Page 31 of Brash for It
The bell above the door jangles as if the universe is tired of rehearsal.A woman steps in with a set of keys and worry stitched into her forehead.“Hi, um,” she mutters and I feel her anxiety like it’s my own.“My car’s making a noise?I mean, they all make noises, but this one is new.”
“Have a seat,” I state before I can tell myself this is over my head.“Let’s start with your name.”I slide an intake form across.She writes Norah in nervous, looping letters.I ask what she hears—whine, click, grind?—and she relaxes as she talks because someone is listening.Kellum catches my eye and nods once, small, like an unspokengood job.He takes the keys with a quiet “We’ll take a listen” and the day slides forward.
I answer three more calls.I book a brake job for Tuesday.I learn that the printer is angry and must be coaxed along with a light smack on the side.I put a lollipop in a kid’s palm when his dad says no while nodding yes and the kid doesn’t cry because he suspects I’m on his side.I drink cold water from a huge, ugly cup that saystoday’s not your day and tomorrow doesn’t look good either.
Every time the phone rings and I don’t fumble it, every time someone says thank you and means it, every time I slide a form into a neat stack, something in me that has been empty begins to feel.
At four, Kellum taps the counter with a knuckle.“We’re done for today.Go home.Make your list for tomorrow.You did good.Pami will be here to guide you tomorrow.Told them it would be Thursday before you started so didn’t prepare well.”
“Are you, like we aren’t closed, are you sure?”I feel greedy wanting to stay, because the noise and the rhythm have me hooked.
“You can’t outrun your brain every day,” he says.“You take the win and you rest.I’ll be there later.Got some club shit here.”
Nervously, I wonder.Then I decide Kellum is direct so I will give him the same respect.“I have your car.How will you get home?”Then I shake my head.“It’s not my business.I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”
He reaches out squeezing my hand, calming me.“Shhh, I got another bike.It’s here.I needed to get it home after changing the handlebars.I’m gonna take that home.’
“Oh,” relief washes over me, then another thought invades.My eyes grow wide, Kellum reads my change.
“Whatever it is, stop the thought, darlin’.Don’t get hung up in your head.”
“Kellum,” my voice is weak, but I can’t manage to make myself strong because I’ve been so wrapped up in my life falling apart, I didn’t think about him.“If you have a girlfriend and I’m in the way,” I gasp and put my hand over my mouth.“I’m sorry.I haven’t been considerate of your life.I invaded your space.”I ramble and he steps close, so close I can feel every exhale off of him.He’s tall and being this close I have to look up at him.
“Stop, Kristen.”He soothes.“First, I don’t have a girlfriend.Don’t do commitment because that means entanglement.You aren’t in the way.If you were, I’d remove you.My space is empty, you fill it.If I didn’t want you at my place, you wouldn’t be there.”
He states everything in such a way that it isn’t up for debate, but I can’t help but still feel like I’m in his way.
“Go home, I’ll be there soon as I can.”He nods and I nod back unsure what to say.“Got shit to do.”Then he leans down, presses his lips to my forehead and I melt.
Literally it takes every bit of strength inside me to stay upright.
What is it about this man that makes my head dizzy?
I collect my tote and the notebook and walk out into late light that paints everything gold.The SUV feels like safe, ridiculous as that is.I drive to the post office because I can and open Box 1189.Inside is a circular and a small blank envelope with a card from the postmaster:Welcome to your new address.I almost cry because the form letter doesn’t know me and is still more intimate than a man I slept next to for years.
Back at the house, I make myself half of a sandwich.I sit at the table and write the day down in my notebook so I can see it even on the days that will be harder: post office, check done.Bank, check done.Job, check done.Then I glance over things still to do.
He comes in about hour later, smelling like sandalwood, leather, and cinnamon gum he chews when he’s trying not to smoke.He leans his hip on the counter and surveys me, my sandwich, my list, and me.
“How’s the address feel?”he asks, casually.
“1189,” I reply, like I’m giving him a password to something treasured.
“Good.”He nudges the notebook with a knuckle.“What’s next?”
“DMV,” I groan.“But not a rush.I have a license just with his address.”
He smirks.“Might be able to change that shit online.Look into it.”
He moves around the kitchen, because apparently in this house dinner is a real thing and not a mystical event.I take the jar of pickles out of the fridge and eat one over the sink like a teenager and he doesn’t comment except to say, “Leave me two.”While taking out a steak from the fridge and dropping it into a sizzling frying pan on the stove.
Dinner is quiet.Not a painful quiet that is a battlefield disguised as calm, but the kind where two people chew and exist and the room.A space that doesn’t demand performance.When the plates are in the sink, we go back to the table with the notebook and a pen and coffee I add all the extra creams and sugars to because he makes his coffee strong.He tips his chin at the page again.
“All right,” he begins, echoing last night.“What do you want?”
This time, the answer comes easier.“I want to be useful tomorrow.I want to feel productive.I want to go to sleep and not rehearse the worst conversation of my life over and over.I want to wake up and have the list make sense.I want…” I laugh, soft and a little breathless.“I want to build a life that can’t get towed away.”
He stares at me for a beat that stretches long enough to be scary and then softens into something that looks like pride—sharp and private.“That’s the line,” he smirks.“Write that down.That’s your motto.”
