I went home and opened the web browser eleven times with the intent of booking a flight out of the Santa Rosa airport. A last-minute trip to the dinky airfield nearest Steele Falls was outrageously priced, and I could only afford a one-way ticket. Seattle Tacoma International was just as expensive. Plus, it’d include a four-hour drive. Whichever plan I chose would take everything I had left in my checking account and the measly amount available on my credit card. I banked, pun intended, on funds from my share of the will to be my savior in getting me back home to float for a while after the funeral was over. There was no telling how long it’d take to find a new job in Sacramento during the current economy. As much as I wanted nothing from my step-father, I was out of available options.
Fear of facing my past won out once again, and I slammed the laptop shut. Make that twelve times I remained a chicken. I stood up and paced the room, rubbing the back of my neck.
Stop being a sissy, Blue. You can do this. Your history is ancient. Gone. That life can’t hurt you. Not again.
Convincing myself to go because the area was a desirable vacation spot wasn’t an option either. Sure. It was near the beach, but there were no tropical palm trees or drinks served out of coconuts. The weather was constantly cold and windy, the Pacific frigid. Swimsuit season barely existed. When it did, it wasn’t for the faint of heart. Die-hard surfers and swimmers exited the relentless waves with numb fingers and trembling, blue lips.
Steele Falls was a small town in Washington State, flavorlessly sandwiched in a cranny between Hoquiam and Ocean Shores. It was nothing shy of bland. Some argued you’d miss the city if you blinked. If you asked me, I didn’t miss it at all. Not a damn bit.
Children grew up there, dreaming of ways to get out of the sleepy and dilapidated city. Adults longed to retire there. Either way, few stuck around the aged tourist trap for long. Hurry up and get out or hurry up and arrive to die.
I was one of the escapists, the lucky ones. Leaving meant I was finally home.
It was depressing, and leaving was the best decision I’d ever made. Since I could talk, I’d conjured up ways of busting free to somewhere busier and more exciting. Up until hours before I actually left, I had big plans in place. Elaborate plans. But it was a magical fantasy that faded into the sunset. Life didn’t turn out how I’d expected when a figurative curveball hit me hard. I succeeded in starting over elsewhere, but it cost me what I’d valued most. Big time.
For the thirteenth time, I opened the computer and hit refresh. The website had timed out once again, likely annoyed with my fickle attempts at purchasing a ticket. Lucky number thirteen didn’t live up to its name. My eyes bulged when I saw the change in price. I was positive the airline had enough of my wishy-washy behavior, in the amount of a $500 price hike.
Well, that seals the deal on not flying in a giant, tin can at 35,000 feet.
I flopped back onto the couch and covered my face with a throw pillow. Driving was my other option. It’d take about eleven hours to get there in my unreliable car, which wasn’t the end of the world. I had nothing but time and no job to go back to. Money and bills did remain factors though. Besides, my car might not make it without requiring a funeral of its own. There was no doubt I needed a getaway vehicle. I could only hope it wasn’t a pointless trip for as much as the visit was about to cost me, both mentally and financially.
“Guess I’d better get to packing.” I stomped down the hall to yank my suitcase from the closet. It was buried at the bottom, practically invisible. Secretly, I’d been hoping to stay in Sacramento and not need to use it again. So much for that.
I turned on the television for some background noise, tuning in to the nightly news. A perky blonde newscaster was mid-story, rambling about a drug bust at a local motel. Most of the words usually went in one ear and out the other. But that day, I listened. The problems in the rest of the world were a welcome distraction as I hoped they’d be enough to make me forget about my own. The channel cut to a low-budget commercial with a catchy jingle as a freckled, red-headed man known nationwide as Gonorrhea Guy pretended to fly in front of a fake sky. He wore a goldenrod-colored spandex onesie, which was telling in itself. But the giant STD logo on his chest, accented with a black circle and a backslash around it was an unnecessary touch. A mile-long string of side effects scrolled along the bottom of the screen of the antibiotic advertisement. He spoke one line with a hint of a southern accent and a wink before the bit ended. “Gonorrhea, be gone!”
“Ugh. Gross.” I flipped off the television.
As I stuffed a neon pink bag with toiletries, there was a firm knock at the door. “What now?” I muttered.
Then, I remembered Mrs. Sheetz mentioned stopping by to bring me dinner when she saw the expression on my face after work. With a box tucked under my arm and my early arrival at the bank of mailboxes, it was hard to come up with a fitting lie for what happened. I tried to tell her it was a dead pet, but she didn’t buy it. She also didn’t believe they were new shoes when I tried to mask the latex label. As much as I’d asked her to not go to the trouble, she insisted. The nosy, old coot wanted the details on someone else’s life since she didn’t have her own to dissect.
Another knock.
“Mrs. Sheetz, I’m kinda busy right now! Not really hungry either!” I yelled from the bedroom.
The rapping on the door had turned to pounding. More dire. More urgent.
“Fine. I’m coming.” I tossed a full-sized bottle of shampoo on the bed and headed down the hall, tripping over Catzilla, my fluffy tabby.
The peephole confirmed I didn’t want to open the door. I’d have rather taken a dozen visits from Mrs. Sheetz and maybe an encounter or two with Gloria instead of endure who stood in the hallway.
“Go away,” I grumped.
“If anything, you know I’m persistent,” he said. “Besides, your neighbors will wonder what’s going on pretty soon if I have to cause a scene. Don’t make me do it.”
“You’ve got to fucking be kidding me.” I rested my forehead against the paneling for a few seconds. Taking a breath, I stepped back and ripped the door open, surprised it remained on its hinges. “What are you doing here?”
Cash stood in the hall, holding a dozen red roses tied with an oversized white bow. “What? We have dinner plans.” He eyed me up and down. “But I don’t think the dress code at the restaurant allows for oversized bathrobes or animal slippers. Why aren’t you ready?”
I tightened the sash around my waist and crossed my arms.
“I get it. You showered because you pissed yourself this morning. Don’t be embarrassed…”
“I didn’t pee my pants! It! Was! Water!”
“Okay. If you say so.” He extended the bouquet toward me. “I brought roses.”
“Is this punishment?” I asked, taking a single step backward. “What the hell did I do to you?”
“What?” He gave me a blank look.
“Those.” I nodded at the flowers. “I’m allergic. Remember? I told you the past four times you’ve brought me ‘I fucked up again’ roses.”
He snapped his fingers. “Right. Allergic.”
Silence. Awkward, painstaking, unbearable silence.
How did he not get it? Why was he still standing there?
“So, can I come in?” he asked, hope spelled out on his face.
Is he really that dense?
I suppressed my belittling laughter and blocked the doorway. Looking into Cash’s eyes, my tone was acidic. “First of all, I told you I have to go out of town. And second of all, Jensen & Jensen fucking canned me this morning and you couldn’t even tell me yourself! No heads up. No nothing. You let your brother do the dirty work and fire me! Why did you tell him we were sleeping together?”
“Not fired. Laid off,” he replied.
“For fuck’s sake, you sound like Price. Let’s call a spade a spade here. That doesn’t make it any better.”
“It makes a difference. Severance compensation. Letter of recommendation. Applying for unemployment. Potential turnaround rate for re-hire at another company.” He paused as he counted on his fingers. “Stop looking at me like you want to hurt me.”
My expression didn’t falter as I awaited an answer to my question.
“Look, it slipped during our monthly meeting. And I didn’t think it’d be a big deal. He—”
“Didn’t think it’d be a big deal? How the hell does that come up in conversation with a room full of plastic surgeons? Was everyone comparing sex stories about their employees? Were there pie charts? Graphs? A PowerPoint presentation on what their preferred position was?”
“Blue, I’ll find a way to make this up to you.”
I rubbed my temples. “We’d both been so careful keeping this whole…thing we had going quiet. I don’t get it.”
“Baby, please…”
“It’s too late.” I tried to control the tone of my voice as I spoke through gritted teeth. “He quoted the damn handbook to me verbatim. Page, paragraph, and sentence. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? There was highlighter involved. It was yellow, and there was a lot of it.”
“We’ll get you wasted tonight, so you can let loose and forget all about—”
I was floored. “Alcohol isn’t going to bandage this wound. I lost my job. Don’t you understand? You could’ve warned me this was coming, but you didn’t. You sent me in to be blindly executed by your brother.”
“C’mon. I didn’t want to ruin the mood and tell you this morning. We’d had amazing sex and—”
My eyes bulged. “You’d had amazing sex. The mood was ruined before it even started because I knew I had to fake it…again.”
It was clear he still didn’t get it. Cash blinked as he spoke slowly. “So…are you saying you don’t want to go to dinner?”
For being six-foot two, a lot of information sailed right over Cash’s pretty head. On that particular night, I doubted a butterfly net the size of Los Angeles could’ve helped. Looking into his icy blue eyes wasn’t poetic at all either. They weren’t the windows to his soul. He was far simpler than that. They were the eyes of someone who invested heavy thought into wondering why croutons came in airtight packages and contemplated why sheep didn’t shrink after being in the rain. How that man ever had the smarts to become a plastic surgeon with an award-winning practice perplexed me on a daily basis.
“No! I don’t want to go to dinner! I’m done!” I picked up a throw pillow from an oversized chair near the door and dug my fingers into it. “Now, I see why you were okay with us taking our relationship out of the closet to make it public. There was no reason to hide anymore with Price in the loop on who you were screwing. How far in advance did you know about this?”
“Baby, don’t overreact here.”
“Don’t overreact? For the love of…maybe I do need a drink,” I mumbled under my breath as I hurled the pillow at him. “Are we really having this conversation right now?”
Cash blocked the shot and flashed two rectangular tickets in his jacket pocket. Oblivious to my annoyed tone, he pushed his way into my apartment. “I have reservations to that sensual art show I mentioned.”
I stared at him from the doorway. “I already told you, I don’t like art. Haven’t for a long time.”
“Pfffft. Quit playing hard to get.” He grabbed an apple from the oversized bowl on the counter and sank his teeth into it. A drop of juice dribbled down his chin while he mumbled with a mouthful, “What girl doesn’t like art?”
I ripped the fruit from his hand and threw it in the swing-top garbage can, the lid spinning around repeatedly from the force. “I don’t like glory hole or skin flute art.”
He reached out to touch my arm. “Come on. Don’t do this.”
“Go,” I said.
Again, he paid no attention to my requests as his eyes fixated on the laptop across the room. “What’ve you got there?” He nodded toward the screen.
“It’s nothing,” I replied, reaching to close it. “Another roadblock.”
He grabbed my wrist to stop me and let out a low whistle, pausing long enough to study the obnoxiously bright orange-and-red blocks on the screen. It was about to time out again. “That’s one expensive plane ticket. Do customers get a complimentary blow job with it?”
I ignored his sarcasm. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m driving there.”
“In your POS car? That’s ridiculous. Let me pay for the airfare. I mean, after everything that happened at the office today.”
“I’m not letting you do that.” Being indebted to the fuckstick who couldn’t even lay me off properly, let alone get me off properly, didn’t sound appealing.
“Don’t be silly.” His smile oozed with innocence. “You’d be paying me back in full, every penny. I’ll let you.”
‘Let’ me? There was that L-word again. How noble. I tried to mask my disgust, but it became harder with every day spent with him. “You used to sign my pathetic paychecks, meaning you know what my income situation was like. Now, it’s non-existent thanks to Jensen & Jensen. I’ll pass.”
“I have minimal interest.” His voice was gentle as he brushed a lock of hair out of my face. The look behind his eyes was so sweet and sincere, and I wondered how he could even swallow his own lines of steaming bullshit without gagging.
I squinted, and the conversation had plunged to a new low. “We’ve been sleeping together for nearly a year. Suddenly, you have ‘minimal interest’? That’s classy.”
“No.” He laughed. “There’d be minimal interest you owe me. On the credit card. I mean, I might require one or two of those blow jobs I mentioned. You know, as a finder’s fee for helping you out. Maybe you could even toss in a few one-handed massages.”
It was the final straw. “Get out!”
“I’m starting to wonder if you want me to leave.” He scratched his head.
“You think?”
“I get it. You’re stressed out. Probably PMS’ing or something. You did look pretty bloated this morning.”
“Cash!” I growled.
“I’m sayin’, a trip or two to the gym might not hurt.” He hiked his thumb over his shoulder. “Speaking of calorie burn, are you sure you don’t want to blow off some steam in the bedroom with the no pants dance before you take off?”
“Out!” I pointed toward the doorway and stomped my left foot.
“Okay. We’ll talk more when you get back from Steele Town. Do me a favor.”
I glared and didn’t move. Correcting him on the name of the city was pointless.
He reached into his pocket and pulled a silver credit card from his wallet. “Use it. Buy the airline ticket. Hotel stay. Whatever you need. While you’re at it, get some slutty lingerie for when you get back. Crotch-less panties. Flavored whipped cream. Oh! And how about a pair of fuzzy handcuffs! Black ones are preferred. Do you want me to text you a list?”
“I already told you I don’t want your money.” I pushed his hand away. “It’s a slap in the face.”
“Don’t be ashamed of taking my handout, even if it’s a short-term loan.” He grabbed my hand and closed my fingers around it, shushing me.
“Look, we’re done.” I let the tension out of my shoulders. “For good.”
“Sure we are.” He nodded and gave me a look that expressed he didn’t believe me.
“If this card gets used over the next few days,” I raised it up to eye level, “it means I’ve been kidnapped by an unfriendly motorcycle gang of garden gnomes and you should send help, flamethrowers, and Belgian chocolate. That should tell you how serious I am right now.”
“Gotcha. Mini Cash and I will see you as soon as you get back then.” He smirked and turned to walk down the hallway toward the stairs. “Mattress mambo! Don’t forget to buy some of that spicy massage oil I like!” he yelled over his shoulder while doing a fancy dance step.
I slammed the door and wondered if I were finally rid of Cash Jensen. Doubtful. The illusion of a relationship wasn’t worth it. Not anymore. Looking down at the card in my hand, I frowned. It was his attempt at keeping his claws dug in while I was gone. Unsure of what to do with it, I put it in my wallet, tucked behind my debit card. That way, it wouldn’t get lost. Why was I so considerate when he was the least of my concerns? I hated my conscience. When I got back, I vowed to mail it back to him, cut it up and bake it into a cake, or send it by courier in a flaming bag of dog crap—on Jensen & Jensen’s dime, of course. After all, I knew the account number by heart. Enduring another conversation in the near future with him sounded as pleasant as getting my lady bits waxed twice in a row without a shot of tequila beforehand.
For the next hour, I mashed clothing and bathroom items into my suitcase, taking my aggression out on Cash. I was pissed. Pissed I didn’t have a job. Pissed my rent was due. Pissed I’d let the situation with Cash excel to where it did.
“Where did I go wrong, huh?” I asked Catzilla as I flopped down on the bed. “Why can’t I have an ordinary life?”
And then I remembered why I couldn’t be normal. Ever. I turned on the TV to an old rerun of my favorite sitcom. Anything to sidetrack me in that moment was welcome. Gonorrhea Guy being absent was an added bonus. For the first time that day, I started to relax.
As my eyes started to cross from exhaustion, the memories tried to come flooding back, seeping into my mind. Swells of debilitating anxiety were on the horizon, and fighting back was a chore. But I succeeded. My walls were immediately slammed a mile high to block the waves of my past from crashing into me. I mopped the fragments away and shut the door on the janitorial closet of my head. Squeaky clean again. History was best kept hidden. For good.