She’s so cute in her skinny jeans, her Vans and a T-shirt that says, ‘I hate being sexy, but I’m a teller so I can’t help it’. She looks down noticing me reading her shirt and her cheeks redden. “It’s from my aunt. She’s kind of obsessed with giving people T-shirts about their jobs.”
“You’re a fortune teller?” My forehead wrinkles.
Blanca smiles and I try to think of some other obscure profession to guess again, just to see her face light up like that.
“I was a bank teller. A long time ago but…” She touches the shirt with her forefinger and thumb, rubbing the fabric in between fondly.
“It’s one of those T-shirts? One of the ones you can’t bear to part with but should’ve given up long ago.” I finish her sentence and her foot slams on the ground.
“Should your shirt read, ‘Psychologist: Warning I will be psychoanalyzing everything about you. #sorrynotsorry?’”
“Well, I’d hope it would say something more about being sexy, like yours does.”
She giggles and her head dips down as she shuffles her feet. “I need to get home.”
Just as she says it, her phone rings and she blows out a deep breath, retrieving it from her purse.
“Brothers?”
Her eyes widen. “I’m starting to get creeped out.”
It’s really just my journalistic tendencies of trying to decipher everything someone says or does. To figure them out with what little information they give you. I always felt like I was born with the instinct to read people. Over the years, I’ve been fooled more than once though.
Like my dad’s boss when I was seven. I thought he was a real life Santa Claus. At the company picnic, he brought in ponies and carnival games, even sat in the dunk tank himself. He gave me some cotton candy, ruffled the hair on top of my head, and said he’d see me next year. That Monday he fired my dad and there was no company picnic the next year. There wasn’t a lot of anything exciting that next year.
Blanca’s almost transparent though. Even now with her head buried in her phone, her fingers typing as small huffs leak out of her, I can see that she’s jutted out her hip and blown a loose curl from blocking her vision at least five times. Whoever is on the other side of that text exchange is annoying her.
I have a younger sister myself, so I get it. I’d have her text me too. I’d also be pissed if she took food from a stranger on the train.
She finally tucks her phone back into her purse. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize.”
“I gotta go. Thanks for the food. Bill me for the therapy.”
Oh, she’s got jokes. Nothing is sexier than a woman who can make me laugh. My ex took everything so seriously.
“Maybe I’ll see you next Sunday.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. Bye.” She turns around and I watch her until she disappears around the corner.
My mind tells me to go after her because although Cliffton Heights isn’t huge, it is big enough that I might never run into her again.
My own phone rings and I pull it out, turning to go the opposite direction as Blanca went.
“Hey, Mom.”
“You make it home okay?” she asks.
I smile at the fact that she still checks up on me.
“Yeah, I sent you a text.” Which I did as soon as I got off the train, but I should know better. The woman hates texting.
“That could be anyone sending that message. I need to hear your voice to know that you’re okay.”
She sounds so tired. I wish she would’ve just gone to sleep when I left.
“Well, I’m fine. Go to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Thank you for today, hun.” There’s a pause and I know before she says anything who she’s going to bring up. “Your dad looked good, right? Healthy?”
“Mom,” I sigh.
“He’s getting stronger.”
“Yeah, he is. You’re right.” My mouth dries when the lie rolls off my tongue.
“I know.” Her voice goes up an octave and I realize I’d lie to her all day to hear that.
“You working tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” I arrive at my apartment and insert my key into the door of the building.
“Love you. Thanks for today.”
“You don’t have to thank me for visiting,” I say, annoyed after an entire day of thank yous. She acts like I don’t love my dad. I do, there’s just a lot of baggage there.
“I thought maybe I’d come out and see you one of these Sundays.”
When I moved out of New York City for my old job, my mom guilt tripped me for months straight, she still does. I think it hurt her so much because she thinks I wanted to be away from them, not just him.
“Sure, we could do that, but it’s easier for me to come to you.”
I open up my apartment door and step into the solitude and peace I’ve been searching for all day. Other than the train ride. I would’ve gone round trip with Blanca if it hadn’t have meant I’d end up stuck in New York City.
Her smile comes to mind and it makes me grin to myself. I hope I run into her again.
“I gotta go, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you so, so much,” she says.
“Bye.” I click the phone off before she has the chance to keep me on for another half an hour.
Shrugging off my backpack, I put it on the hook by the door and place the food in the fridge. Continuing with my usual Sunday night ritual, I strip off my clothes on the way to the shower and spend the rest of the night figuring out this week’s article.
The only deviation from my regular routine is the thoughts of Blanca I can’t help but find myself distracted by. I can only hope that fate is smiling down on me and that I’ll see her again.
Chapter Three
Blanca
Once I’ve walked up the stairs to my new apartment, I open the door to find out that our place is tonight’s hangout. All three guys from across the hall are over which seems to be a common occurrence.
“What’s up, Blanca?” Dylan looks over his shoulder at me from where his head is in the fridge.
“Are you hungry?” I set the leftovers on the kitchen table.
“How was the city?” Sierra gets up from the couch and walks over, taking the container out of the bag. But as soon as she places them in the fridge, Dylan picks them up and uncovers them.
“Tiring. The train ride was long, but…” I want to tell Sierra about the guy I met, but there are four other people in the room. People who are virtual strangers to me.
“What?” Sierra takes the container out of Dylan’s hands and he sighs.
“Do you want some?” I ask Dylan when I grab the container with cake inside.
His eyes pop open with excitement, only for his shoulders to fall when Sierra snags the last container off the table.
He looks at me like I’m holding a juicy steak in front of him. “Please. I won’t eat it all.”
Sierra peeks inside the container. “Cute. I love Mama Mancini.”
I set the cake on the table and take off my jacket and hang it up on the hook by the door. “Actually, Annie ordered it.”