress. I slap it away, and he leans in to kiss me, hard and deep. He’s a good kisser, and I usually like it. Today I’m pushing his hand away from beneath my dress, and he’s tilting me backward and kissing my neck. 

“Quit!” I say, pulling away. “Not out here.”

“Let’s go inside, then.” He grins and laces his fingers through mine. “I brought you something.”

I soften. “Really?”

He pushes the door open and drags me in behind him, and as soon as we’re across the threshold he swings me around and pushes me against the wall. “Yeah,” he says, kissing me. “This.” He rubs his hard cock against my groin. “You want it?”

All I think is that he smells like some weird spice and his chin has whiskers that are rubbing my skin too hard. I push my palms against his chest, turning my face to the side. “Rick, I’ve had a bad day.”

“Let me make it better, then.” His hands are under my dress, pulling at my panties, and he sucks at my neck, rubbing against me. All it does is aggravate me.

“Rick. Quit it!”

He’s oblivious, his spit all over my neck, his hands up under my dress and wiggling, trying to get entry between my legs. I sigh and go limp, staring at the ceiling. He kisses me again and I don’t respond, just stare at him.

Finally he gets it. Raises his head. He has lashes so thick they look false, and it gives his hard, dark face a softness that makes him seem safer. “Really? You know I love to have sex when I’m going to be on stage.”

“I know, but I’m just not there.” I slide away, pull my dress down. “It’s been a lousy day. “

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”

“Forgot? A car drove into the restaurant. Virginia is in the hospital. I lost my job.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’m a bastard.” He strokes my hair. “Want me to brush your hair?”

I glance at him from under my eyelashes. 

He half smiles and goes to get the brush. On the way, he sticks his phone in the mp3 player and music spills out, the pop that
I
like, not his hard guitars. It softens me a little more, and even though I know exactly what he’s doing, it makes me smile. Kicking off my shoes, I sit on the bed, and he settles behind me and starts to brush my hair. He’s gentle but firm, the bristles scratching just right against my scalp, then sailing down my hair. I close my eyes and imagine my mom is the one wielding the brush and a lot of the craziness of the day starts to drain right out of me. 

“Never cut your hair, babe,” Rick says, his fingers combing through behind the brush.