Page 43 of More With You

I lie there for a few minutes longer, but there’s no reprieve from the humidity, even with the covers off. My first summer in this part of the south is trying to suffocate me, but I’m not going to let it.

I grab my phone and dial Ms. T. She picks up on the second ring.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Do I need to call the cops? Where are you?” I guess I don’t often call so early in the morning, or ever. I’m a texter not a caller.

“Can’t breathe. Can’t move. AC gone. Send help.” I know I could call Ben, but it’s not even half-past-six in the morning and he’ll have had a long night, if his suspicions are anything to go by. I still can’t believe his parents would pull something like that on him. Then again, I don’t know his parents, only their reputation.

Ms. T chuckles: her voice relaxing. “Oh, honey, you’re not the only one. I’d send my sugar right over to you, but the Taylors got their paws on him first. No idea when he’ll be back, but those bastards woke me right out of a delicious dream about my naughty Highlanders. Unforgivable. I swear, I almost told them to shove their AC unit where the sun don’t shine, but Mr. T soothed the beast, if you understand my meanin’?”

“Ms. T, I was relying on you! I’m hot and bothered for all the wrong reasons!” I mumble miserably, peeling myself away from the sheets. Now I know how an orange rind feels when it’s tugged away from the fruit.

She’s still chuckling, and I can hear the rumble of her fully working AC unit in the background, taunting me. “You come on over to me, honey, where it’s nice and cool. I’m just makin’ up some iced coffee to take down to the shop, so you give me half an hour to beautify this old face of mine, and we can jump on Mr. T the very second he comes back from panderin’ to those Taylors. Can’t stand ‘em, but Mr. T ain’t like me—he’s too nice for his own good.”

“Iced coffee?” I perk up. “Will you be making enough for two?”

Ms. T snorts as if offended. “I’m makin’ enough for the whole town, if they want themselves a sip of what I’m offerin’. I’ve long been thinkin’ of turnin’ that old readin’ corner into some kind of coffee shop, so think of this as my trial run.”

“I’ll see you in thirty minutes. You go and beautify, though you don’t need it, while I jump in the shower and try to make myself feel less like a slug who’s licked some rock salt.” I instantly feel better, thinking of the Climbing Rose. It’s a second home anyway, so I might as well make use of Ms. T’s famed hospitality. Plus, there are some things that she needs to hear about. Feeding her appetite for juicy tidbits is the least I can do in exchange for iced coffee and, with any luck, a quick fix for my AC at friends’ rates.

She’s howling with laughter and crying out, “A slug! Oh my, that’s a new one!” as I hang up and lumber toward the shower, phone still clutched in my hand. I shed my sweat-soaked pajamas as I pad across the hardwood floors, leaving a trail between the bed and the bathroom. I really am like a slug, just with nicer clothes.

Inside the bathroom, which already feels like I’ve had the hot water running for twenty minutes, I stare at myself in the mirror. I look terrible. My skin is blotchy, there are bruised crescents around my eyes, and my lips could use a bucket of balm to slather them back into some kind of life. Although, I’m not sure if that’s because of the heat or all of the action they’ve been seeing lately.

I touch my fingertips to my mouth, thinking of Ben. Is it wrong to miss someone after just a few hours? Or do I miss him like this because I don’t know what’s changed? Either way, my body aches in the absence of his touch. There’s only one way the tension and anxiety that’s pulling me taut like an elastic band is going to relax. Actually, I guess there are two ways—Ben can loosen me up, or my future decision will snap that band.

My fingertips trace down my neck to my collarbone, moving to the starting slope of my breast. There’s the tiniest bruise there, left by the hunger of Ben’s lips. Proof that I didn’t dream it all.

I look down at my phone. There are four new messages, which I missed in my bleary condition. All from him.

My heart is eerily still as I open up the thread between us. My breath unnervingly calm, as if I’m already bracing for the worst. Call it a coping mechanism, call it experience, call it being used to bad news.

It’s what I thought. Grace is home and my parents are assholes. I’m sorry I can’t be there, but I feel like I should be here when Grace wakes up. I’ll call you tomorrow. X

My eyes flit to the second message: I wish I could be with you. I’m thinking of you, if that counts? All PG-13. There is a kid present. I can’t sleep and I miss you. I’m sorry. X

Me again. Is it bad form to text three times in half an hour? If it is, I don’t care. I miss you. It’ll be dawn soon, and I’d love to be standing in your garden with you, drinking coffee, holding you. That’s perfection to me. You’re perfection to me. X

Last one. I forgot to say it before. You’re probably already asleep, but sleep well. I’ll see you soon. X

My fear ebbs, as I type back: I miss you, too. I never learned the rules of texting and dating, so text me as much as you like. I’m glad you stayed with Grace. I’m sure she needs you more than I do, right now, though I definitely wish you were here. Drinking coffee with you in the garden sounds like perfection to me, too. Call me when you can. I send it before I can obsess over the words and drive myself into a very particular kind of madness. The madness of, “Am I too much? Am I not enough? Am I being the cool girl? Am I overbearing?” That wouldn’t do me any favors.

Leaving the phone on the side, I hop into the shower and twist the dial to its coldest setting. After all, thinking about Ben and the garden and the things he did, it’s not exactly going to help with the heat.

* * *

I pedal my bike with a vengeance, flying along the rough roads toward town, trying to outpace the thickness of the morning air. The moment I stepped out of the shower, the varnish of sweat slicked my skin again, and I’m chasing the rush of refreshment that only the whip of the wind can offer, even if I have to create the breeze myself. All I have to do is think about Ms. T’s bookstore, chilled to perfection, with a glass of clinking iced coffee in my hand, and it spurs my heavy legs on.

I don’t dare to admit it, but there’s a part of me that’s missing Wisconsin and its milder summers just a little bit. I’ll have to go back for a whistle-stop visit, at some point soon, to see my grandma. Sure, she doesn’t have a clue who I am anymore, but I just want to hold her hand and tell her that her granddaughter is okay, even if she doesn’t realize that granddaughter is me. Maybe, a sliver of it will find a way into a more switched-on part of her mind. Maybe not.

Crossing intersections and racing the morning commuters with a heat-induced sense of invincibility, I cycle on until I see the familiar trellis of the Climbing Rose. The powerful aroma of the blooms that give the bookshop their name hits me halfway up the street, and I let them guide me the rest of the way, like that cartoon skunk, floating on divine scent.

Parking my bike, I wander around to the front door in a steadfast daze. I don’t know if it’s the oppressive weather, the lack of crisp oxygen in my lungs, or the heady aroma of the roses, but I’m not paying attention as I breeze through the door, setting off the chimes that hang from the beam to announce my arrival.

“There’s no way that smell can be real,” I declare. “Do you spray the roses with perfume every morning before you open up?”

Ms. T stands in front of the counter, holding a tray of drinks: two iced coffees and a smaller glass of what looks like orange juice. Her eyes widen as she sees me, and I swear she’s about to drop the tray altogether. I’m confused, since she was the one who invited me over.

That’s when I see them, in the old reading corner that Ms. T has notions of turning into a tiny coffee shop. Ben is crouched down with his back to me, but the girl sitting on a well-loved beanbag, a book open in her lap, is staring right at me. Her eyes are the same dark blue as Ben’s. Her hair is somewhere between brunette and blonde, with two triangles of near-white-blonde streaking parallel to her temples. It gives the impression of a sweet badger, while the gap-toothed grin she flashes in my direction renders me immobile.

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