It’s more than I dreamt, or dared to hope for.
Suddenly, I’m afraid she’ll turn me down. I look up at the ceiling and the fans that turn slowly, trying to steady my racing heart. Standing here fills me with a sense of coming home that I don’t want to lose. Part of me screams to run away as fast as I can but another part, the one that’s done without for two years, stamps down the screamer and convinces me to stay.
“I love it,” I tell her. “I would love to fill out an application. I can pay for six weeks upfront. I know I’m young and maybe not your ideal tenant”—I gesture to the henna that covers my legs and arms—“I don’t do parties. I like to keep to myself.”
I want this place, admitting that scares me. As I take in the space around me, I push back a longing to customize it by buying throw pillows for the couch in chevron patterns with funky colors. I want to buy a giant bottle of detergent instead of the little boxes from the vending machine. For the first time, I experience pangs of angst knowing the last two years of my life do not scream reliable or dependable.
“Let’s go down to my kitchen and write out the agreement over a glass of iced tea,” Mrs. Cramer says.
“Thank you.” I take her hands in mine. “Thank you,” I gush.
I want to say more, to let her know she’s safe taking a chance on me. I want to hug her. I open my mouth but struggle with the words.
She pats my arm. “I’ve good instincts about people, my dear, and I believe we’ll be a good fit. After all, how many people out there know Remington did paintings? Most just know about the bronze pieces.”
The first thing I’m going to do after I move in, besides buy a car, is sit on that balcony and watch the sunrise with a cup of coffee. Then, because I’ve now committed to a large expense, I’m going to find a second job.
I follow Mrs. Cramer down the stairs, back through the garage, and into the house and it dawns on me. I’m filled with such a sense of peace and contentment that surely I must be doing the right thing. I look around one last time, excited to make this place my home. Temporarily.
Four
I ease the beer tap back and pour a perfect draft, lost in my thoughts of the simple luxury I found this morning as I walked around my apartment. Alone. Not a roommate, a fear of spycams, or loud neighbors. Just me, my T-shirt nightie, and a cup of coffee. A week of living there and I’m still awed by my luck. It’s glorious.
Having arrived at work between the happy hour and dinner shifts, I found Jayne, the bosses’ daughter, sitting at the corner of the bar with papers spread before her. According to her, she’s been at it for over an hour. Apparently, this is her alternate office. She’s always here.
Her normally well-groomed appearance is offset by the fact that she’s chewed off all her lipstick. Her chin length ash-blond bob looks windblown and a pencil pokes out from a small knot she’s made. She stops to look at me when I deliver her dinner order, but I don’t think she sees me. She jolts out of her reverie before scanning the half-full restaurant. The dinner rush is over and the bar is in that state of rest as we wait for the families to leave and the partiers to arrive.
“I think I blacked out and lost time,” she says as I slide the plate of fish and chips next to her ledger. “My only hope is that this accounting was masterfully completed while I was having my fugue. If not, there may be violence.”
I shrug an apology because I’m one hundred percent certain the fugue state she thinks she experienced was just a small daydream. “If the guy at table three pinches my ass one more time when I pass to use the restroom, there’ll be violence,” I tell her. “Must be that kinda night.”
She reaches over the top of the bar and pulls out a bottle of malt vinegar from the shelf below. After dousing her fish and chips, she shoves a handful of fries into her mouth then returns to beating her calculator to death with the eraser end of her pencil.
“Buggering bloody bollocks. These numbers! They refuse to balance. If I can’t get this worked out I’ll commit an act of cruelty to my own person.” It’s hard gauging the severity of her words because she’s English and seriously, what sort of act would she commit? Their cops don’t even carry guns. She stabs at the calculator again and takes a long swig of her wine.
The last few nights I’ve worked, Jayne’s been on the same stool, her business books spread before her. Try as I might to avoid developing anything further than a superficial friendship with her, as this tends to be the easiest for all parties, Jayne makes it hard. She’s warm and as welcoming as her parents, and even though she successfully runs her own clothing boutique, she can be found helping out when there’s a shortage, without complaint. She’s comfortable in her own skin and has a dry, self-deprecating sense of humor I understand. A large portion of my time at the bar is spent chatting with her, laughing about some of the patron’s antics, and discussing our common interest in Graham Norton, who we both binge watch whenever possible.
Making friends with girls has always been difficult for me. Maybe because my only real friend was Will and perhaps because of that I relate better to guys. Either that or Jayne’s different.
“Just a thought, but it might not be a numbers issue but more a you’ve-had-too-much-to-drink issue and this place is distracting. I can see from here that you’ve miscalculated column two.”
She groans and stares at the numbers. I touch my finger to the set where she went awry.
“It doesn’t help that you’ve been making eyes at tall, blond surfer over there.” I place a glass of water next to her wine.
“You’re a buzz kill,” she says in a bang-on American accent. Usually so posh with her Oxford English, it cracks me up when she does her American speak. She pushes the water back toward me. “You should put this away and relax.”
I tap her papers. “When do you do that? Relax?” She’s here every time I am and I imagine she’s here when I’m not.
She purses her lips. “Quite right. I haven’t relaxed in a long time. A good shag would fix that right up.”
I lean against the bar and rest my elbows on the top. “Is there a Mr. Jayne?” It’s my attempt at making casual girlfriend talk even though it feels intrusive.
She snorts. “No boyfriend. I’ve been casually seeing this guy, Brad, who, it would seem, is really just a scheduled shag when he’s driving through town. Which is about every other week. Clearly, not enough.” She smirks and nods toward the blond surfer. “How about you? You’re fairly new here, and if you tell me you’ve got a steady I might simply lose it. Not that I don’t want you to have someone but the reflection back into my own wasteland of a sex life...well.” She waves her hand dismissively.
Bemused, I laugh and roll my eyes. “I don’t have anyone, and I’m not looking for anyone either.”
“You say that with a firm determination. You just out of something serious?” She pulls the pencil from the knot on her head, places it on the counter, and then begins to massage her scalp.
“I’ve managed to escape something serious twice now.” I give a half shrug, feigning nonchalance, but the truth is Jayne is the first person I even hinted about my past too. Maybe I’m curious as to how she’ll react or treat me.