I’M ON MY second iced coffee outside the Mukilteo location, playing around on my phone. So far, no weirdos are loitering around, except me.
This entire idea is crazy.
What am I going to do if some lowlife shows up looking for Ashley? Beat him up? Make a citizen’s arrest? Outside of movies, is that even a real thing? Unlike Jonah, I have neither ninja nor wrestling moves.
A teenage boy—with blond hair and not enough facial hair to bother calling it scruff—chats up Analee at the window. He hunches his shoulders and slouches his lanky build to talk to her. Whatever he says makes her laugh. She twists her hair over her shoulder and smiles up at him. Oblivious to everyone and everything around them, they continue to chat and flirt while a line builds up behind him.
I remember those feelings. When the only thing that matters is being as close as possible, touching and lingering around each other. Unable to part or put the slightest amount of physical distance between yourself and the other person. Stomach rolling with anxiety acid. Hands damp with nerves. Various body parts tingling or throbbing with increased blood flow. Pulling away and feeling the almost painful sensation of separation, wanting to immediately reattach like magnets.
An older man in line loudly clears his throat. He must mutter something under his breath because I can see his mouth move beneath his thick silver mustache, but I can’t hear him. Analee shoots up straight and the boy practically flies backward like he’s hit a force field. A few other people giggle, but the sound is uncomfortable and nervous.
I wonder what he said to cause that reaction. Analee’s cheeks flame with embarrassment as she tries to focus on taking an order. Lover boy shifts to the side, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and fidgets his right foot. He’s the picture of awkward.
The older man steps up to the counter. Analee can’t make eye contact with him. Whatever he said has her on edge. She pours him a black coffee in a large paper cup and taps on a lid.
I study him while he waits for her to finish making change. With his sunglasses and floppy hat, I can’t see much of his face or his hair other than the longer gray tufts which slipped out of his stumpy ponytail. If I had to guess, he’s probably bald under the hat. The mustache and bulbous nose are the only distinguishing things about him.
He takes the cash from her, not bothering to leave a tip in the jar. Of course not. I don’t know how Ashley, Jonah, and Erik work with customers like him on a daily basis.
I’ll drop a five into the tip jar before I leave to make up for jerks like him. I expect him to get in a car and go on his miserable way. Instead, he passes me, heading down the hill to the ferry.
Shorter than me, he carries about fifty pounds or more weight on his stocky frame than he should. Nothing against short, fat guys, but he’s a jerk personified. His skin is like an overcooked rotisserie chicken. I bet he uses a tanning bed or spray tan. At the thought of the poor woman who has to baste him like a turkey to turn him such a deep golden brown, I shudder. There’s nothing remarkable about his faded Mariner’s T-shirt or outdated plaid shorts. Of course he’s wearing dingy white socks with a crappy pair of brown sandals.
I keep track of him as he stands in the passenger waiting area for the next ferry.
I don’t think he’s Ashley’s stalker, but I’m going to ask Analee if he’s a regular. Reluctantly, I abandon my spot on the bench and step into line.
My phone pings with a new text. Ashley’s meeting is over and she’s on her way to meet me.
The last person ahead of me orders, leaving Analee free.
“Hi, Carter. Ashley’s not here. Can I make you something else?” Her voice breaks as she fights to make her smile real.
“I know. She’s on her way.”
“Okay. Good. Good.” Her voice shakes.
I lower my voice. “Sorry to pry, but I saw your reaction to one of the customers. Is everything okay?”
“The guy with the mustache?” She glances down the hill.
“He said something to you, didn’t he?”
Not meeting my eyes, she answers me with a nod. “I’d rather not tell you. It’s disgusting.”
I figured. “I get it, you don’t have to repeat it to me, but you need to tell Ashley. You don’t have to put up with customers like him. Does he come here a lot?”
“I’ve never seen him before.”
“Good. Maybe he’s just passing through the area.”
If she hasn’t seen him, he’s probably not trailing Ashley home. Maybe she was being paranoid. Relief courses through my veins, mixing with the adrenaline telling me to go find the old guy and kick his ass.
“No one gets to disrespect you, got it?” I slip a ten into the tip jar.
“You sound like my dad.” Her genuine smile returns.
“Coach is a good man. Sadly, not all of us are.”
Once we’re on the ferry back to the island, I ask Ashley about her conversation with Analee.
She gags and sticks out her tongue. “I’d rather not repeat it, but it confirms my belief that most men are disgusting pigs. I don’t know if it’s the testosterone or the delicate little balls hanging between your legs, but neither give you the right to say vile things to a woman, let alone a teenager. If I see that lowlife scum-sucker, he better gird his shriveled old nuts.”
Standing at the front of the boat, she’s fury come to life. Her hair whips around in the wind, almost hitting me in the face. Each curl could be a flame or copperhead snake. Everything about her screams strength and anger.
“Can you give me a clue?” I press like a mortal poking a fire breathing dragon.
“Fine. He called her a little strumpet and asked if he was in the right line for blow jobs.”
“What the fuck? He was old enough to be her grandfather.” I’m disgusted not only by his words, but my own laziness in not stepping up when I knew he said something fucked up to Analee.
“You saw him? You watched and didn’t say anything?” Her own disgust combines with disbelief.
“I . . .” I what? Didn’t hear? Didn’t want to get involved? Didn’t intervene when clearly Analee was upset.
“I . . .” . . . fail to think of any reason that doesn’t sound like a lame excuse. “I’m sorry. I should’ve come to her defense. I didn’t hear what he said, but her reaction was enough. I should’ve acted.”
“Analee didn’t need defending. She didn’t do anything wrong.” Angry and exasperated, she grips the railing until her knuckles whiten.
“What do you want me to do?” Tell me what to say to make this right.
“Put yourself in her place. Did a single person in line confront him for being inappropriate and disgusting?”
I dig my fingers into the back pockets of my jeans. “No. Some of them laughed, but in the awkward way polite people do when they’re uncomfortable but either don’t know what to say or they want the problem to go away without causing a scene.”
“Exactly. Nothing. Old dirty perv’s probably been saying shit to women and girls his entire life, and not one person has told him off or to shut his trap. So he continues because he’s entitled to his opinion, right? He’s a white man of a certain generation in America, therefore he’s the chosen. Stupid, fucking patriarchy bullshit.”
I rest my clasped hands on the railing above a life-preserver bearing the name of the ferry, Kittitas. Tilting my hips away, I flatten my back and rest my forehead on my hands. Normally I’d make my standard joke about kitty tits, but I’m afraid for my balls around Ashley right now.
“Don’t even get me started on slut shaming. How dare he take something precious and make it filthy by dragging it out into public, and using her sexuality to humiliate her because he has to wait a minute longer for a cup of black coffee.” Grasping the railing, she leans back and screams her frustration into the wind.
“My baristas wear tight fitting T-shirts because it’s fun and helps tips. I know it’s playing into sexist stereotypes. We’re walking the line, but if it makes us more money, why not use our assets? We’re not standing around in bikinis or lingerie like some huts. Should I make them wear smocks and Mexican wrestling masks to stop creepers from being misogynist assholes?”
“Might be kind of scary first thing in the morning to be greeted by someone in a wrestler’s mask before you have your first coffee. Just sayin’.”
The ferry ride typically lasts about twenty minutes from dock to dock, not counting the loading and unloading time. I swear Ashley’s going to use the entire time to vent her rage. Apparently, she has a lot of it and today is the day she lets it all go like a popped champagne bottle. The force of each grievance combines to blow out the cork and what follows is a stream of complaints.
Forget Falcon and his drumming circle, Ashley needs a women’s group to howl at the moon and release their rage in the deep woods or an uninhabited island.
Suddenly the expression “I am woman hear me roar” makes a helluva lot more sense. Ashley is an angry lioness, snarling and pissed off, and I’m the poor warthog in her path who’s going to become lion sausage if I’m not careful.
I think back to the countless times when I’ve probably said shit or joined in sexist conversations about women. Hell, that’s most of my life. Two years ago, on John’s bachelor weekend, I even quipped about Ashley being wild in bed because of her hair color. While some people might argue she’s proving the stereotype about redheads being hot headed is true, I’m not dumb enough to agree. Or mention anything like that out loud.
“Arrgh!” She arches her back and shouts her frustration to the sky once again.
In this moment, she’s beyond fierce. She’s a force of nature and I’d be willing to risk life and at least one limb to be with her. I want to kiss her right now.
“You need to work off some of this anger.” I tentatively touch her hand to ground her.
“If you’re suggesting sex, you’re out of your ever-loving mind right now,” she growls at me through her locked jaw.
Bells chime. Over the loudspeaker, a crew member’s voice announces our arrival in Clinton and instructs all passengers to return to their cars or assemble on the lower deck to disembark.
An idea hits me. “I have the perfect idea. Trust me?”
She drags her eyes from my face down my torso and legs to my feet and back up. “No.”
“Willing to follow me out of curiosity at least?”
“Maybe.”
I shoot her my confident grin. “You won’t be sorry.”
“I doubt that.”
“When we get off the boat, meet me at Ken’s Corner.”