Page 57 of Grump Hard
He appears to be back, just in time to catch me with snot leaking out of my nose.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, tucking my chin as I dig through my bag again, deciding my lens cloth will have to do for a tissue. I have a dozen others at home, and right now, I need dignity more than I need an extra lens cleaner.
I mop up my face, sniffing as I add, “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Of course not. I’m… I’m sorry.”
I take a drink of water, gulping down glugs of courage, then screwing the cap on before I say, “Okay.”
He moves closer, slowly, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “I saw what happened with that couple with the little dog. I was walking by. I heard voices and…” He trails off, holding up the cups. “I brought hot chocolate. I thought you could use something hot and sugary.”
His kindness, coming from out of left field every bit as much as his sudden shutdown, threatens to break me all over again.
“I…” I shake my head with a humorless laugh. “I don’t know what to say to you, Luke. I really don’t. What the heck is happening with you? With us? I… Friday sucked, you know? It really, really sucked.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he says, a ragged note in his voice I’m not sure I’ve heard before. “Can I at least give you the cocoa? And then I can go if you want.”
Every protective instinct inside me warns that I should tell him to go. Tell him that I wish him well, but this is too much for me. I can’t handle the emotional whiplash.
But I’m so tired.
I don’t know if I have the strength to firmly turn someone away, and a part of me is dying to know what the hell happened. An explanation would go a long way to making me feel less crazy.
“Sit,” I hear myself whisper. “Drink cocoa with me.”
“Thank you.” He settles onto the railroad tie, leaving a respectful distance between us—a foot of space that feels like a small canyon—and extends one of the cups my way.
I take it, wrapping my hands around the warm paper, letting the heat seep into my frozen fingers. I can’t get my settings right if I wear gloves or mittens when I shoot. It’s one of the hazards of outdoor portraits in December.
I lift the cup to my lips, taking a small sip. It’s good. Really good. Rich and creamy with a hint of peppermint and cinnamon, the kind of hot chocolate that feels like a hug from the inside.
“It’s better than I remember,” I say. “Thanks.”
“It was the seasonal special, peppermint Cinna-burst or…something like that.”
I hum my acknowledgment of this revelation.
Then, we sit in silence for a long time, neither of us seeming to know where to start.
Around us, the town continues its normal Thursday afternoon rhythm, but with extra night-before-the-night-before-Christmas urgency. Everyone is doing their best to get their holiday shopping done before the storm rolls in tonight.
Music drifts from the speakers mounted on the lampposts on Main, currently playing an instrumental version of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” as shoppers bustle from store to store, hunting stocking stuffers and deals on moose print flannel. Kids laugh from the bouncy house by the mercantile—a last-minute lure to coax their parents in to buy toys—and it sounds like someone’s yelling for a friend to hold the bus.
And then, like a trauma-laced blast from the past, I hear Colette let out one of her “about to be skinned alive” yelps in the distance, and flinch.
“Jesus, what is wrong with those people?” Luke growls. “Why have a dog if you’re going to treat it like that?” I’m about to agree when he adds bitterly, “But I don’t know why I’m surprised. I know my share of privileged idiots. Sadly, those two were typical.”
The word “typical” hits me nearly as hard as Colette’s yelp.
Something inside me, something I didn’t even realize was hanging on by a thread until my heart starts to race, snaps. “Really? You honestly think jerks like that, who have no compassion for the suffering of a creature they claim to love, are typical?”
He blinks, seemingly surprised by my intensity. “I mean…yes? In my experience, people are cruel with alarmingly regularity.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think so.”
His jaw tightens, but his tone is gentle as he insists, “Well, I do. You would be shocked at how many people with extreme wealth believe that entitles them to engage in unspeakable behavior. I heard the way that couple spoke to you. Do you think they considered you fully human? Do you think they wouldn’t put a leash around your neck and jerk it, if they thought they could get away with it?”
“No, I don’t think they would,” I insist, my voice stronger than it’s been in days, even as I’m forced to admit, “Okay, maybe they would. But Kyle and Zelda are not typical. They’re a unique pair of assholes who haven’t figured out why ‘having it all and an adorable dog, too’ hasn’t filled the gaping hole of misery eating away inside of them. But most people aren’t like that. Not even close.”
