Say the Word (5 page)

I averted my eyes, unable to bear him looking at me like I was a stranger or, worse, someone whose very presence was abhorrent to him, and turned to stare at Cara. I cleared my throat and broke the silence.

“Lux,” I said in a shaky voice. “My name is Lux Kincaid.”

“Well,
Lux
,” she sneered. “You should pack up your desk cause you’re pretty much
fucked
once I call your boss. Right, baby?” she asked Sebastian.

I turned my eyes back to him fleetingly, wary of his response. His eyes hadn’t moved from me, and he didn’t answer Cara. He just stared at me with that intense, scrutinizing look, as though he were trying to see inside my mind. Vitali’s
Chaconne
played out its final aching notes from the overhead speakers, the violin echoing into silence as I stared back at him. When the final chord faded, to my absolute horror, I felt my eyes well up with tears.

I couldn’t be here, looking at him – at what I might’ve had. It hurt too damn much. I was about to make a run for the stairwell when I heard the blessed sound I’d been waiting for – the chime of the arriving
elevator. Dashing the tears from my eyes, I spun around and stepped into the empty car. As I pressed the button that would take me down to the lobby, I was powerless to stop my eyes from wandering back to Sebastian.

Cara was hanging on his arm, pouting and whining about me, no doubt, but his hands hung limply by his sides and he made no move to comfort her. We stared at one other, two strangers bound eternally by a shared past of lies and broken promises, and I wanted to throw myself into his arms. I wanted to bawl like a baby and take it all back – all the distance and the hurt, the deception and shattered trust. I wanted to erase the past seven years and kiss him until he forgot how I’d destroyed us.

But I didn’t, and I never would.

Our gazes stayed locked, tears slipping silently down my cheeks, until the elevator doors slid closed and I collapsed back against the wall. I couldn’t seem to
get enough air into my lungs, couldn’t quite bring the blurred elevator doors in front of my eyes into focus. Detachedly, I realized I was having a panic attack, but I was too overwhelmed to care much.

As the elevator began its descent away from Cara’s shrill voice and Sebastian’s inscrutable expression, my mind blanked of everything but one word, which I chanted internally like a deranged, hysterical mantra.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I walked, unseeing, the twelve blocks back to my neighborhood in Hell’s Kitchen.

Usually, I love where I live. It’s a funky blend of recent graduates yearning to stretch their wings beyond the clutches of academia, young overworked professionals fighting to make it in the dog-eat-dog New York job force, struggling actors who give up food so they can afford to live three blocks from the Theater District, and artists who work all day as waiters or baristas so they have a paycheck barely large enough to cover the cost of new canvases and oil paints. They fill the air with their youth and exuberance for life, and the neighborhood pulses with a vitality like nowhere else I’ve ever been. The atmosphere is frenetic with movement; people rushing down the avenues with their feet on auto-pilot and their eyes trained on their smartphones, jay-walking with an ease only a native New Yorker can master, with one hand clutching a latte and the other casually flipping off a beeping cabbie.

It’s the polar opposite of Georgia, where the only thing
s more syrupy than the summer humidity are the sugar-coated southern manners that are laid on thicker than homemade vanilla cake frosting. The day I toured my apartment with the realtor I’d slammed into a stranger as I wandered down 46
th
, my tourist eyes tilted up to the sky to take in the soaring cityscape. I remember being filled with a nearly perverse sense of glee when the stranger simply glared at me and barreled by. In Jackson, such a collision would’ve turned into an hour-long affair of apologies and small talk about the crop season, local weather patterns, and, of course, the latest gossip about whatever man had been spotted sneaking back into his own house at three in the morning with lipstick stains on his collar.

That Georgian out-for-a-Sunday-stroll pace I’d grown up with left me unprepared for the fast clip of the city, and I fear my first few weeks living here I’d wandered around like a lost little girl without her mommy — an image aided in no small part by my short stature and wide-eyed wonderment at the sheer scope of the Big Apple in all its glory.  Still, for a southern girl cut adrift from her rural roots, I figured I’d done pretty well adjusting, considering the fact that after only a few short months of living in Midtown I could stiletto-sprint and cabbie-curse with the best of them.

And yeah, maybe twenty years ago it wasn’t safe to walk around my block alone at noon, let alone in the middle of the night. But now, the yuppie real estate agents who rent out space in the refurbished brick walkups describe my neighborhood as “up-and-coming” and its tree lined sidewalks and freshly paved streets are the home to some of the city’s best restaurants, boutiques, and coffee shops. Young couples push strollers alongside a diverse but mostly cheerful — by New York standards, meaning no one flips you off on-sight — populace of ballet dancers, artisan crafters, and harried first-year interns.

The first time I stepped foot here I knew it was the place for me and, since I work my ass off at a shitty job all day to afford the outrageous rent for my tiny studio, I try to enjoy the atmosphere as much as possible. On
the daily twenty-minute walk from my apartment in Hell’s Kitchen to the
Luster
main office abutting Central Park on W 57
th
, I soak in all the sights and sounds of the bustling city. Maybe it’s the residual tourist left within me — or, more likely, the deeply-ingrained southern manners that even city living can’t quite wash out — but I know the street vendors by name, and I greet each of them as I pass. 

Okay, fine, I’ll admit that the main reason I know their names is because
occasionally
I may or may not indulge myself at the food carts that litter the avenues… Can you really blame me when Salim makes the best chicken cheesesteak sub in the entire city? Perhaps even the entire world?

But today, as I wandered down the busy block toward my apartment I absorbed nothing — none of the bustling crowds, the delicious smells, or the crazed, camera-toting tourists hoping to score a table at one of the exclusive bistros on Restaurant Row. I was stuck in my own head, lost in thoughts of a past life that seemed, now, dream-like and distant.

Today, there was no jaunty wave for Salim as I meandered past.

No bashful, responding smile for the group of construction workers on their lunch breaks when they whistled and catcalled at my passing form.

No chitchat or laughter with the gaggle of women who sold fresh fruits and veggies at the small farmer’s market.

Nope. Today, it was straight to the liquor store: do not pass go, do not collect $200.

Who cared that it wasn’t yet two in the afternoon? Today I’d adopt my mother’s life motto.

It’s five o’clock somewhere.

After purchasing two family-sized bottles of Merlot, I wandered into
Swagat
, the small convenience store on West 44
th
that served as my one-stop-shop for snacks, gum, and the occasional pint of ice cream. Owned by the Patel family,
Swagat
was located just around the corner from my small apartment on 43
rd
and open almost 24/7, the counter manned most frequently by the ancient, taciturn family matriarch Mrs. Patel, who had to be approaching approximately three or four hundred years old if the myriad wrinkles lining her face were any true indication of age. With a shock of thick silver hair she kept pulled back tightly from her temples with a shiny tortoise-shell clip, a wiry frail frame that belied the spirit in her dark eyes, and cheeks wrinkled like an apple long past its harvest, she was now a mere shadow of the lovely woman she’d undoubtedly been in her youth.  

Though her son and daughter-in-law owned the store, both worked second jobs during the day, leaving Mrs. Patel in charge until six each evening — just about the time I usually popped in on my
walk home from work. Stationed in a once-plush but now somewhat time-weathered velvet maroon chair by the cash register, Mrs. Patel moved infrequently and conversed even more rarely. She was always dressed to the nines in gorgeous antique saris and vibrant silk dresses that looked handcrafted, the colorful gowns skillfully sewn with impossibly small stitches. The only chink in her elegant facade was a heavy brown crocheted throw blanket she swaddled herself in from the waist down, which warded against the chill from the large section of refrigerated beverages abutting the counter.

She was the grumpiest woman I’d ever come across in my twenty-five years on this earth, a fact I determined without ever hearing her speak a word. Mrs. Patel’s body language spoke loudly enough for her. From her constant refusal to make direct eye contact
to the haughty lift of her chin, it was abundantly clear that the elderly curmudgeon hated working her post at the counter only slightly less than she hated communicating with her customers.

Namely, me.

Most often during our interactions, I’d hand her several bills as she bagged my groceries and hold a fully one-sided conversation with the old woman in hopes that, one day, she might respond. Last year, when I’d come in for the first time and experienced her taciturnity, I’d assumed it was due to a language barrier rather than outright dislike.  But now I was almost positive she spoke English — mostly because she was always watching reruns of General Hospital and Days of Our Lives on the small television she kept tucked away behind the counter — leaving me with the inescapable conclusion that she simply hated me. Most often, our “conversations” felt more like a hostage negotiation between a hostile, uncompromising insurgent and a largely ineffective but stubbornly dogged young officer of the law. I couldn’t help but think I’d look fantastic in a badge — though those black orthopedic cop shoes were a definite deal breaker.

Take last weekend’s late night snack run, for example:

“Hey Mrs. Patel, how’s it going?” I’d said, approaching the counter.

Silently loading my bag — okay, you got me,
two
bags — of Cool Ranch Doritos and pint of Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream into a reusable cloth grocery sack, Mrs. Patel did not deign to return my greeting.

“It looks nice in here. Something’s different. Did you get a new display case for the gum? Oh, you have the green Tic-Tacs!?”

Shockingly, Mrs. Patel had no response other than to add my mints to the grocery sack.

“I like your sari today, Mrs. Patel. You look fantastic in turquoise. Where can I get one of those? Though turquoise isn’t really my color. Is that hand beaded?”

As I reached out a hand to touch the gorgeous small beads dangling from the embroidered trim of her sleeve, Mrs. Patel snatched her arm out of reach and growled — yes,
growled
— at me, before unleashing a menacing glare she’d perfected over the many centuries since her birth.

Okay, so she wasn’t thrilled with my existence. But hey! At least she’d
acknowledged
my existence that time. I was counting it as progress in our budding friendship.

Today,
I was so wrapped up in my own mind that I didn’t even attempt a conversation. I bought three — yes, three — bags of Cool Ranch Doritos because this was a real emergency and, let’s face it, no one wants to face down a crisis without snacks on hand. Silently handing them to Mrs. Patel, I stared at the colorful array of lottery tickets hanging behind her head and tried not to think about Sebastian Motherfucking Covington or the facts that he was both dating a model
and
had the audacity to look like one himself. Seriously, karma was such a bitch.

Lost in my own thoughts, it took me a minute to realize that Mrs. Patel had stopped bagging my Doritos and was staring at me with a strange look on her face. Definitely not concern, but her weathered face showed, at the very least, a level of interest that I’d never seen in the year since I’d first come to
Swagat
. It took me a moment to register her expression as one of thinly-veiled confusion.

Wow, I really must’ve looked like shit if it was enough to catch Mrs. Patel’s eye.

I guess I probably did look a bit dazed — like Jamie had that time when we were fourteen and he’d accidentally shocked himself trying to fish a bagel out of the toaster oven with a fork. The prongs hit the metal and
zap!

Instant brain fog.

Everything felt slightly removed, out of focus, as though I were watching my own life play out on a fuzzy dark projector screen while I sat in the audience eating popcorn with only a vague interest in what was happening to the heroine or where the plot-lines were going to twist next.

I met Mrs. Patel’s narrowed eyes and shrugged my shoulders at her before forcing my lips up into what I hoped could pass for smile.

From the way her face contorted in response, it wasn’t hard to guess that my lackluster grimace fell short of the mark. Her eyes flickered away from my face to study the exposed wine bottle tops peeking out from the paper bag I was clutching to my chest like a safety blanket, before returning to examine my features. A beat of silence passed between us before she opened her mouth and spoke. As in formed words, made conversation, actually communicated with me for the first time ever, which, I might add, left me dumbfounded and utterly unable to string together a coherent thought.

“Are you alr
ight, Miss Lux?” she asked in perfect, if accented, English.

I start
ed, shocked that she was — freaking finally — speaking to me after a year of resolute silence.

“I— uh, I’m…” I stammered, at a loss. “I’m fine.” I swallowed roughly, again fighting welling tears. You know those idiotic people who, when they’re upset and someone is even the tiniest bit nice to them, immediately burst into tears?

Yep. That’s me.

“You don’t talk today,” she noted, her head tipping sideways as she studied me intently. I don’t think she blinked once — which would’ve been totally creepy if I’d had any
brainpower left to dwell on things that weren’t the ex-love-of-my-life.

I nodded, unable to speak.

Abruptly, her head snapped upright and she nodded briskly in return. Without further ado, she reached beneath the countertop and pulled out a bottle of top-grade, black label scotch, followed by two stout glasses. Before I could fathom what was occurring or even begin to muster a protest, Mrs. Patel had poured two fingers of amber liquor into each glass and was shoving one across the counter at me.

“I— what—“ I began, feeling like a bumbling idiot.

“Drink,” Mrs. Patel snapped at me, her shrewd glare back in full force, pinning my feet to the floor. Jesus, she was scary. No wonder her grandkids were so well behaved whenever they were in the store with her.

I nodded, grasping the glass with my free hand
and watching as she lifted hers into the air — toasting god only knew what — before throwing back her scotch like an old pro. She didn’t even wince as it went down and only when she had again trained her glare on me did I realize I’d been frozen, staring at her in open-mouthed shock.

Hastily, I threw back my own shot, gasping at the fire that burned down my throat, stole the breath from my lungs, and blasted an inferno of warmth into my empty stomach. My eyes a watery mess, I spluttered — clearly I was not in Mrs. Patel’s league — and leaned over the counter, heaving in large gulps of air. When I’d finally regained my composure, I looked up at Mrs. Patel who, if it weren’t such an impossibility, I would’ve sworn was smiling enigmatically at me from her maroon chair.