I try to bring the can't-be-Trey couple back into my line of sight, but people have moved in front of them. As Gloria approaches me with two flutes of champagne I stumble against a small table as the pictures of Trey from my Internet search flash in my memory. It was over a month ago, from a computer in the Atlantis Resort, but the woman he was featured in photograph after photograph with was a redhead. Could it be a coincidence?I plan to take two steps toward the couple to try and confirm my suspicions when the Trey look alike turns around completely. My stomach twists and I worry I might vomit. Thankfully, Gloria grabs my arm before the-man-who-is-most-definitely Trey sees me. It's with her help that I make it back to the area we left Roger and her husband.My breathing is shallow, but my heart beats rapidly as I race to work through my thoughts. Trey is here and with the girl from all the pictures. The girl who definitely isn't his sister or some other family member. Have I bee
Ugh. Thoughts of Trey kept me up half the night and without enough sleep, the warmth of the water from the shower spray isn't helping to energize me for the waiting day. I'd turn it cold if I had more self-control, but who in their right mind makes the decision to take a cold shower? Not even learning Trey's an asshole of epic proportions can make me that insane.Trey stalked away from our group and I spent the rest of the night being the perfect companion to Roger. I smiled pretty and shook hands like nothing was wrong. But Trey's look of betrayal before he turned and left played on repeat in my mind. By the end of the night, I regretted my final words to him. It was never about getting his account to Lowry, Lowry, and Fink, but in a time of weakness I played on his insecurities.I press my head against the cool tile of my shower as water flows over my eyes. I'm not sure why I'm even concerned with how he feels. Why do I feel miserable and guilty over what I said? The man has a gi
I buckle my seatbelt before the flight attendant walks the aisle and my mind wanders back to my earlier conversation with my father. I can't remember anything concrete after he said my mother, the woman who brought me into this world, had thirty days to live.I brought a bag on the plane with me, but I'm clueless to what's in it. Hopefully clean underwear or socks, maybe some pants. I move a hand to my temple and push on the space in frustration at myself. Isn't it amazing that in a time of turmoil my damn brain is worried if I packed clean underwear? Is it my feeble attempt to try and keep it together?I've done well so far. Maybe this is what people call shock. Thirty days to live. How can doctors calculate thirty days? Where does this number come from? Is there some demonic cancer calculator floating around the Internet? My other hand reaches up to rub the opposite temple as I lean both elbows on my knees. Who has the right to tell my mother she only has thirty days left on Eart
IT'S ONLY the first week of November, but there's an extra chill in the air as I'm the last to exit the car back at my parents' house for the post-funeral luncheon. The cold set into my bones as we stood outside at the gravesite and I worry I'll never be warm again. Of course I've been cold for more than the last month, so this might be my new condition. Cold. A little dead to the world.The three of us are silent as we walk in the house we once shared, but never will again. My sister continues to the kitchen while my father and I stop in the living room to our right. He sits in the old green chair he's called his for more years than I remember, and I take a place on the matching couch. It doesn't actually match, but its close enough in color that when my mother found it a few years ago she bought it on sight. Then sent me pictures and text messages for the next week about how amazing it was to find a piece of furniture the exact hideous pea green color of Dad's favorite chair. She l
The neon green cup with the cat in the center sits on the edge of my kitchen counter. Right below it on the floor, my trash can waits. It will take one quick flick of my hand to send the cheap souvenir container over into the bin. Then it's a simple tie job before I walk the bag to the trash and throw away a piece of Trey. I should do it.I lean with my back against the opposite counter and stare at the cup with narrow eyes. My lips pucker as I visualize the cup falling off the edge with a small clink as it hits the glass container of spoiled mayo. Cleaning out my fridge was not a top priority before I jumped on a plane almost two months ago. All I need to do is reach across the space and tap the cup in. I can do it.A sigh escapes my lips and I grab the cup and toss it on the top of my kitchen packing box. I'm weak. What am I going to do about it? Plus, the kitchen box wasn't even close to full, so one more item won't hurt it. Besides a few favorite mugs and the cat cup, everythin
I'm pretty sure I'm going to lose both my pinkie toes after today. Regardless of how comfortable your shoes look, they all hurt after six hours on your feet. I'm not sure what's worse — only having eight toes after I finish my first shift at Bonnie's Café or the possibility I may have to buy a pair of those ugly lunch lady shoes.I limp behind the black counter with my empty coffee pot in hand and start the task of making a fresh batch. In order to keep some weight off my aching feet, I switch from foot to foot to find a small amount of relief."You need more support in your arches," Jamie, my trainer and coworker for this shift, tosses my way when he comes to stand beside me at the coffee pot.Jamie throws the white towel he used to clean off the tables in the sink to our right and leans a hip on the counter, turning his body to face mine. His upper arm muscles bulge stretching his official black Bonnie's polos shirt at the hem of the short sleeve. It takes me a minute to pry my
"Do you need a ride to work today?" Aspen asks as she enters the small tiled kitchen."No, it's two blocks and I'm not due in for a while." I don't admit my secondary reason, a promise to myself that I would interrupt Aspen's life as little as possible while I'm here. The woman barely knows me, but she's opened her place without anything expected in return. It's more than I asked and I'm clueless as to how to repay her. The $500 in rent I'll force her to take doesn't feel like enough.Aspen peeks her head into the living room where I sit on top of my makeshift bed now a couch again. When she looks back at me, her face is scrunched up on one side in question. "I hope the couch was okay. You folded it out, right?""Yeah, I picked it up already, but I slept great. Thank you."I set my alarm for six to make sure the area lacked all evidence of my sleeping here before she left her room."Don't worry about it every day. No one is ever here." She points to the refrigerator. "Rule 4:
"We're tag teaming lunch again?" Jamie's question comes from behind me, and I jump jerking the coffee pot but without spilling any of the hot liquid inside.By the time I turn around to face him, there's a genuine smile in residence on my face. "Yup, it's the dream team together again." I smack him on the arm with a move that's so reminiscent of my mother my breath hitches.My new coworker doesn't notice my slip and turns back to the other side of the counter to start our prep for the upcoming lunch rush. He balances on the heels of his feet and leans into the case, his muscles flex stretching his black polo shirt as he moves plates around. I might spend a few too many minutes watching him with my back against the opposite counter.The restaurant is peaceful now so my time isn't interrupted with a needy customer. It's the quiet time of day, the time that pays the least in tips. People stop in for a muffin or coffee — quick orders that don't require them to sit. Then as we get clo