Page 47 of Brash for It
She laughs, steals a quick kiss, and slips out.She turns at the door, taps the glass with two fingers, and disappears into rooms that smell like eucalyptus and acetone and women who, today, will get scheduled by someone who knows herself like never before.I watch her go until the desk blocks her.Then I pull out and head to the shop because life is two rails: the heart and the work, and I can ride both if I don’t look down too long.
Day does what it does.Bolts, belts, receipts.
Around lunch, my phone buzzes.
Kristen:Told the receptionist.She put my name on the “do not disturb” list for creeps.Trina says camera at the front door is already rolling.Also: a woman cried at the desk and I gave her a tissue without panicking.Gold star?
I type back, grease on my thumb:Two stars.Remember to eat.
An hour later:He didn’t show.I’m a little mad about how disappointed I am that he didn’t.Not because I want to see him.I just wanted to use my line again.
I text back:I’m sure you can come up with a better one if the situation presents itself.
By the time the sun starts to think about dropping, the worst of the day’s heat lets go.I clean up, wash my hands until the grease gives up around the scars, and ride over to the spa because picking her up never feels like an errand.She comes out with her tote bumping her hip, face flushed in a way that’s not stress.She waves at Trina, says something that makes the woman laugh, and then she’s mine—walking across the lot eyes on me like the rest of the world ceases to exist.
“How was it?”I greet.
“Good.”She slides into the seat, buckles in like a person who is ready to go home.“I put a lotion sample in my bag for Jenni.Tell her it’s for knees.She’ll understand.”Her grin is wicked; my sister in law will, in fact, understand.
On the drive, she reaches over and fits her hand over my thigh just above the knee.It sits there, warm, certain, not trying to steer, not testing me.Just resting like it has a right.The porch comes into view and doesn’t look like a stage waiting for a fight anymore.It looks like where we eat, where we relax.
We don’t grill tonight.We order takeout because the world didn’t end and because sometimes the best thing you can do for a day is put your feet up and let someone else drop dinner on your porch.We eat noodles out of cartons with chopsticks that make me swear and make her laugh.She tells me a story about a woman who wanted her dog’s nails painted and I tell her about a man who tried to pay with a jar full of quarters and we both agree that jars full of quarters are accepted currency, but still a pain in the ass.
Later, with dishes stacked and the list checked and the porch cam app sitting smug on her phone, we stand in the doorway where last night’s line was drawn.The street is quiet.The moths are back to their light.She turns to me with that look—the one that saysI choose this.In daylight.It’s the look I’ve been waiting for.
Our time is almost here.And something tells me once I have her completely, I might not want to let her go.
I’ve never felt this way before and if I’m being honest, it scares me just a little.
Twelve
Kristen
It’sa slow morning at the spa.The kind of morning where the phone only rings once an hour and the clock on the wall insists on dragging its hands like it’s wading through mud.I’ve already rescheduled two pedicures, made fresh coffee that no one’s touched, and wiped down the counter twice.
Trina pokes her head out from the massage rooms, gives me a thumbs up, and vanishes again.I stretch, roll my shoulders, glance at the notebook where I scribble little lists to keep myself sane.
Then I hear it.
The sound of tires I know too well.Too expensive, too polished.A purr that always carried smugness under its hood.My stomach drops, then knots.
Through the glass front, I see it.My car.My Porsche.Pulled up neat as if it’s just been valeted.The same car Brian had ripped away from me months ago like he was punishing a child.At first it hurt.I thought I would miss the stuff.
I don’t.
And that tells me just how far off the mark I traveled in being with him.The fancy clothes, the trips, the cars, none of it filled anything inside me.I want to laugh at the car.The gift that he used as a show of power if I really dissect it.The car was given to me at a party in front of his friends.People who never spoke to me outside of functions I attended with him.It was always a display with him.
The door opens.And there he is.Crisp shirt, designer sunglasses, the walk that’s always two steps ahead of everyone else because the world is supposed to fall into rhythm with him.
I freeze behind the desk, throat tightening.He doesn’t even look at me properly.Just strolls up, sets the keys down on the counter with a metallic jingle that echoes too loud in the quiet lobby, and lays a white envelope beside them.
“Kristen,” he says, not warm, not cold.Just superior and slightly authoritative.Then he turns and walks out.No scene.No fight.Just that casual cruelty of someone who knows he’s gotten under my skin.
The bell over the door jingles once as he leaves.
I stare at the envelope.My pulse pounds in my ears.The white Porsche gleams outside, smug as he is.
I can’t breathe.I can’t sit here with this letter burning a hole in the desk.So I do the only thing that feels safe.I grab my phone and call Kellum.
