Waking Wild Excerpt
Stupid Awesome Love book 2
coming September 2018
Chapter One
Gemma
is fine.
Gemma
is fine.
The first time I see him, my eyes recoil as if the sight is too overwhelming for my addlepated mind to comprehend. He’s unloading massive bags of soil from the back of a well-used pickup truck. A dirty, dark blue tank hugs his chest. Khaki shorts—also covered in grime and soil⎯frame his bulging thighs, straining against the fabric like an Olympic swimmer’s against those stretchy things they wear now. Oh, if he were soaking wet that would make this so much better. But the only moisture on his body comes from the sweat beading on his beautiful, dark brown skin.
It’s a strange sensation, admiring this beautiful man while not feeling it anywhere in my body. There was a time I’d have been eager to run over and introduce myself, indulge in some harmless flirting to get up close and personal with those muscles.
Now I can’t even force my body to blush at how absolutely stunning he is. I just stare at him. A marbled work of art. A sculpture I don’t understand the significance of. What was the artist’s purpose in creating him? To taunt me? To wave in my face, screaming, Hey, Gemma! Hey, look at this gorgeous man. Isn’t he beautiful? Don’t worry, he’s probably exactly like the rest of them. Liars. Cheats. Buttmunches.
“Gemma, this way,” Mom calls to me from the small office. “Stop staring at nothing.”
“I’m not staring.”
I was totally staring.
Mom points her best Mom finger at me as I reach her.
“All you do is stare at shit these days. At the wall. At the ceiling. At the ground when you walk. I’m sick of it. You’ve been here a month; it’s time to put your life back to together.”
“Need I remind you I found my fiancé face deep in his boss’s vagina last month?”
“No, sweetheart, you don’t need to remind me. But you do need to get over it. I will not let this affect you like—”
I give her a hard look, daring her to even mention my first husband’s name. It’s a taboo subject in my family, and I want it to stay that way.
“Anyway,” Mom goes on. “You need to get out of the house. This will be good for you.”
We’re at the San Francisco Botanical Gardens, and my dear mother Lillian Flanagan is forcing me back into society before I’m ready. All I want in life is to stay in bed, in my Star Wars pajamas, and never get out again. Is that too much to ask?
“I don’t know anything about plants.”
“You don’t need to; you’ll be the kids’ counselor, herding them to their activities around the garden.”
“I don’t know anything about kids, either.”
“You practically raised your sister.”
“Yeah, and the experience scarred me. Sophie was a nightmare.”
“You love your sister.”
A woman with pin-straight black hair, amber skin, and a long, straight nose greets us at the entrance of the office. Her khaki shorts and green staff T-shirt suit her. She blends well with her surroundings, looks like she belongs. I, in my black jeans and boots, stick out like a sore thumb.
“Opal!” Lillian hugs the woman, embraces her warmly.
I paste a smile on my face as Mom introduces me.
“Opal, this is my eldest daughter, Gemma. She just moved to California.”
Opal extends her hand and I take it, brightening my smile until my teeth hurt. Step one: don’t squeeze too hard. Step two: act like a normal human.
“Nice to meet you. Lillian says you’re willing to step in as our day camp volunteer?”
“Well…”
“Of course she is,” Mom interjects. “I can’t do it this year because the origami class I’m taking forced me to change my volunteer hours, and our regular summer counselor moved to Pennsylvania to influence the swing vote. Gemma would be happy to volunteer.”
“Mom…”
“And by volunteer, I mean get paid minimum wage. She doesn’t have a job yet. Been sitting on my couch watching Lifetime movies and yelling at the heroines for a month.”
“Mom, if you don’t shut up I’m gonna throw you off the Golden Gate Bridge,” I say, sweet as pie, still smiling.
“She was always dramatic.”
“I’m not like that anymore.”
“More’s the pity.”
Opal winks at me, seeing the embarrassment my mother excels at causing, and waves us into the office.
“Well, come on in and let’s get your paperwork in order. I’ve got some pizza if you’re hungry.”
“Don’t get Gemma started on the pizza here.”
“Not a fan?” Opal asks, handing over a tax form to fill out.
“The pizza here is not pizza,” I point out. “If anything, it’s a hybrid of bread and cheese and some mush Californians think is tomato sauce.”
Lillian’s laugh bounces off the walls of the office like the tinkle of fairy wings. It’s been so long since I’ve visited her that I’ve almost forgotten it does that—suffuses you with a sense of wonder. Hearing it reminds me of when she was still in New York— how she used to laugh so freely with my sister, Sophie, and me, and how the laughter snuffed out once she discovered Dad with his paramours, again and again.
But it’s all okay. Lillian Flanagan got her laughter back. She only needed to move across the country to get it.
Maybe this is where I’ll find mine.
Unlikely, with a point five percent chance of go screw yourself.
Mom’s frizzy gray hair bobs as she chuckles. Her untamed locks are what mine will be when I’m her age, the red in my frustratingly outlandish curls coming from her side of the family. She’s wearing a thin cardigan with a pashmina, leggings, and a flowing floral dress, appropriate for the cool Bay Area weather. There’s a rolled up scarf around her hair that doesn’t match the rest of her outfit, but she doesn’t care. She’s her own lady, and she does what she wants. I’ve always loved that about Mom. Like Opal, she fits right in with the other San Franciscans.
Me?
I’m so New York that I might as well have a massive neon sign pointing at me, blinking ‘Sarcastic Bitch’ at everyone.
“Sweetheart, the pizza is California pizza. You can’t keep comparing everything to New York. If you miss it so much, go back.”
“You know that’s not an option.”
I glance out the open window, a sweetly scented breeze filtering through the screen.
“It’s nice out, right?” Opal asks, unlatching the screen and removing that barrier as well.
I take the pen she hands me and angle my head down to the paper, but my gaze won’t turn away from the view out the window.
The man from earlier is closer now. He looks my way, and I should pretend I was simply glancing in his direction, but I can’t spare the energy to turn. Mr. Marble Statue spots me and smiles. His eyes shine like glass pots of dark amber honey sitting in the sunlight. I’ve never seen that color before, and it’s almost…refreshing, finding something new. I moved to California for a change of scene, but I didn’t think I would get it from the male corner of the world.
He may be shockingly beautiful, but I doubt he’s any different from the men back home. Even so, it takes all the willpower I have left to look away and focus on the paperwork.
The pen freezes just before writing my last name. It would have been Shaw by the end of next year. I should get used to Flanagan. It’s a good name. I like it. It’s my mom’s name. Sophie and I changed our surnames to Mom’s maiden name when she and Dad divorced, a pledge of solidarity to the woman who raised us, even though it was Dad we lived with after Mom moved to California. The name change only erected another barrier between my father and his children.
I’ve tried, repeatedly, to break that barrier down. But there’s only so much you can do to convince a man who doesn’t care about anything but himself to love you.
My wandering mind is drawn back to the window. The man is gone, leaving the lovely vista of the gardens in his place. Somehow, it seems a little less vibrant without him.
I hand Opal my driver’s license to photocopy. Mom pats my hand when we’re alone, smiling at me kindly, her pushy nature replaced with tender understanding. I squeeze it quickly before letting go, simultaneously needing and hating her pity.
I appreciate her care, but it’s too much right now. I can barely process getting dressed in the morning, let alone full hugs and emotional support. Her softness feels like a million bee stings.
“Thank you for doing this,” Mom says quietly. “We were in a real bind trying to find someone at the last minute.”
“You know I’d do anything for you.”
“I want you to do this for you, sweetheart.”
“I was fine where I was.”
“On my couch?”
“Yes, on the fucking couch.”
Opal walks back in at that, her eyebrows raised, no doubt judging my language.
“Sorry,” I say quietly.
“I don’t care how much you curse as long as it’s not in front of the kids.”
“I won’t.”
Opals eyes me fastidiously, her hands folded carefully on the table, before nodding shortly. A decision made. Good for her.
I hope she judges me incompetent and banishes me back to life in bed. I was good there.
“We’ll get all this processed. In the meantime, why don’t I have someone take you on a tour of the garden?”
“I’ll do it!”
“Actually, Lillian, can we chat about your schedule for the next month? I have a few questions.”
Opal and Lillian exchange glances, sweetly trying to be subtle. Mom doesn’t do subtle. She just hits you over the head with a brick. She may have been born in California, but she spent the majority of her years on the East Coast making her nothing but brash and adorably abrasive.
“Sure. Of course. How about Jack? He knows the place better than anyone.”
“Great idea.” Opal grabs a map of the garden and draws a line on the paths. “We’re here. Follow this and you’ll come to a small bench right off the trail. Take a walk, take in the sights. The garden is a fantastically peaceful place.”
“Oh, I love that bench.” Mom nods so enthusiastically I worry her head will fall off. “It’s a great bench for thinking.”
“Jack will meet you there and then take you on a tour.”
The last thing I want is social interaction, especially with a man, but Mom looks so hopeful, so endearing, that I’ve got to get off my ass and do this for her. If I need to convince anyone in the world that I’m managing, it’s her.
“Great,” I say, taking the map. “I love a good thinking bench.”
“Gemma…” Mom’s tone is cautioning. “Try to be open minded.”
I grin brightly at both of them, giving them my pearly whites.
“I’m nothing but open minded.”
As I leave the office Mom calls out, “That’s a crock of shit, Gemma Flanagan.”
Flanagan. What did I think would happen when I changed my name? I didn’t do it the first time around, why was I so determined to do it this time? It would have been the final nail in my makeover coffin. I would have become the person Murray fashioned me into. I fit that mold at work, but at home it never suited, no matter how hard I denied our incompatibility.
At least I was comfortable back home. Here? I’m the fish out of water. The ugly duckling. I’ve never stuck out more.
I pass an old couple strolling hand-in-hand on the path. They nod at me, bid me good morning. I smile back.
Is it me, or does the woman look scared when I show my teeth? Nice. If all else fails, I can take up a career in scaring old ladies into dropping their purses.
I find the small trail leading to the bench. Opal was right, it’s perfectly peaceful here. I can barely hear the foot traffic from the main path. Even the sounds of cars are muffled by thick crops of trees and plant life. I’m completely alone, immersed in nature and tranquility.
I fucking hate it.
I groan, resting my face in my hands. What is wrong with me? Where am I? What planet did I move to? Where are the honking cab drivers and the women running like Olympic sprinters in seven-inch heels to make their trains?
The trains. I never thought I’d miss the MTA. But I do. What the hell is BART and MUNI, and why can’t San Francisco have one shared form of transportation instead of ten? And why do I need ten different forms of payment for every single one of them? San Franciscans have no idea how to commute.
Oh, and the passive aggressiveness is killing me. Before I moved out of New York I thought I’d cry if someone so much as said ‘excuse me.’ Now I’m dying slowly from politeness poisoning, and the unwillingness to fight or argue.
Nobody argues here. No one is loud and aggressive, screaming at pedestrians for walking into the street. They wait patiently as the unaware idiots step into the crosswalk with their faces pressed to their phones.
I look up at the tree canopy, praying to the nature gods or whatever hippy, tree-hugging force makes all this plant life thrive through California’s drought.
“I just want someone to be a jerk to me. Is that so much to ask? I want a bagel boiled in the good water. I want real pizza. I want to go home.”
Nobody answers. There’s only silence and branches blowing in the wind. It’s so serene I might go crazy. I stand, closing my eyes and covering my ears, the sound of gently rustling leaves building louder and louder in my head until it could combat rush hour traffic in Times Square.
“I don’t want to be here. Why does this bullshit keep happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?”
I clench my fist against my stomach, holding back the nausea and fear; chills race down my spine. The trees answer me with tranquil rustling. To anyone else it would be calming, but to me it’s the lock clicking closed on my prison cell. I’m not supposed to be here. I should be back in New York, engaged, living the perfect life I worked so hard to craft. The perfect, fake life that kept me from going fucking crazy like right—this—second.
The pressure builds until I’m panting and I can’t take it anymore, and I kick the bench with all my might.
As my foot hits the wooden planks something cracks, and I’m only fifty percent sure it isn’t my heart. I open my eyes. The bench leg I booted is now lying on the ground, the bench itself lopsided and tilted. The wooden slats are accusatory: Why? Why have you done this? I was just an innocent bench, you crazy bitch.
Oh God, what is wrong with me? I broke the quiet and thought-provoking bench that was probably donated by an old couple trying to get a tax break.
I go down on my knees, observing the damage, seeing if it can be fixed. Why does everything around me break?
Because I’m the one doing the breaking.
I feel burning behind my eyes. No. Not now. It cannot be a fucking broken old bench that makes me cry after years of tear drought. I see the bench, lying so stupidly on its side, and I want to bawl.
““I’m sorry. Oh, shit. I’m sorry,” I sniffle, reining the tears in, forcing them back into the box I absolutely need to keep locked tight in order to stay sane.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I dig my fingers into my now-ruined tailored jeans, the knees covered in dirt. “What did this bench ever do to me? I am such a crazy bitch.”
“I would never call a woman a bitch, but crazy? Yeah, that seems to fit here.”
I don’t need to look over my shoulder to see who it is, because who the hell else would it be? Life hates me and deems it necessary to humiliate me at every turn.
Sweaty sculpture man looks down at me with pity in his honey-pot eyes. His voice matches his expressive gaze, mellow and warm and smooth as syrup.
I pat beneath my lashes, relieved to find them dry, then stand to face him.
Yup, he’s still sexy as sin, and with this new perspective I can appreciate it all up close. He’s not only muscular, he’s tall as well. He could be a linebacker with all those rippling divots and curves covering his body. He’s added a tool belt to his dirt-covered ensemble, and it only serves to highlight the cut of his waist and hips.
“You wouldn’t call a woman a bitch?” I ask, plastering a smile on my face, trying to divert his attention from how I was whimpering on the ground…about a bench.
“Never.”
He’s so adamant that I have to challenge him.
“Not even if she cut you off on the road?”
He crosses his arms over his abundantly muscular chest and says matter-of-factly, “Road rage is for the repressed, and she most likely was late for her kid’s recital or soccer game.”
“Not even if she stole something out of your grocery cart, after you bought it?”
“She’s probably hungry. I’m not about to let someone go hungry. Maybe she’s got low blood sugar.”
“Not even if she hurt your mother?”
I think I’ve got him now, but he waves that one away, like it’s the easiest come back he has. “My mama can take care of herself. Nobody messes with her.”
He’s won. I’ve got nothing left. The pretense is over. I have to confess I kicked state property. Maybe something in the useful-looking belt can fix the catastrophe I’ve caused.
“You wouldn’t call a woman a bitch?” I ask again, stalling. “Ever?”
“Miss, not ever.” He tilts his head, the closely shorn curls against his head shining as they dip into a beam of light. “Why is that so shocking to you?”
“Not even if she kicked a really old, probably important bench in a city park and broke it?”
I step aside to reveal the damaged bench. He observes it, his expression somber. I can tell he’s concerned and focused because his obtrusively masculine jawline is so tight his chiseled features look like they might pop off his face.
He steps forward, and I skedaddle out of his way as quick as I can, not wanting to be within a certain distance of him. I don’t know why, but I have this awful feeling if he comes near me, the carefully erected, fragile wall I’ve built around my heart might disintegrate. His presence is abrasive, unruly.
He glances at me as I move, but I can’t decipher what’s running through his mind. The jaw is still tense. He’s probably thinking I’m nuts.
I was in the dirt apologizing to a bench.
He kneels and bends over, starting his inspection. I bite my bottom lip. Hard. I’m going to hell, but even the devil itself couldn’t divert my gaze from his well-rounded ass. And still, nothing stirs in me. My appreciation is objective.
He pulls a wrench from the back of his tool belt and a screw from a side pouch, then sets to work. Barely a minute passes before he stands and says, “Done!” His smile is so bright and jarring I think I might go blind from the effervescent force.
“You fixed the bench.” I point at it like an idiot. “How did you do that?”
“It was wobbling yesterday so I knew I’d need to work on it today. The screws come loose every now and then.” He leans toward me, as if to whisper, and my body jerks back. When he sees my reaction he lifts his hands, placating, his mouth tight. I’m acting ridiculous, like an abuse victim would react to a man coming near her. No. I’m not this person. I am not some wacko afraid of being near men for no damn reason.
He didn’t marry me with a big lie hanging over my head. He didn’t cheat on me. He’s a nice guy, fixing a bench.
Stop being so weird, Gemma.
I ignore the wary feeling in my gut. We’re about two feet away from each other now, and he’s staring down at me with that grim expression again.
“What were you going to say?” I ask, smiling up at him openly.
See? I’m fine. I’m not some peculiar person who’s developed a psychosis with men I find attractive. Nope.
He considers me for a moment, most likely trying to parse out what exactly my damage is. Kneeling next to me, he points at the bench’s leg joints with a screwdriver. “Just that the bench is old, and I have to tighten the screws every now and then. Lillian told me she sent you here for contemplation, and I thought I should fix it before it crashed under you.” He lowers his voice in a mock whisper. “She does this to all the new volunteers. Thinks she’s playing a prank on them in hopes the bench will tip over while they’re sitting on it.”
My mother would have no shame in doing that.
“That can cause a lawsuit.”
He smacks the screwdriver down on his palm. “Nobody would sue the garden.”
“That’s adorably naive of you.”
He amends his statement with a searching glance. “Nobody with a heart would sue us.”
I’m tempted to launch into a speech about how most people suck, and I’ve assisted on a million legal suits to prove it. But that might make me seem crazier than I already am. I don’t want him to think I’m crazy.
Not that it matters what he thinks. He doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
He shifts on his heels and comes within less than a foot of my skin. Shouldn’t I be feeling something? Should my skin be tingling at his proximity, and my body shifting with the awareness of his?
There’s nothing. I’m completely numb.
“I’m glad the bench didn’t break while I was sitting on it. I might have developed a complex about my weight.”
He sits back on his heels, his tone flat and disbelieving. “Yeah, because kneeling on the ground and apologizing to an old bench is a much better outcome than a weight complex.” He points at my dirty knees. “And you ruined your pants.”
“You’re a man; you wouldn’t understand.” I fruitlessly try to brush the dirt off.
He tilts his head again like an adorable, inquisitive puppy, and I don’t know how it’s possible because he’s so rugged, and cute isn’t a word I’d ever use to describe him.
“I wouldn’t understand about weight problems?”
“Look at you.” I gesture to the large amount of person next to me. “You probably eat like an elephant, run for an hour, then step out of the shower with another row of abs.”
I stand, offering him a hand up. He takes it with a gracious nod. His hand is almost twice the size of mine. Dirt cakes the lines on his fingers, the granules scrape against my palm.
His grin grips my previously comatose libido and slaps it awake. The shock of it nearly shoves me onto my ass.
Whoa. That was definitely a feeling. One I want to avoid from now on.
I rub my chest, an odd ache forming beneath my skin. Heavy and irritable.
“And what happens if you eat like an elephant then run for an hour?”
“I wouldn’t make it the whole hour; I’d be too distracted by hot dog carts or Ralph’s ices stands.”
“Ralph’s ices? Is that a new place?”
The cadence of my banter falters. “Oh, no. It’s a New York thing. I moved here not too long ago. I’m still adjusting.”
He shifts on his feet awkwardly, adjusts the tool belt.
“What brought you out west?”
I lost all faith in humanity and decided to run away from my problems.
“Oh, just needed a change of scene, ya know?”
He gives me that long, penetrating look again, like he’s trying to hack my brain.
“You from here?” I ask, wanting him to stop staring at me like a circus freak.
“No, I’m from San Diego originally. My folks moved us up here when I was ten. I moved away after college.”
“Oh, how long have you been back?”
“About five years.” He clears his throat, his voice faltering.
“Why did you return?” I ask, just to continue talking. Though I probably should keep my big mouth shut. It’s the way he says five, like the word is cursed. I shouldn’t press him for this.
“I was in an accident. Needed to come back and recuperate.” He strokes down the fade on the side of his head, his gaze focused on the bench. “That’s all I’d like to say about that, if you don’t mind?”
“Of course. I’m sorry I pried. Blame it on East Coast blunt audacity.” The sound of my laugh is hollow. I should quit while I’m ahead. One month in hibernation and I’ve completely forgotten how to interact with people.
“Thanks for fixing the bench.” I wave awkwardly then turn away, giving him an easy out.
“No problem, but do you want to take that tour now?”
“Huh?”
“You’re Lillian’s daughter, right? I’m Jack. I’m giving you a tour.”
Oh, just fuck my life. Really? I cannot spend one more second in this man’s company.
“Oh, Jack. Right. You know what? I’m okay. I think I’ll stay here for a little while longer. I can walk around myself.”
“Listen, if you’re gonna be working here you need to get familiar with the park. The kids can be a little rambunctious, and they’ve been known to wander off.”
“I can look at a map and find my way around. Thanks.”
He crosses his arms, challenging me.
“Those maps don’t show areas like this one, the little hiding spots. Best trees to climb. It’s a big garden. And that’s not even part of the main park.”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t think you are.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“Opal is my boss. She told me to give you a tour. That’s what I’m gonna do.”
My defenses shoot up.
“Whether I like it or not?”
His tone gentles.
“Would you rather walk around a garden on a beautiful day with me, or stand here, talking to a bench?”
Oh, it is on.
“Fine.” I stomp past him. “If you ever tell anyone about that I will put cacti in your utility belt pockets.”
“Ouch.” He cuts me off and faces me, walking backward, sidestepping around roots he can’t even see. “I’ve never met a person so worked up over a tour before. Do you have something against trees? Nature? Instructional experiences?”
“Just show me what you need to show me,” I grumble as we reach the main path and all the pedestrians.
“Sure.”
“Jack!” An older woman with curly black hair and a gap-tooth smile encompasses Jack from behind in a big hug. “How are you, darling?”
“Great, Marianne.” He turns to face her, bending low to give her a kiss on the cheek. “How are you? How are the grandkids?”
“Wonderful. They keep asking when you’re going to babysit again. You’re their favorite.”
“That’s only because I let them eat ice cream for dinner and chow mein for dessert. Don’t tell their parents.”
“Ha, you gotta spoil them sometimes.” She elbows him playfully, clearly smitten. “We’re having a cookout next Sunday. Stop by for a bite.”
“I will, thank you. Tell the kids to be good for their folks. Or at least as good as I would be.”
Marianne chuckles and waves him off, shaking her head but charmed.
I get it. He’s good looking. His grin is infectious. He put his hand on her shoulder so gently, yet full of good-natured warmth. Who wouldn’t be affected by that?
Only someone with a dead heart.
“Sorry about that, I know most of the regulars here.”
Jack takes me to the sectioned parts of the garden, but he doesn’t tell me about the trees or the different Latin names of the flora as another tour guide might. Instead he points out hiding places, tricky places that visitors have tripped, plants that might be harmful to kids with sensitive skin. His attention to detail and familiarity with the garden is impressive, but he’s formal, never gives me the bright smile Marianne or any of the other people known to him are afforded. And there are a lot of people that stop to chat with the amiable Jack.
Like every single person that crosses our path.
Toward the end of our tour, I’m a bit frustrated by all the interruptions.
“Are you the mayor of the Botanical Gardens, or something? How do you know all these people?”
He laughs, shaking his head.
“What?”
“Your Mom calls me the town mayor sometimes. Says I know everything about everyone.” He shrugs like a good old boy. “I like getting to know people, hearing stories from their past, their hopes and dreams. Connecting to people on a level beneath the surface is a special gift. One I’ll always treasure and respect. The least I can do is provide human connection.” His mouth tightens as he says, “If they want it.”
A hot bitterness wells up inside me, the great tide threatening to pull me under. I take a deep breath, think of coffee and loud subway trains. Times Square at Christmas. Sangria with Sophie. Playing hooky with my best friend, Adele. Moments in my life I love and miss…but where they used to bring comfort, now all I feel is loss.
God, I made such a mistake coming here. There’s nothing I can connect with. Nothing to keep me from drowning.
“Want to talk about it?” he asks as the silence between us grows tense.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because I’m a really good listener.” He dips his head, trying to get me to look at him.
“You’re also annoyingly persistent.”
We walk a bit longer, in silence this time. When I start to recognize where we are I decide to make my escape. Being around someone so shockingly open is like razor blades on my skin, and he is too nice to say he doesn’t want to be near someone as rude and closed off as I am.
“Thanks for the tour. I can find my way back from here.”
“Wait—”
“Listen, I don’t need to talk. I don’t need any more lessons on being cordial to your neighbors. I just need to get back to the office. Goodbye.”
“You don’t want to do that, there’s—”
I walk backward as I talk to him, fed up with his highhanded attitude.
“I may be a lost out-of-towner who talks to benches, but I’m also an adult in full possession of all my faculties. You don’t need to babysit me.”
“Stop! There’s—shit.”
A big, cushy, squelching sound wafts from beneath my shoe, and the smell of shit pervades the air. I don’t look down. I don’t need to look down. I know I just stepped into a massive pile of crap.
“What the fuck?”
“I tried to tell you.” He grimaces, wincing at the massive turd I stomped into.
“Who doesn’t clean up after their dogs?” I start to pace, trying to scrape my boots against the sidewalk. “I mean, come on, people.”
“Stop walking around on it, you’re making it worse. God, that smells. How did you not see it there?”
“Why does life hate me so much?”
“No, really, you’re trailing it all over the place. Stay still.”
I close my eyes, and fist my hands at my side, trying to absorb the intense anger rising inside me. I tamp it down. No one needs that. No one wants to see me pissed. Better to be polite, and play it off like it’s nothing. Don’t let him see this literal shit affect me.
A hand on my ankle, my foot lifting from the ground. I start to wobble and brace myself on Jack’s shoulder. He’s at my feet, taking my boot off.
“Now I’m gonna step on it with my sock.”
“If you hadn’t stomped all over the place you would have had less of a chance of that.”
“I was trying to wipe it off.”
“On the cement?” he asks, incredulously.
“Just stop talking.”
Jack places my defiled boot near the edge of the path and stands.
“I’m gonna lift you, all right?”
I don’t have the wherewithal to speak so I just nod. He scoops me into his arms like a princess. But instead of being saved from a fiery dragon and a nest of thorns, it’s stinky poo I’m rescued from.
He places me on a large, curved root protruding from the ground then fetches the boot.
“Stay here.”
“Where are you taking my shoe?”
“I collect shit-covered shoes, and I’m adding this one to my secret lair buried deep below the garden.”
I stare at him a second, confounded.
He rolls his eyes. “Where do you think? There’s a hose connected over there, I’m gonna rinse it off. Don’t step in anymore shit while I’m gone.”
“Ass,” I grumble. Refusing to be thankful. But when he comes back with my shoe, slightly wet but sans poo, I say the words.
“Thank you.”
“You’re having a crap day, huh?”
I glare at him.
“No pun intended.”
I snort. That’s the understatement of the year. “More like a crap decade.”
“Take it from me—there’s no better place to recover from a crap day, or year, or decade, than this city.” Jack kneels at my feet and helps me put the shoe back on, blessedly free of poo stench.
“Speaking from experience?”
He looks up at me after zipping my boot, guileless. “Yes.” Without further explanation Jack stands, looking me up and down. “See you around, crazy lady.”
He leaves me on the tree root and walks away.
I am crazy. Crazy for thinking that moving here would solve my problems. Crazy for getting with Murray in the first place. Crazy for getting out of bed.
Although, watching Jack’s ass tense as his legs account for the incline in the path makes getting dressed and leaving the apartment slightly worth it.
Slightly.
I reach for the chain beneath my shirt and hold the precious keepsakes tucked against my chest. The metal of the solid band is warm, the ridges of the small diamond ring sharp. I press the points into my thumb, using the sweet pain to stay in the present.
Thinking of what Sophie or Adele might say if they saw me, I drop the chain like a burning pan and take a minute to get my shit together.
By the time I reach the office, Mom is sitting with Opal and the first woman Jack and I crossed paths with, Marianne.
“Marianne, this is my daughter, Gemma.”
“Oh, you were with Jack earlier.”
“He was giving me a tour.” My voice sounds tired, dead.
“I love that boy, but for all his talents with the earth he knows nothing about the genealogy of plant life. I’ll take you on a real tour.”
“That’s kind but—oh, you mean now?”
Marianne stands, taking my elbow like she owns it. “Do you mind waiting a bit longer, Lillian?”
“Nope, Opal and I are catching up.” Mom winks at me. “Have fun, sweetheart.”
I give her my best murder glare, one to rival my teenage years.
“Watch out for shit piles, dear,” Marianne says as we step back onto the path. “Jack told me a dog nearly exploded earlier, poor thing.”
Well, at least I can see the bright side to my misery. I won’t ever have to worry about getting my life on the West Coast started if I can’t make it through the day.
And at this point, I highly doubt I will.
Chapter Two
Jack
Didn’t expect this.
Jack
Didn’t expect this.
I try not to watch the newbie the rest of the day, but the way Marianne’s dragging her around the park like a fifth grader is too entertaining to ignore. After she starts quizzing the East Coaster, I gotta think she’s torturing her on purpose, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why.
When Marianne picks up a worm that’s crawling around the base of an oak and hands it to the city girl, I know for sure she’s screwing with her. I think the uptight redhead will squirm once it hits her palm, maybe even shriek in outrage, but she surprises me. The mask she wore throughout our conversation dissipates, and I see a flash of bright, clean fury. She stares at the worm like it’s the cause of all the world’s evils.
The woman is unhinged, and I fear for the worm’s life.
Luckily, Marianne is a perceptive lady, and takes the worm back after a second or two, laying it gently on the earth and stepping over it. The redhead composes herself, a fake smile plastered on her face as she follows Marianne back to the path.
She thinks nobody’s looking when she glances over her shoulder and gives the worm the finger.
I’m not gonna lie, there might be something wrong with this lady. Like, a for real psychosis. Which makes me the crazier one because watching her walk around the park, pretending to be interested, has got me more than a little intrigued.
She has an anger inside her; it’s pure and real. And it matches all that curly red hair, hair that would probably flow around her head like a cloud if she let it loose. It’s a shame she keeps it so tightly bound. I’d pay to see her hair flying free in the wind. It would look beautiful in the light, coasting around her face, moved by the cutting Bay. The brightness of her hair would slice through a foggy day and shine wherever she went.
She’s stunning. She’s beautiful. But she’s a hot mess and definitely nothing I need to have any part in.
“Jack!”
Lillian trips as she slides down the hill to get to me. I run up the ridge, careful of fallen leaves, to help her out, but she waves me off, laughing at her clumsiness. I’ve adored Lillian since the moment I met her at the gardens. She’s hardy and has an inner strength, despite the pain that brought her here.
And nothing like her daughter.
“How are you and that fussy kid of yours related, Lill?”
“Hey, don’t talk about my daughter that way. Only I get to call her fussy.”
“Apologies.”
We sit on a nearby bench.
“I came to talk to you about Gemma, actually.”
“Don’t know what there is to say. We barely spoke on the tour. Does she usually keep herself so closed off?”
Lillian sighs, pushing her frizzy gray strands off her face.
“She wasn’t always like this. Does she seem…happy?”
“That’s not my place to say, Lill.”
“When have you ever kept your nose out of people’s business?” She narrows her eyes at me. “Or kept your opinion to yourself?”
“She’s your daughter. I’m not gonna step in that shit.” The image of Gemma bouncing around on one foot pulls a reluctant smile from me. She looked ridiculous. And maybe her peevish pout was a little cute. A little.
Lill slaps my arm playfully, giving me an exasperated look.
“You’ve got an eye for people, Jack. A way to connect with them. I want you to try to connect with Gemma.”
“Oh, come on. You promised not to set me up with her when she moved here. You’re becoming like all the other old biddies.”
“How dare you call me an old biddy. I am a spritely sixty-seven.”
“And you don’t look a day over forty.”
Lillian, points at me, calling me out. “Don’t try to charm me; just promise me you’ll keep talking to her. She doesn’t know anyone. She doesn’t leave the apartment unless I force her. I’m worried she’ll stop showering and become a hoarder.”
“Can millennials be hoarders?”
“Instead of newspapers and tchotchkes it will be podcasts and images from her Instagram feed.”
“Don’t rag on my people, Lill. Let’s not forget it’s your generation’s need to—”
“Jack, I am not getting into another argument on the merits of the millennial and baby boomer generations. Stop trying to change the subject. Why are you so against talking to her? That’s all I’m asking. She needs a friend.”
Because you want me to save your daughter, and that’s not my responsibility.
But Lillian’s always been there for me, kind when I needed it. I can’t say no to her.
“I will talk to her, but I can’t promise to be her friend.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Lillian kisses my cheek a hundred times, getting her bright pink lipstick all over my face, I’m sure. “You two will get along great.”
“All right, all right. Stop. It probably won’t help.”
“It will. I promise.” Lillian pats my hand in assurance, clearly confident in her plan. “Look, there she is.”
Lillian looks at me expectantly.
“What?”
“She’s walking to the car.”
“And?”
“So go talk to her.”
“Now? We just spent an hour together.”
An awkward, silent hour, ending with her looking like she’d rather be anywhere else than with me. I know when I’m not wanted, and I can take a hint.
“I have to say goodbye to Opal, just go for a quick chat. Our car is parked by the side exit.”
Knowing Lillian, and her unfailing talent for persistence, I give in. It won’t hurt to try to talk to Gemma. At least then I can tell Lillian I’ve tried.
“You owe me.”
Lillian snorts, skeptical. “After all the Sunday brunches I’ve cooked for you and your friends, I do not owe you a thing. Go.”
“You know what, Lill? I was wrong. You and your daughter share the same kind of crazy.”
“You should meet my youngest. She met and moved to another country with a with a man in less than a month.” That makes Lillian pause, her lips purse in concern. “I should double-check that it’s what she wants. I mean, isn’t that really fast? That seems fast.”
“Go talk to Opal.” I give Lillian a peck on the cheek then start to back away. “I’ll see you later.”
I get out of there as quick as I can, before she launches into a tirade about how her daughters give her agita—a lament I’ve heard many times before.
I run toward a staff exit that will cut Gemma off. I’m taking a leap of faith she’ll welcome my presence, but when Lillian gets an idea in her head, she does not let it go. Connecting to strangers is one of the joys of my life—learning their stories and finding common ground where the assumption is there will be none. Healing mentally and emotionally from my accident taught me many things, but the most important lesson I learned was the significance of kinship.
When I think of Lillian’s daughter, I think of a woman who’s shut herself off from any possibility of connection.
She’s fake as shit.
Every time she gave me a bland smile I wanted to ask her why. What hurt her so badly that she’s gotta grin like it’s her job? She’s so bottled up that the only creature in the world she can show her true feelings to without fear of repercussion is a fucking worm. Trapped in a cage of her own making, her spirit will wither, and I gotta wonder if it already has.
“Hey,” I say, coming out of the side gate a few feet in front of her. She doesn’t jump, doesn’t scream as others have when I’ve used this secret entrance to play a joke on them. She just stops and stares at me, car keys in one hand, purse clutched tightly in the other. She’s wary of me, like when she skittered away back at the bench. She practically forced herself to kneel next to me, to keep up appearances. I don’t think I’m a particularly threatening person, so her responses force me to draw a conclusion I can’t avoid, and damn, I am so fucking disappointed.
“Oh, I get it,” I say, turning to head back into the garden. “Never mind.”
“Wait. What do you get? I’m sorry, did I do something to offend you?”
I whip back to her and point at her bag. “I’m not gonna steal that from you, all right? The big black man isn’t gonna mug the nice white lady on the street. You’re safe.”
“What? I—”
Her mouth is open, indecipherable words and sounds coming out. Her body is stiff as a board, and her shoulders are nearly bunched up to her ears, so tense and rigid. There’s no fluidity, no ease or comfort with who she is. I knew there was nothing I could say to make her life any easier. Lillian thinks I’m some kind of snake charmer, but this viper’s poison is beyond purification.
I turn to go.
“See you around.”
She cuts me off, her hands on my arms, keeping me in place, and the best part is the lava in her gaze. Her light green eyes are lit with that pure fury I saw earlier, and I’m caught in it, trapped by a gravitational pull, and I realize with stunning belatedness…she is singularly beautiful.
She’s made of smooth ivory and her face round and small in comparison to her tall and elegant frame. There’s a small splash of freckles on her face, but other than that, her skin is flawless.
Her eyes are so pale and green, like peridot. My birth stone. And hidden within a pristine braid are red curls I know will be wild if she let them loose.
I brace myself for her to rail at me, to accuse me of lumping her in with other racists. I expect her to tell me about how many POC friends she has, and her whiteness does not mean privilege. Heard it all before, not interested.
She gives me the unexpected. She surprises me.
“I’m sorry,” she growls out, her sincerity clear yet contradicting her tone. “I’m sorry if I made you think I was scared of you. That is—there’s no damn excuse for that.”
It’s clear she’s not angry with me but with herself.
“You surprised me. I’m in an unfamiliar area. That’s all.” The anger subsides like air draining from a balloon.
She walks back to her car and slumps against the driver’s door, rubbing her eyes. Her shoulders are hunched. The proud, angry woman from earlier is gone, leaving a shell. It’s disconcerting. Like she’s spent all her energy on one small interaction, and can’t fathom moving forward.
She truly is trapped.
I lean against the car, deciding to give her one more chance. It was bad enough she leaped away from me like a hot flame back at the bench.
“You have to know how a reaction like that looks. How that feels for me. I can walk into a room and see a bunch of women go stiff and the first thing that pops into my mind is it’s because I’m black.”
“I know. Fuck, I’m sorry. Today has just been total shit—if you laugh at that, or mention my shoe, I will murder you—but that doesn’t excuse me from the impact of my actions. Intent and Impact.” She lifts a hand to swipe a stray strand of hair back and a mark on her finger catches my eye.
Gemma is a puzzle. A beautiful, weird puzzle with a dent in her finger where a wedding or engagement ring should be.
Seems there are pieces of her puzzle that might never be whole again, but I get that. I’m the same way. Hell, a whole chunk of my puzzle is burned to cinders, and it is never gonna be complete, not ever.
I recognize something in her—the lost bits we can’t get back. Seeing that in her must be why I step closer, why I reach out to touch her hair, play with one of the long curls slipping down to her shoulders. I lick my lips and watch as she follows the movement of my tongue. Her cheeks turn pink, the porcelain of her skin melting away to reveal a hidden warmth, life within the shell.
She clears her throat and steps away, rubbing her hands together and looking anywhere but directly at me.
Right. Talk. Speak words.
“My friends and I get together every now and then to play cards. We’ve got a game coming up this Wednesday. Want to come?”
“No.” She says it really loud. Awkwardly loud, and she knows it. “No thank you, I mean.” She scratches at the fingers on her left hand, fast and compulsive. The dent is so prevalent that it’s almost a bruise. “No, thank you.”
“Listen, there are a lot of things here that would make you say no to my offer, and I get it. You don’t know me. We just met this morning. I’ve seen you do some pretty embarrassing shit, like give the finger to a worm.”
“You didn’t see that,” she gasps, but she’s smiling through her outrage, and hot damn, it’s a real, gorgeous, white-toothed smile. Her teeth are perfect, tiny squares.
“Hell, yeah, I saw that. It made me laugh. Then there was the time you stepped in shit.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“Still can’t believe you didn’t see it there.”
“Got it.”
“It was huge.”
“You can stop now.”
“Like, the biggest turd I’ve ever seen.”
“It was not that big.”
“It was prehistoric big. I imagine that’s what baby dinosaur turds look like.”
“No, their poos would be way bigger. That pile was miniscule. Barely a prehistoric mammal size, let alone dino.”
Her expression is open. She’s not hiding anything now, and she’s arguing with me about dinosaur shit. I’d call this a successful conversation.
I smile, and I can’t help notice her cheeks burn a little brighter when I do. It surprising to know I have an effect on her, to see this quick 180-degree turn. Maybe I was wrong, and there is life left within. But I can’t get that look on her face out of my head, when we were walking and she was just staring with lifeless eyes, like there wasn’t any reason to keep moving.
I remember that feeling, but nobody left me high and dry. They showed up for me, and they shook the life into me, tossed me back into the world whether I wanted it or not.
Why am I so hesitant to pay that favor forward with Gemma?
There’s something familiar about the way she dresses. Too familiar. Too New York. But I push past the discomfort and offer her a hand, because without one, where would I have ended up?
“I understand you’re new to the city, and though your answer of moving here for a change of pace wasn’t completely bull…” I pick up her left hand and run my fingers over the dent. “I know there’s a lot more to the story.”
She pulls her hand away, her eyes shuttering. I took a chance, knowing that move might make her close up a bit, but it was worth it.
“You don’t need to tell me about it; that’s fine. I’m not asking for your life’s story. But I think it would be good for you to get out. Lillian says you haven’t left the house in a while.”
“Oh my God.” Her shoulders hunch further if possible, trying to burrow into a nonexistent shell. “This is a pity invite, isn’t it? My mom asked you to talk to me, be my friend? Oh, poor Gemma, her fiancé cheated on her and she’s depressed.”
“Hold up, I didn’t know—”
“Yeah, because unlike my mother, who has a big friggin’ mouth, I like my privacy.” Her misery transforms. It’s not precisely wrath, but at least it isn’t the dejected form from a moment ago. “I like my solitude. There is nothing wrong with sitting on a couch and binge-watching TV shows. Nothing.”
“You’re right.”
“It is a societal norm now.”
“I’m with you. I love binge-watching.”
“Right? It’s the best.” She still sounds angry, even though she’s agreeing with me.
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath—like she did back in the garden—and comes back to herself. The annoyance dissipates, the bitterness in her voice gone in a flash. She’s plastic again, with zero substance.
“It—” She clears her throat, her hands fist against her stomach, then looks up at me with the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “Cards sounds lovely. Unfortunately, I’m starting to look for full-time work, and I need to search for a place to live. Now isn’t the right time for…cards. So, thank you, but no. Maybe another time.”
She stares at me benignly, politely. The epitome of practicality and civility and this bland personality she keeps pulling out to keep herself in check is starting to make my chest itch.
“You can keep smiling at me all you want, but I know you’re lying.”
“Excuse me?” She sounds offended, but it isn’t the purity of emotion I felt from her earlier anger. The mask is still in place, and it’s almost like a challenge I can’t help but rise to meet.
I make a choice, and take a chance on Gemma—that there’s still a person worth saving inside her. She’s not this vapid shell, she’s more. And I’m going to do everything I can to pull her back to the surface.
Even if it pisses her the hell off.
“Those false words you keep throwing won’t be enough to deter me.”
“False?” She straightens at the accusation. “Nothing about me is false.”
“Everything about you is false, Ms. Flanagan. So maybe it’s just as well that you’re turning me down.”
“Why is that?” she calls after me, as I’ve stepped back toward the garden gate.
I pause.
“Why would I want to surround myself with dishonesty? I know those types, the ones who tell you only what they think you want to hear. The people who’ll say or do anything to hide their true selves from the world. What’s the point of living if you don’t live as your true self?”
She doesn’t answer when I turn to leave, but I surreptitiously look back over my shoulder to see her jaw nearly lying on the ground. With all my willpower, I leave Gemma and head over to the small office at the entrance to check the volunteer schedule. The summer camp kids will be here on Monday. I usually don’t volunteer on Mondays.
“Hey, Opal?”
Opal’s short but lithe frame saunters from the back office. She rests a hand on her cocked hip and flips her ink black hair over her shoulder. The look on her expressive face is dubious, as if she expects shenanigans from me. The nature of our friendship is tempestuous at times, so I don’t blame her for predicting trouble.
A thought strikes me.
“Hey, aren’t your people from the New York region?” I ask, thinking what it must have been like for Gemma to grow up in the city.
She rolls her eyes at me. My knowledge of the Native American people of New York State is shaky at best, and I don’t even need to hear the exasperation in her voice to know I sound like an idiot.
“I, an average American woman with Seneca heritage, am from Queens. Would you like me to tell you the mating rituals of my New York City people?” She adds an extra layer of attitude by arching an eyebrow. “I saw you looking at that newbie, and how you practically ran after her once she left. Have some pride, man.”
“It’s not like that. Lillian asked me talk to her. Be friends, welcome her to the West Coast. That’s all.”
Her eyes narrow further. “Lillian is a nosy fucker.”
“I know, that’s why we love her.”
“Yes, but I think she’s got a blind spot where her daughter is concerned. She thinks a little socialization and nights out on the town will be enough to heal that girl’s heart.”
“You think she needs healing?”
Opal would know better than anyone about healing, having suffered an injury of the mind she still hasn’t recovered from, and, with her determination to avoid the problem, probably never will.
“Doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is Lillian has her mind set on fixing her daughter, and the woman looks like she only wants to be left alone. She looks beaten down.” Opal smacks my arm. “Reminds me of you when we first met.”
“I think that’s why Lill wants me to be friends with her.”
“You two have a lot in common. Both successful, worked on Wall Street…”
My heart stops, acid rising in my gut.
“She’s a broker?”
“No, worked for the lawyers who worked for the brokers. Lill says she was a shark at it, too. And now she’s here.”
God, no wonder she feels so familiar. She’s everything I can’t stand: every disenchanted attitude and disrespectful sneer I learned from my former life. She’s probably still swimming in that bullshit.
I can’t get mixed up in that crap again. My earlier promise to help Gemma out of whatever swamp she’s in looks more daunting than ever now. I should tell Lillian to find someone else to befriend Gemma.
“Hey, Jack, I’m about to leave,” Lillian says, sticking her head into Opal’s office through the open window. “You’re gonna change your schedule to match while Gemma is working, right? I saw you weren’t working much while the kids are here.”
“Lill, I have an actual business to run.”
“And you have employees to do that stuff for you.”
“I have two employees. Two. I can’t leave them high and dry.”
“You promised, Jack.”
“I spoke to her, and trust me, I’m not the person you want helping her assimilate. Opal can do it.”
“Jack—”
“I’m sorry, Lill. I’ll see you around.”
Before she can say another word, I grab my pack from the lockers and head out to my car.
I feel for Gemma, I do, but I can’t help her, let alone be friends with her, when the mere mention of her having a connection to my former life sends me into a tailspin.
It’s not my job to save her. She’s gonna have to do it herself.
When Marianne picks up a worm that’s crawling around the base of an oak and hands it to the city girl, I know for sure she’s screwing with her. I think the uptight redhead will squirm once it hits her palm, maybe even shriek in outrage, but she surprises me. The mask she wore throughout our conversation dissipates, and I see a flash of bright, clean fury. She stares at the worm like it’s the cause of all the world’s evils.
The woman is unhinged, and I fear for the worm’s life.
Luckily, Marianne is a perceptive lady, and takes the worm back after a second or two, laying it gently on the earth and stepping over it. The redhead composes herself, a fake smile plastered on her face as she follows Marianne back to the path.
She thinks nobody’s looking when she glances over her shoulder and gives the worm the finger.
I’m not gonna lie, there might be something wrong with this lady. Like, a for real psychosis. Which makes me the crazier one because watching her walk around the park, pretending to be interested, has got me more than a little intrigued.
She has an anger inside her; it’s pure and real. And it matches all that curly red hair, hair that would probably flow around her head like a cloud if she let it loose. It’s a shame she keeps it so tightly bound. I’d pay to see her hair flying free in the wind. It would look beautiful in the light, coasting around her face, moved by the cutting Bay. The brightness of her hair would slice through a foggy day and shine wherever she went.
She’s stunning. She’s beautiful. But she’s a hot mess and definitely nothing I need to have any part in.
“Jack!”
Lillian trips as she slides down the hill to get to me. I run up the ridge, careful of fallen leaves, to help her out, but she waves me off, laughing at her clumsiness. I’ve adored Lillian since the moment I met her at the gardens. She’s hardy and has an inner strength, despite the pain that brought her here.
And nothing like her daughter.
“How are you and that fussy kid of yours related, Lill?”
“Hey, don’t talk about my daughter that way. Only I get to call her fussy.”
“Apologies.”
We sit on a nearby bench.
“I came to talk to you about Gemma, actually.”
“Don’t know what there is to say. We barely spoke on the tour. Does she usually keep herself so closed off?”
Lillian sighs, pushing her frizzy gray strands off her face.
“She wasn’t always like this. Does she seem…happy?”
“That’s not my place to say, Lill.”
“When have you ever kept your nose out of people’s business?” She narrows her eyes at me. “Or kept your opinion to yourself?”
“She’s your daughter. I’m not gonna step in that shit.” The image of Gemma bouncing around on one foot pulls a reluctant smile from me. She looked ridiculous. And maybe her peevish pout was a little cute. A little.
Lill slaps my arm playfully, giving me an exasperated look.
“You’ve got an eye for people, Jack. A way to connect with them. I want you to try to connect with Gemma.”
“Oh, come on. You promised not to set me up with her when she moved here. You’re becoming like all the other old biddies.”
“How dare you call me an old biddy. I am a spritely sixty-seven.”
“And you don’t look a day over forty.”
Lillian, points at me, calling me out. “Don’t try to charm me; just promise me you’ll keep talking to her. She doesn’t know anyone. She doesn’t leave the apartment unless I force her. I’m worried she’ll stop showering and become a hoarder.”
“Can millennials be hoarders?”
“Instead of newspapers and tchotchkes it will be podcasts and images from her Instagram feed.”
“Don’t rag on my people, Lill. Let’s not forget it’s your generation’s need to—”
“Jack, I am not getting into another argument on the merits of the millennial and baby boomer generations. Stop trying to change the subject. Why are you so against talking to her? That’s all I’m asking. She needs a friend.”
Because you want me to save your daughter, and that’s not my responsibility.
But Lillian’s always been there for me, kind when I needed it. I can’t say no to her.
“I will talk to her, but I can’t promise to be her friend.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Lillian kisses my cheek a hundred times, getting her bright pink lipstick all over my face, I’m sure. “You two will get along great.”
“All right, all right. Stop. It probably won’t help.”
“It will. I promise.” Lillian pats my hand in assurance, clearly confident in her plan. “Look, there she is.”
Lillian looks at me expectantly.
“What?”
“She’s walking to the car.”
“And?”
“So go talk to her.”
“Now? We just spent an hour together.”
An awkward, silent hour, ending with her looking like she’d rather be anywhere else than with me. I know when I’m not wanted, and I can take a hint.
“I have to say goodbye to Opal, just go for a quick chat. Our car is parked by the side exit.”
Knowing Lillian, and her unfailing talent for persistence, I give in. It won’t hurt to try to talk to Gemma. At least then I can tell Lillian I’ve tried.
“You owe me.”
Lillian snorts, skeptical. “After all the Sunday brunches I’ve cooked for you and your friends, I do not owe you a thing. Go.”
“You know what, Lill? I was wrong. You and your daughter share the same kind of crazy.”
“You should meet my youngest. She met and moved to another country with a with a man in less than a month.” That makes Lillian pause, her lips purse in concern. “I should double-check that it’s what she wants. I mean, isn’t that really fast? That seems fast.”
“Go talk to Opal.” I give Lillian a peck on the cheek then start to back away. “I’ll see you later.”
I get out of there as quick as I can, before she launches into a tirade about how her daughters give her agita—a lament I’ve heard many times before.
I run toward a staff exit that will cut Gemma off. I’m taking a leap of faith she’ll welcome my presence, but when Lillian gets an idea in her head, she does not let it go. Connecting to strangers is one of the joys of my life—learning their stories and finding common ground where the assumption is there will be none. Healing mentally and emotionally from my accident taught me many things, but the most important lesson I learned was the significance of kinship.
When I think of Lillian’s daughter, I think of a woman who’s shut herself off from any possibility of connection.
She’s fake as shit.
Every time she gave me a bland smile I wanted to ask her why. What hurt her so badly that she’s gotta grin like it’s her job? She’s so bottled up that the only creature in the world she can show her true feelings to without fear of repercussion is a fucking worm. Trapped in a cage of her own making, her spirit will wither, and I gotta wonder if it already has.
“Hey,” I say, coming out of the side gate a few feet in front of her. She doesn’t jump, doesn’t scream as others have when I’ve used this secret entrance to play a joke on them. She just stops and stares at me, car keys in one hand, purse clutched tightly in the other. She’s wary of me, like when she skittered away back at the bench. She practically forced herself to kneel next to me, to keep up appearances. I don’t think I’m a particularly threatening person, so her responses force me to draw a conclusion I can’t avoid, and damn, I am so fucking disappointed.
“Oh, I get it,” I say, turning to head back into the garden. “Never mind.”
“Wait. What do you get? I’m sorry, did I do something to offend you?”
I whip back to her and point at her bag. “I’m not gonna steal that from you, all right? The big black man isn’t gonna mug the nice white lady on the street. You’re safe.”
“What? I—”
Her mouth is open, indecipherable words and sounds coming out. Her body is stiff as a board, and her shoulders are nearly bunched up to her ears, so tense and rigid. There’s no fluidity, no ease or comfort with who she is. I knew there was nothing I could say to make her life any easier. Lillian thinks I’m some kind of snake charmer, but this viper’s poison is beyond purification.
I turn to go.
“See you around.”
She cuts me off, her hands on my arms, keeping me in place, and the best part is the lava in her gaze. Her light green eyes are lit with that pure fury I saw earlier, and I’m caught in it, trapped by a gravitational pull, and I realize with stunning belatedness…she is singularly beautiful.
She’s made of smooth ivory and her face round and small in comparison to her tall and elegant frame. There’s a small splash of freckles on her face, but other than that, her skin is flawless.
Her eyes are so pale and green, like peridot. My birth stone. And hidden within a pristine braid are red curls I know will be wild if she let them loose.
I brace myself for her to rail at me, to accuse me of lumping her in with other racists. I expect her to tell me about how many POC friends she has, and her whiteness does not mean privilege. Heard it all before, not interested.
She gives me the unexpected. She surprises me.
“I’m sorry,” she growls out, her sincerity clear yet contradicting her tone. “I’m sorry if I made you think I was scared of you. That is—there’s no damn excuse for that.”
It’s clear she’s not angry with me but with herself.
“You surprised me. I’m in an unfamiliar area. That’s all.” The anger subsides like air draining from a balloon.
She walks back to her car and slumps against the driver’s door, rubbing her eyes. Her shoulders are hunched. The proud, angry woman from earlier is gone, leaving a shell. It’s disconcerting. Like she’s spent all her energy on one small interaction, and can’t fathom moving forward.
She truly is trapped.
I lean against the car, deciding to give her one more chance. It was bad enough she leaped away from me like a hot flame back at the bench.
“You have to know how a reaction like that looks. How that feels for me. I can walk into a room and see a bunch of women go stiff and the first thing that pops into my mind is it’s because I’m black.”
“I know. Fuck, I’m sorry. Today has just been total shit—if you laugh at that, or mention my shoe, I will murder you—but that doesn’t excuse me from the impact of my actions. Intent and Impact.” She lifts a hand to swipe a stray strand of hair back and a mark on her finger catches my eye.
Gemma is a puzzle. A beautiful, weird puzzle with a dent in her finger where a wedding or engagement ring should be.
Seems there are pieces of her puzzle that might never be whole again, but I get that. I’m the same way. Hell, a whole chunk of my puzzle is burned to cinders, and it is never gonna be complete, not ever.
I recognize something in her—the lost bits we can’t get back. Seeing that in her must be why I step closer, why I reach out to touch her hair, play with one of the long curls slipping down to her shoulders. I lick my lips and watch as she follows the movement of my tongue. Her cheeks turn pink, the porcelain of her skin melting away to reveal a hidden warmth, life within the shell.
She clears her throat and steps away, rubbing her hands together and looking anywhere but directly at me.
Right. Talk. Speak words.
“My friends and I get together every now and then to play cards. We’ve got a game coming up this Wednesday. Want to come?”
“No.” She says it really loud. Awkwardly loud, and she knows it. “No thank you, I mean.” She scratches at the fingers on her left hand, fast and compulsive. The dent is so prevalent that it’s almost a bruise. “No, thank you.”
“Listen, there are a lot of things here that would make you say no to my offer, and I get it. You don’t know me. We just met this morning. I’ve seen you do some pretty embarrassing shit, like give the finger to a worm.”
“You didn’t see that,” she gasps, but she’s smiling through her outrage, and hot damn, it’s a real, gorgeous, white-toothed smile. Her teeth are perfect, tiny squares.
“Hell, yeah, I saw that. It made me laugh. Then there was the time you stepped in shit.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“Still can’t believe you didn’t see it there.”
“Got it.”
“It was huge.”
“You can stop now.”
“Like, the biggest turd I’ve ever seen.”
“It was not that big.”
“It was prehistoric big. I imagine that’s what baby dinosaur turds look like.”
“No, their poos would be way bigger. That pile was miniscule. Barely a prehistoric mammal size, let alone dino.”
Her expression is open. She’s not hiding anything now, and she’s arguing with me about dinosaur shit. I’d call this a successful conversation.
I smile, and I can’t help notice her cheeks burn a little brighter when I do. It surprising to know I have an effect on her, to see this quick 180-degree turn. Maybe I was wrong, and there is life left within. But I can’t get that look on her face out of my head, when we were walking and she was just staring with lifeless eyes, like there wasn’t any reason to keep moving.
I remember that feeling, but nobody left me high and dry. They showed up for me, and they shook the life into me, tossed me back into the world whether I wanted it or not.
Why am I so hesitant to pay that favor forward with Gemma?
There’s something familiar about the way she dresses. Too familiar. Too New York. But I push past the discomfort and offer her a hand, because without one, where would I have ended up?
“I understand you’re new to the city, and though your answer of moving here for a change of pace wasn’t completely bull…” I pick up her left hand and run my fingers over the dent. “I know there’s a lot more to the story.”
She pulls her hand away, her eyes shuttering. I took a chance, knowing that move might make her close up a bit, but it was worth it.
“You don’t need to tell me about it; that’s fine. I’m not asking for your life’s story. But I think it would be good for you to get out. Lillian says you haven’t left the house in a while.”
“Oh my God.” Her shoulders hunch further if possible, trying to burrow into a nonexistent shell. “This is a pity invite, isn’t it? My mom asked you to talk to me, be my friend? Oh, poor Gemma, her fiancé cheated on her and she’s depressed.”
“Hold up, I didn’t know—”
“Yeah, because unlike my mother, who has a big friggin’ mouth, I like my privacy.” Her misery transforms. It’s not precisely wrath, but at least it isn’t the dejected form from a moment ago. “I like my solitude. There is nothing wrong with sitting on a couch and binge-watching TV shows. Nothing.”
“You’re right.”
“It is a societal norm now.”
“I’m with you. I love binge-watching.”
“Right? It’s the best.” She still sounds angry, even though she’s agreeing with me.
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath—like she did back in the garden—and comes back to herself. The annoyance dissipates, the bitterness in her voice gone in a flash. She’s plastic again, with zero substance.
“It—” She clears her throat, her hands fist against her stomach, then looks up at me with the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “Cards sounds lovely. Unfortunately, I’m starting to look for full-time work, and I need to search for a place to live. Now isn’t the right time for…cards. So, thank you, but no. Maybe another time.”
She stares at me benignly, politely. The epitome of practicality and civility and this bland personality she keeps pulling out to keep herself in check is starting to make my chest itch.
“You can keep smiling at me all you want, but I know you’re lying.”
“Excuse me?” She sounds offended, but it isn’t the purity of emotion I felt from her earlier anger. The mask is still in place, and it’s almost like a challenge I can’t help but rise to meet.
I make a choice, and take a chance on Gemma—that there’s still a person worth saving inside her. She’s not this vapid shell, she’s more. And I’m going to do everything I can to pull her back to the surface.
Even if it pisses her the hell off.
“Those false words you keep throwing won’t be enough to deter me.”
“False?” She straightens at the accusation. “Nothing about me is false.”
“Everything about you is false, Ms. Flanagan. So maybe it’s just as well that you’re turning me down.”
“Why is that?” she calls after me, as I’ve stepped back toward the garden gate.
I pause.
“Why would I want to surround myself with dishonesty? I know those types, the ones who tell you only what they think you want to hear. The people who’ll say or do anything to hide their true selves from the world. What’s the point of living if you don’t live as your true self?”
She doesn’t answer when I turn to leave, but I surreptitiously look back over my shoulder to see her jaw nearly lying on the ground. With all my willpower, I leave Gemma and head over to the small office at the entrance to check the volunteer schedule. The summer camp kids will be here on Monday. I usually don’t volunteer on Mondays.
“Hey, Opal?”
Opal’s short but lithe frame saunters from the back office. She rests a hand on her cocked hip and flips her ink black hair over her shoulder. The look on her expressive face is dubious, as if she expects shenanigans from me. The nature of our friendship is tempestuous at times, so I don’t blame her for predicting trouble.
A thought strikes me.
“Hey, aren’t your people from the New York region?” I ask, thinking what it must have been like for Gemma to grow up in the city.
She rolls her eyes at me. My knowledge of the Native American people of New York State is shaky at best, and I don’t even need to hear the exasperation in her voice to know I sound like an idiot.
“I, an average American woman with Seneca heritage, am from Queens. Would you like me to tell you the mating rituals of my New York City people?” She adds an extra layer of attitude by arching an eyebrow. “I saw you looking at that newbie, and how you practically ran after her once she left. Have some pride, man.”
“It’s not like that. Lillian asked me talk to her. Be friends, welcome her to the West Coast. That’s all.”
Her eyes narrow further. “Lillian is a nosy fucker.”
“I know, that’s why we love her.”
“Yes, but I think she’s got a blind spot where her daughter is concerned. She thinks a little socialization and nights out on the town will be enough to heal that girl’s heart.”
“You think she needs healing?”
Opal would know better than anyone about healing, having suffered an injury of the mind she still hasn’t recovered from, and, with her determination to avoid the problem, probably never will.
“Doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is Lillian has her mind set on fixing her daughter, and the woman looks like she only wants to be left alone. She looks beaten down.” Opal smacks my arm. “Reminds me of you when we first met.”
“I think that’s why Lill wants me to be friends with her.”
“You two have a lot in common. Both successful, worked on Wall Street…”
My heart stops, acid rising in my gut.
“She’s a broker?”
“No, worked for the lawyers who worked for the brokers. Lill says she was a shark at it, too. And now she’s here.”
God, no wonder she feels so familiar. She’s everything I can’t stand: every disenchanted attitude and disrespectful sneer I learned from my former life. She’s probably still swimming in that bullshit.
I can’t get mixed up in that crap again. My earlier promise to help Gemma out of whatever swamp she’s in looks more daunting than ever now. I should tell Lillian to find someone else to befriend Gemma.
“Hey, Jack, I’m about to leave,” Lillian says, sticking her head into Opal’s office through the open window. “You’re gonna change your schedule to match while Gemma is working, right? I saw you weren’t working much while the kids are here.”
“Lill, I have an actual business to run.”
“And you have employees to do that stuff for you.”
“I have two employees. Two. I can’t leave them high and dry.”
“You promised, Jack.”
“I spoke to her, and trust me, I’m not the person you want helping her assimilate. Opal can do it.”
“Jack—”
“I’m sorry, Lill. I’ll see you around.”
Before she can say another word, I grab my pack from the lockers and head out to my car.
I feel for Gemma, I do, but I can’t help her, let alone be friends with her, when the mere mention of her having a connection to my former life sends me into a tailspin.
It’s not my job to save her. She’s gonna have to do it herself.
Chapter Three
Gemma
is set upon by little monsters
Gemma
is set upon by little monsters
“How was it at the garden today? It’s lovely there, right? And the people are so nice, especially Jack. That young man gets along with everyone. What did you think of him? Oh, and how about Opal? I bet you two would make great friends. You should go out for a girl’s night. In fact, I know just the place!”
“Mom, please stop,” I groan, massaging my temples. “I can’t take your meddling.”
“What do you mean? I’m not meddling. This isn’t meddling. I’m looking out for my daughter. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine.”
I stare out the passenger window in Mom’s car, gripping the handle as the car starts up a steep incline.
“Stop saying you’re fine when I know you’re not. Should I call Sophie? Maybe it would be nice for her to come out and visit?”
“Under no circumstances are you to call Sophie and report on me. She uprooted her whole life and is still adjusting. Please, for her sake, leave her out of this. She’s finally happy.”
Mom is quiet for a moment before saying, “If you say so.”
“I do. And while we’re at it, stop telling people I haven’t left the house in a month, okay? I don’t need anyone thinking I’m a head case.”
“What, I can’t talk about my daughter with my friends?”
“Not if you’re telling them I’m a depressing mess. That’s not anyone’s business but my own.”
“You’re sleeping in my spare bedroom, it is too my business if you stop showering or start compulsively listening to podcasts.”
“Podcasts⎯what? Ma, enough. I’m looking for a job. I’m looking for a place. You won’t have to deal with me for much longer.”
And I won’t have to deal with you.
“That’s not what I meant,” Lillian says quietly, her tone regretful.
Great. Good job, Gemma.
“It’s fine. I get it. Having someone depressed around doesn’t do anything good for your own depression.”
“I love having your depression around. It gels nicely with mine. I gave it to you, after all.”
“Depression is only forty percent hereditary. This isn’t your fault. There are many factors creating all of this.” I scoop the air in the car toward me, as if it contains the very details of the past few years, and let it settle on my chest. What I’m feeling, the accumulation of stress and sleepless nights—that’s not hereditary.
Mom turns to me after parking the car, her hand gripping my headrest.
“It’s no one’s fault, but if you don’t let me help you it will never get better.”
God, I can’t walk on tiptoes around Mom to keep her happy, to make her think I’m doing fine. Adding that act to my already well-worn routine of benign smiles and putting on a good front will finish me off. How can I make her understand?
“I don’t want it to be better right now. I want to feel this. I need to feel it. Okay? Stop trying to fix me. This is how I am now. Get used to it.”
“No. I knew you before everything went to shit, as you say. You were happy.”
Her hand comes near my cheek but the sentimentality behind it feels like a hot coal. Her care will break me in two. I swat it away.
She cradles the hand to her chest, astonished by my action.
“Life happened,” I all but growl at her “I have a right to be unhappy. It’s not your choice as to what I feel right now.”
I get out of the car and don’t wait for her to follow before escaping into the spare room. I lock the door, pressing the ridges of the wooden door against my back. The edges dig into my spine. It hurts, but I deserve it.
Shit, the look on her face. What the fuck is wrong with me? She’s just doing mom things, trying to help in her overprotective way. But any hint of kindness or worry sets me off like a damn pipe bomb. It hurt when Opal looked at me sympathetically. It hurt when anyone Jack and I ran into ignored me completely. I want attention, I want someone to see me, and yet whenever they do I turn away.
And then there’s Jack, a man so beautiful it should be a freakin’ crime. The way he looked at me…first like I’m crazy and then like he saw right through me, a detective sniffing out a thief.
I clutch the rings through my shirt, harder and harder. My breathing deepens, dizziness fades. Even in death Frank calms me, his levelheaded nature always reassuring, even as the cancer took him from me.
The radio turns on in the kitchen, and I know it’s safe to retreat, for a little bit, into a space of safety. I get on my hands and knees and pull the T-shirt-wrapped box from under the bed.
I don’t open it, but just hold the fabric to my chest and imagine it still smells like him. I can feel his arms around me, or imagine what they feel like, as it’s been so long that I’ve forgotten such a physical detail.
The memory of my husband Frank is fading, but the hold he has on me is stronger than ever, and it scares me.
My body starts to ache, and I uncurl, climbing on the bed with the box, placing it on a pillow. Slowly, I pull the long silver chain off my neck. The delicate clink of links sound like hammers on anvils. I take the rings off. My wedding and engagement rings slide on my finger, slotting the delicate pieces into their permanently formed notch.
Murray’s ring never fit perfectly over the dent; it was too fat, too heavy. The weight of the massive diamond felt like carrying a brick.
Frank’s ring is small, subtle. It’s the ring a man gives a woman when he has to save for years and still doesn’t have enough for what he wants to buy. But I love it all the more for it. His wedding band goes on my thumb. It just fits. I trace the metal against my cheek, remembering what it felt like when he’d cup my face with it on.
I felt so proud to be his wife, until it all crashed and burned. Like everything does.
“Gemma, honey,” Mom calls through the door. “Dinner’s almost done. And I’ve got some clothes you can borrow for Monday if you want to try them on.”
I quickly open the lid, putting the rings and chain away, then tuck the box back under the bed. Mom doesn’t need another reason to worry about me.
Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I pulled the box out at all. It’s probably been months since the last time. I was doing so well. Yes, I’ve been wearing the rings as a source of comfort, but the box is a deeper level of baggage that even I know is a little messed up.
I skim my bare ring finger with my thumb, following the divot.
Jack touched my hand, rubbed the dent.
No one has ever sought it out before. Murray ignored it, never wanting to talk about my past. I sometimes caught Sophie glancing at it, but she avoids the subject, knowing it sets me off.
Jack embraced it. A tiny, insignificant gesture that opened something up in me.
I shake my left hand, dislodging the unsettling feeling. Flex and curl it into a fist over and over. I may be starting my life over, but this body, these memories, are mine to own. A stranger with a striking smile can’t disarm me so easily.
I double-check that the box is safe and hidden then join Mom in the apartment.
Her place is small, but that’s mostly due to the tiny bedrooms. Her kitchen, dining, and living room area are comparatively large, made for entertaining. The walls are bright white, with accents of sea green and coral. It’s an old Queen Anne house fashioned into a few apartments, so the crown molding gives it some extra flare, and the many paintings and pictures covering the walls make up for any spots that had the potential to be open space.
Lillian Flanagan’s home certainly doesn’t lack color or character; in fact, it represents her perfectly. Plants hanging from the walls, tapestries and knickknacks displayed in any available space, and in no particular order. She sees something she likes, she embraces it, and throws it up on the walls.
“Tacos for dinner?” Mom asks as I rest my hip against the kitchen counter.
“It’s not Tuesday.”
She smiles at my obviously pathetic joke.
“You know I love you, sweetheart. Right?”
I take her hand and squeeze, the discomfort from before weakening. It comes in fits and starts. “I know, Mom. I love you too. And tacos sound great.” Before she can ask me any questions or if I’m okay for the millionth time, I change the subject. “I have clothes for the camp.”
“Clothes you don’t mind getting dirty?”
“All I’m doing is herding kids from activity to activity. It’s not like I’ll be rolling around in the dirt.”
“Well,” she says haltingly, like she has a secret. “They can get a little rambunctious.”
“Please, they’re just kids. I pretty much raised Sophie and she was the most impossible nuisance. How bad can they be?”
***
The kids I’m watching for this volunteer gig are demons from the deepest circles of hell. They are rowdy, they are disrespectful, and they are tiny assholes. Within the first ten minutes of meeting the campers I’m kicked, scratched, coughed on, have dirt put in my hair, and not one of them listens to me. Not one.
I refuse to be conquered by these mini douchebags. I rode herd on the trickiest and most cutthroat lawyers on Wall Street. I will not be bested by small humans who don’t even have all their teeth yet.
I grab a whistle from Opal’s office, ignoring her questions, and go Von Trapp on their asses.
The shrill sound screeches across the field. They cradle their ears and bend their knees in annoyed crouches before finally looking my way.
“We’re gonna play a game. Come here and I’ll teach it to you.”
They ignore me, and I blow the whistle again. Twice.
“Two whistles means you have one more chance before nobody gets dessert after lunch.”
A brave soul pipes up. “But the first day at camp is organic ice cream day.”
“No organic ice cream for you, if you don’t come here and sit.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Miss Redhead is oppressing us!”
“Damn the man.”
A laugh to my right gets my attention. Jack, in khakis and a dark T-shirt, tool belt sitting snugly on his hips, watches us. Great.
“What seven-year-old knows the word oppressed?” I ask as he comes over, quelling the urge to move away. I’m still annoyed by his accusations from yesterday.
“Ones with social activist parents. Try the whistle thing again.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
He raises his hands in defense. “No, you were on the right track.”
I whistle again—two sharp bursts—and the kids come running. I guess they were more worried about the loss of their ice cream than their radical cries let on.
“Good,” I say with a nod as they assemble and sit on the ground when I gesture for them to do so. I give the whistle three sharp bursts. “Whenever I do that, you have to freeze what you’re doing and sit on the ground like you’re frozen in ice. Jack will demonstrate.”
He gives me a fierce side-eye that I’m scared to admit is kind of sexy, then throws himself into the silly exercise. When I blow the whistle three times. He flops onto the ground and poses with a horrified look on his face. The kids laugh.
“Okay, when I blow the whistle once, it means unfreeze and start playing again. Ready?”
“Ready!” They shout in unison.
I blow the whistle, and they’re off, dashing around the open field like a bunch of tornados with sticky hands.
“Not bad,” Jack says.
“They’re little terrors.”
“Yeah, we never get anyone who wants this job. I was surprised someone like you would take it.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, you’re…” He gestures to me, or my outfit. I’m not quite sure.
“And?”
“And…you’re wearing a white shirt.”
“It’s casual.”
“It’s going to get dirty in less than a minute.”
“I’ve been with the kids for a while, and the shirt is still clean.”
“It won’t be by the end of the day.”
“Want to bet?”
“I don’t bet. But I will enjoy saying I told you so by closing time.”
“I will enjoy doing the same.” Something he said stops me before returning to the kids. “Did you say no one wants this job? I thought the woman who usually runs it is out of town.”
“There is no usual woman. We beg people and guilt them until they don’t have a choice.”
“I’m gonna kill my mom.”
“Don’t. I’m sure she means well. Just looking out for you. Lillian is like that.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather not talk about my mom with you.”
“Suit yourself.”
He stands there, not taking the hint. I have to keep my toe from tapping in impatience. When is he leaving?
“What are you doing? Don’t you have earth to move or something?”
“No, I wasn’t supposed to come in today, but the friendship bracelet artist the kids were gonna work with had to cancel last minute, so I’m gonna teach the afternoon activity.”
“Oh, great,” I say with the most massive smile and positive tone I can muster. “See you then.”
“Yeah. I’ll be back after lunch.”
He starts to walk away, but I have to say my piece. It’s been on my mind since our last encounter, and I can’t let it go.
“Hey, Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“I have no problem working with you, but don’t try to psychoanalyze me again. I’ve got a past.” I raise my left hand, baring the empty ring finger. “But I’m sure you do as well. I doubt you’d want me prying into yours.”
Jack stares at me a second before nodding then sauntering off.
It’s better this way, to put him off early, not let him think I’m open to sharing my history over a drink. He might be able to charm the pants off all the people in this park, but I’m having none of it.
Throughout the morning, I work with the kids on what each whistle means, treating it like a game, and by the time lunch rolls around they are nearly all falling in line, marching around the park like little soldiers.
I’m quite proud of myself.
“Now, I’m going to ask a question. I do not want jumping and screaming for the answer; I want raised hands.” I wait a moment, ramping up their anticipation. “Who wants chocolate ice cream bars after lunch?”
Twenty small hands shoot into the air, and I am delighted to see not one make a peep.
“Wonderful. Let’s eat!”
This gets me a cheer, and I make sure to soften my smile as I lead them over to the picnic blankets some of the staff set up for us. I want the kids to respect me, not fear me. Opal is finishing setting out the juice boxes and lunches. She waves as we approach.
“Sit, and wait for us to distribute your lunch,” I order.
A hand goes up from a precious girl with long silky black hair.
“Yes?”
“Can we talk?”
“Yes, you can talk with your friends. Quietly.”
A bubble of giggles and a low hum of excited chatter starts almost immediately as I walk over. Opal is short, and there is something magnetic about her, lovely in its indefinability. But when she smiles up at me, her thick eyebrows flying high in her hairline, she appears open and welcoming.
“I have never, in all my years of working here, seen something like that.” She watches the kids with her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “Were you a war lord in a past life?”
“I was a project manager and legal assistant to lawyers. These kids are better behaved than them by a mile.”
“I have to admit, when I first met you, I thought you’d spend one hour with the monsters then quit.”
“I don’t give up that easy.”
“I’m glad I was wrong. Can I sit with you while we eat?”
I want to say yes, but I know the real reason she’s asking.
“Listen, I know my mom put you up to this. You don’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“She keeps nudging people toward me, trying to set me up on friend dates. You don’t have to treat me like you want to be my friend because you owe my mom.”
“Lillian is a force to be reckoned with, especially when it comes to her daughters. And yes, she asked if I would be willing to show you around the city, get you out of the house. But I wouldn’t have said yes if it was something I genuinely didn’t want to do.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.” The confession is stark, surprising that it’s come out.
“Girl, I get it. You’ve had some hard times. But wallowing in your own stew alone is not going to solve any problems. Trust me, I’m speaking from experience. Moving forward is, well, the only way forward.”
“I thought it was impossible for women over thirty to make new friends.”
Opal’s laugh is husky and bright, coaxing tension out of my shoulders like a deep tissue massage. “Let’s do what women have been doing since the beginning of time, and prove the man who wrote that bullshit wrong.”
Freddy, a boy with bright red hair, tugs on my chinos. “Is the food ready yet, Miss Gemma?”
“Almost.”
Opal and I work to quickly put out the rest of the food. I whistle, a quick sharp burst, and they scramble into a single line without having to say a word. Once they’re settled, Opal and I take a seat on the edge of the blankets to eat.
A loud, slamming sound draws my attention over my shoulder.
Nearby Jack is carting sacks of dirt and small pots from his truck. He looks up as he stands from his latest haul, and our eyes meet. He doesn’t quickly glance away. Doesn’t nod or wave hello. Just keeps staring, rubbing his gloved hands on his thighs, worrying the fabric. Even from this distance I can see his eyes shining, almost reflecting the sun. A pinch, aching and deep in the core of my being, spreads through my body, similar to the tingling sensation a limb feels when blood rushes back into its inhabiting veins and arteries.
A cold, gelatinous feeling coats my fingers. I ignore it, unwilling to break away from his gaze.
“Gemma? You’re mangling your sandwich.”
I turn back to Opal so fast my neck bones pop.
“What? Sorry. Did you say something?”
She glances down at my hands, amusement imbuing her relaxed pose.
I look down and my fingers have burrowed halfway through my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“Shit…”
“Miss Gemma said a bad word,” a small girl with braids and big brown eyes gasps, pointing in my direction.
“No.”
“You did. I heard you. I’m not a liar.”
“I—”
“She did.” The voice is like butter melting over a hot pan, satisfying and mesmerizing.
I will not look. I refuse to look.
“And what happen when adults say bad words?”
“My daddies put a dollar in my college tuition jar whenever they swear.”
“That’s a great idea,” Jack says. “What jar should we make in case Miss Gemma says a bad word again?”
“That’s not necessary. I shouldn’t have said the bad word. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know…an ice cream jar sounds pretty good.”
“Will it be made of ice cream?” Freddy asks, all innocent wonder.
“No, but that would be kinda cool. If there is enough money in it at the end of camp next week, we’ll buy some special, fancy ice cream.”
A loud cheer, coupled with suddenly hyper kids, takes over the field. I glare up at Jack.
“Thanks. Now they’ll go home and tell all their parents I’m going to curse so we can buy fancy ice cream.” I slap my hands on my thighs in frustration, realizing too late that my hands are still covered in jelly and peanut butter. “Shit.”
“One more dollar!” Freddy yells, pointing at me and laughing, victorious.
Jack chuckles as he crouches in front of me, resting his elbows on his knees like a sly jungle cat.
“Do you need a napkin?”
“No, I do not need a napkin,” I say too quickly.
“You sure?”
I give him my biggest and brightest smile. All teeth. “Quite sure. Thank you.” I lick the jelly off of my finger, trying to be facetious, not really thinking what the gesture might look like.
“Yum. Peanut butter is my favorite,” I say before he can make any obscene or inappropriate comments.
He only raises his eyebrows before walking away.
“Smooth,” Opal says, breaking her silence.
“I wasn’t trying to be smooth. He’s…distracting.”
“Now that I understand.”
My curiosity gets the better of me.
“Have you two ever…”
“Oh, no. He’s too charming for me. I like them a little rough around the edges.”
“Have you known Jack a while?” I can’t stop prying.
“He’s been working here a few years, so as long as that, at least. I moved out here right after college.”
“Where are you from originally?”
She gives me a sly look. “Oh, a little place called Queens.”
“What!” I grasp her hand in my excitement. “You’re one of my people.”
“Yeah, but it’s been a while since I’ve moved. I’m afraid I’ve assimilated.”
I shake my head, mourning the loss of a fellow New Yorker. “I’m sorry.”
We laugh and chat while eating the sandwiches that were rejected by the kids.
“So I’m sure you’ve been asked this a gazillion times, but as a potential friend, I need all the dirty details. Why did you move here?”
My fiancé’s a scumbag that I found buried in his boss’s pussy.
Every corner I turn in New York, I see something that reminds me of one of my exes.
I’m tired of being me, and I can’t change who I am in New York.
“Oh, a change of scene. You know how it is. The pace over there is crazy.”
She nods, understanding. Anyone who ever lived in New York will get it, even though it’s far from my full truth. Just like Jack said.
I try to steer the conversation away from myself. “Why did you move out here?”
“For grad school,” she says quickly. Before I can follow up, she asks, “Were you good at your job?”
“Yeah, the best.” I snort at myself. “Not to brag.”
“So, if you worked on Wall Street then the pace must not have been such a big deal?”
“I can be good at my job and still hate it.”
I didn’t hate my job. I loved my job, especially when Murray and I teamed up. We kicked ass in the office. We kicked ass everywhere. Murray made me tough. He taught me to throw away the rose-colored glasses I developed with Frank and embrace the stark brutality of our job. It was dirty and sometimes a little sleazy, but I enjoyed the rush of it all.
Actually, enjoy might be the wrong word. I had needed something different after Frank died and that chapter of my life ended…and Murray was pretty much the complete opposite of my husband.
“Right. I get it.”
I like Opal; she’s easy to talk to, but I find myself choking on any attempt at discussing my past. I’ve turned it into this big secret, and it’s not. I’m not special. A million other women have probably gone through the same things I have, and yet I can’t get the details past my lips. I change the subject, attempting to keep the conversation going. Ma said I should make friends, so here I am, trying to meet other kids on the playground despite wanting to stick my head in a hole and hide.
“How long did it take you to assimilate to life on the West Coast?” I ask.
“Shamefully, not very long. I think the culture of this city jives with who I am more than New York ever did. San Francisco and New York aren’t wholly different, you know. They’re both loud, filled to the brim with culture and history.” Her wide lips stretch into a smile, her gaze turning inward. “You can be surrounded by a million people and still feel alone as much here as back east.”
“How is that a good thing?”
“Here I find you’re not allowed to feel that way for long. Eventually someone comes along and pulls you out of your cave and forces you to go for a hike, soak in the sun, have a taco. There’s too much buzz in this city to ignore it for long, whether it’s political or cultural, literary or food focused. These hills can call to a person and wake them up with a slap.”
“So all I need to do is wait for a slap?”
Rolling, dark-skinned muscles covered in dirt flash in my mind. I don’t know about a slap to my brain, but my libido is definitely waking up.
Opal’s walkie-talkie crackles, and a voice calls out to her.
“Let me get this,” she says, getting up and answering it while walking back toward the garden entrance.
I turn my attention to the kids. They’re laughing and chatting pleasantly. No one’s misbehaving.
“They’re pretty cool, huh?”
Of course it’s him sitting next to me, grabbing a leftover sandwich and taking a bite like he owns the damn park.
My voice is saccharine sweet. “Why, hello, Jack. Nice to see you, Jack. Are you sure you want to sit so close to me? Is my falseness offending you? It could be contagious, you know.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes magnetic in the way they pull me in. His personality has its own tractor beam, made of joie de vivre and charisma. My pulse starts to skitter and my stomach flips. He leans close, no doubt about to deliver some diagnosis on what my problem is or call me fake again.
I’m still not over that.
“Gemma, can you pass me a cherry limeade juice box, please?”
Without looking away from him, I reach up to the table and grab the drink for him. Seeing him rip the plastic off the tiny straw and poke the through the seal with ease, instead of struggling for a full minute and cursing at himself when the straw bends, only proves to me his otherworldliness. He then chugs it down, which isn’t difficult as these are made for children and it only takes him two swallows.
“Thanks,” he says after a sigh of contentment.
Then he gets up, and I’m left with a view of his ass as he walks away.
What…just what?
“Californians…” I grumble, sipping my own juice box.
***
Jack
is surprised by Gemma
Jack
is surprised by Gemma
Over the next week, I force myself to stay away from Gemma. Watching her, I can tell she’s wounded, deep down in her soul, to the point where I don’t know if she’d want someone to help her crawl her way back to the light. Folks can become enmeshed in their tragedies, to the point where separating from them is like tearing off a limb.
But no matter how far from her I try to stay, we’re constantly thrown in one another’s paths.
The next time we’re together, the kids are in the herb garden planting seeds. The scents of sage and thyme permeate the foggy air, and through it all I see Gemma’s bright hair, pulled back in a braid again, shining like a beacon through the mist. She’s wearing a black polo that hugs her thin frame perfectly, and plain khaki pants. Unassuming and boring. Perfectly coiffed and put together. Annoyingly so.
I’m itching to unearth what’s beneath the carefully assembled facade.
She’s struggling to pull a root from a pot for replanting, so I kneel next to her.
“Hey, Rudolph, let me help you.”
She touches her nose, her glove-covered hand leaving a smudge of dirt on her face. “I hope you’re not referring to me as Rudolph.”
“Your hair is so bright I always know where to find you, even through this thick fog.”
“Don’t listen to Jack, Miss Gemma!” One of the little girls stands to defend her. “Your hair is pretty.”
“Thank you, Barb.” She points at me. “Don’t call me Rudolph. Teasing is not nice. Right, kids?”
“Right, Miss Gemma,” they chime in unison.
I grin, loving the way she’s enthralled them. They’re devoted to her now, her little soldiers marching to the tune of her whistle.
“Like this,” I say, my voice low.
I cover her gloved hands with mine and push her fingers deep into the soil. The move, one I can do with my eyes closed, turns into something suggestive when we do it together.
She looks up at me, her mouth slightly parted, and I can’t seem to tear my gaze from her pink lips, especially when she bites the bottom one.
My body stirs, my chest tightening as an urge to move close and cover her lips with mine takes root.
I force my gaze away, focusing on the task. Together we pull the stubborn root out, place the plant in a new pot, and cover it with fresh soil. As we use the small spade to fill the pot, the bare sections of our arms, right above our gloves, skim and touch. The hair on her arms is delicate, light and pale, soothing.
Her hands stop moving, and I glance up to see her staring at me, her mouth scrunched to one side in concern, and the dirt on her face smudged like an inkblot on white paper. I tilt my head in question, wondering if she needs me for something. She shakes her head and goes back to work.
For a second, I could swear she wanted to say something to me. At the moment, I’d give anything to know what it is, and as the days pass, I find myself wanting to know the real Gemma more and more.
***
The next day Gemma and I cross paths at closing time. She’s walking to her car, bag hanging limply in her hands, and I’m coming out of the side entrance, not even thinking she’d be there.
But she is, curls frizzy from the humidity and dirty handprints on her neat pants. The disheveled look contrasts with her put-together nature so intensely, I have to laugh. I try to hold it in, don’t want to embarrass her, but when she sees my pained expression she rolls her eyes and waves at me.
“Go ahead. Laugh. I know I look awful.”
“Naw, you’ve got it wrong. You’re more beautiful than ever like this.”
Her smile fades and she looks away, her open posture turning inward again, disengaging. I curse myself. Why did I have to say that? Change the subject. Say something.
Easy conversation with people is never an issue for me, except when I try to engage with Gemma apparently.
“So the kids were rowdy today?”
“There was paint. It was messy.”
“Enough said. You must be happy it’s almost over.”
“It’s not like I know what I’m going to do after.”
“Aren’t you job hunting?”
“It hasn’t been going as well as I’d hoped.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I like spending times with the kids. They’re so innocent and fun, no matter how many times they cough on me. You want kids some day?” she asks suddenly.
“Uh…I don’t know. Yes, I suppose. There is a paternal instinct I feel whenever I’m with those little monsters.” I give her some side-eye, wondering where this is coming from. “Do you?”
“I have the BRCA1 gene mutation. Found it a while back and got a hysterectomy. I can’t have kids.”
She gives me a hard stare, challenging me, and I’ve got to wonder why she’s even admitting this, to me of all people. Even so, it’s a gift I won’t squander.
“Shit.”
She seems surprised by my comment, or maybe it’s that she told me this at all.
“That is—just… Shit, women are fearless. Sometimes it astounds me what your gender has to go through every single day.”
She smiles, and hot damn, it might be real because it makes her glow.
“At least I don’t get my period anymore. That’s pretty nice.”
“Don’t even get me started on the whole period thing.”
“Why? Does the topic make you uncomfortable?” she teases.
She’s playing. That’s gotta be a good sign. I run with it.
“No, it’s just another reason why there is no way in hell men will ever be as badass as women. We are whiny bitches, and you ladies take bleeding for a week every month like it’s nothing.”
She chuckles, and I must’ve said the right thing because she’s nodding now, and the smile has only gotten bigger. She’s engaging with me. No barriers.
“It isn’t nothing. Sometimes the pain is detrimental.”
“Yeah, companies should give women extra sick leave for it.”
She stares at me for a second with this dubious look. At least that’s what I think she’s going for because she’s got her round face all scrunched up, and her mouth is pursed, and it makes me think of all the other shapes her mouth can make, and hot damn, she is adorable.
“Are you for real?”
“What?” Did I step in it again?
“Are you pulling my leg right now?”
“No…why?”
“I have never heard a man say that. Ever. And I have been a woman my whole life.”
“Honey, there are a lot of ways I believe the woman has been wronged by society, just like the black man has been wronged.” I have to step that back a little. “All right, not the same way, because a beautiful white lady like yourself can get away with a hell of lot more than I can. But we’re both fighting the same tide that holds us back, if you get my meaning.”
“Hmmm, true. But you can walk home alone at night without being scared the whole way.”
“Are you kidding? I’m terrified of the dark.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“I’m not lying. I even have a nightlight.”
When I hear her full laugh for the first time, a rolling, sensual sound, it surprises me, like so much else about her. She’s a tall, fit woman. Her frame is distinctly feminine. If I’d had to guess, I’d have assumed she would have a high, lilting laugh. This sound is deep and sexy, and it’s rusted with disuse. It’s a dark, wild ride, one that I’m holding onto for dear life.
She opens her mouth to respond when a young punk, bold as brass, darts out of the shadows, snatches her purse, and runs off.
“Did that fucker just steal my purse?”
We stare at his retreating form, dumfounded. I move to offer Gemma solace, sorry for the inconvenience this is going to cause. The sad, maybe even scared woman I expect is nowhere to be found. Instead I get a wild child.
“Oh, hell no,” she snaps, outraged, and takes off after the guy.
I spring off after them both, trying to process both the theft and her going after the guy like a super hero. “That did not just happen,” I mutter as I push myself to catch up to them.
The thief runs into the park, past the gate as it starts to close. Gemma yells at the security guard, demanding he do something. The old man shrugs but keeps the gate open so she can run through.
“Thanks, Hank,” I wave as I dash past him.
We make our way through the park, and she’s screaming and hollering at the thief the whole way, her pace never faltering. The skullcap-wearing idiot keeps looking back at her, the fear of God in his eyes.
“Give me my bag or I will fuck you up, you piece of shit!” Gemma screams as she leaps over a log and chases him into the tree line. “I know lawyers. Do not fuck with me.”
“You’re crazy, lady!” the kid yells back, still running.
“Agreed,” I mutter, no matter how impressed I am by her speed.
We come to an open field, and I catch up with her, keeping pace at her side. She doesn’t look at me—just keeps running, her gaze never moving from the kid with her purse.
“Gemma,” I pant, not used to this kind of exertion. She’s a mess, leaves and twigs sticking out of her hair from running through the trees, but her jaw is tight and her stride never falters.
“What are you doing?” she grits, color high in her cheeks. “Corral him.”
“What?”
“Corral him or something. Come at him from the opposite side.”
“Sure,” I say through gritted teeth as we get closer to the tree line. “Because I know the finer points of sheep herding.”
“If you’re⎯” She clutches her side, finally showing hints of exhaustion. “If you’re just going to be a smartass then go away.”
“I’m chasing. I’m running with you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
The purse-snatcher makes a hard left, and I know where he’s going.
“Fuck, the bus.”
“What?”
“He’s headed for the bus stop.”
I point, and through the thin crop of trees on this edge of the park the sidewalk looms, and so does the bus, turning onto the street and nearing its marked stop.
“No,” she grits. “I will not lose.”
She puts on a burst of speed that pulls her out in front of me. I break off, knowing a shortcut. Branches scrape and skim my skin, the wind bitingly cold as the sun sets. My blood is pumping, and I grin, the exertion filling me up in a way even a long day of hard labor doesn’t seem to do anymore. I haven’t felt this good since my dances on the stock exchange floor, volleying and challenging the other brokers. Placing bets and daring to take a chance. Seduced by the potential to make all that money.
I’m full of audacious life, and the feeling is fucking scary.
I hear the bus, the screeching of the brakes, the creak of the door as it swings open. I burst from the trees the same time as the purse thief, Gemma following not a second behind him.
“Don’t let him on that bus!” she yells, her hair a total mess now, falling around her face in wild curls, making her look like a woman on fire. “He’s got my purse!”
But she doesn’t need to say a thing, because I’m there, tackling him like the linebacker I never was. Our bodies collide with a sickening crunch, and I put my hand beneath his head to keep it from cracking on the pavement.
He may be a thief, but that is not a killing offense.
The bus driver storms from his seat, and the passengers pull out their phones to take videos. I shudder at the sight, memories assailing me.
“Turn those off!” I yell at the passengers. No one listens, of course. I turn my back so my face isn’t on camera. Gemma eyes me before turning her attention to the kid I’m holding down.
“Should I call the cops?” the driver asks Gemma.
“I don’t know. Jack, you okay?”
I’m too focused on wrenching the purse out of the thief’s hands to answer.
“Give it up, man. You’ve lost.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“You really want me to call the cops?”
I pull his skullcap off, revealing a pale, shaved head with a thorny rose tattooed onto his temple. He’s a punk, but he can’t be older than sixteen. Probably lives on the street, if the smell is anything to go by. God, I can’t call the cops on this kid, and sure as hell hope Gemma doesn’t either.
“Hey,” Gemma yells, standing over him with her fists on her hips. “Give me my purse, or I will let all these people on the bus video me personally testifying how a woman ran you to ground.” She leans over, her voice deepening. “And then I will tell them how I kicked you in the balls off-camera, and you pissed yourself while crying for your mommy.”
The punk lets go of the purse quicker than I can say Twitter.
The people on the bus cheer.
“You go, girl!” a teen calls from an open window. “Tell that asshole off.”
“Hey, lady, should I call the cops?” the driver asks again, this time less concerned and more annoyed by the interruption to his route.
Gemma takes a long look at the kid. He’s got his eyes closed, his face turned as far away from the cameras as possible. Gemma holds out her hands for her purse then fishes inside until she finds her phone. She takes a picture of the thief.
“No. We’re good here. Maybe he’ll think twice before targeting redheads.”
A voice from the bus calls, “Hashtag gingers unite!”
I laugh then. Even holding down the thief, I laugh. Gemma’s smiling too, running her hands through her loosening hair, pushing back the frizz and picking debris out of the curls.
When the bus pulls away, the thief asks with a surly mutter, “You gonna get off me now?”
“Don’t get up yet, Jack.” Gemma sits on the ground next to the guy. “I never said I wasn’t gonna call the cops. I told the bus driver he didn’t have to. Why’d you steal my purse?”
“I’m hungry. Was gonna sell what’s in it for food.”
“How much can a smartphone get you on the streets? Twenty bucks? Thirty?”
She pushes his sweatshirt up on both arms and examines his inner elbows. She’s checking for track marks. God, any other woman would have tossed this kid to the police by now.
“I’m not a friggin’ junkie.” The punk raises his eyebrows at her, challenging.
“Just because I can’t see physical evidence of drugs doesn’t mean you don’t do them.”
“And just because I’m stealing your shit, doesn’t mean I am. Maybe I like stealing. Maybe it’s fun. Gives me a thrill.”
Gemma flicks his ear. “Maybe I had my last dollar in that purse, and you just took it away from me.”
“You’re too pretty to be broke.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.” She rummages through her purse and pulls out what appears to be a gift card to a fast food restaurant. “This has a hundred bucks on it. Go get some food. Find a new hobby.”
He takes the card and stashes it in his oversized pocket, scrambling away as I get off him. We watch him go, too wrung out from our race through the park to really run, but he’s scampering as quick as he can, heading toward Haight-Ashbury.
I point at him when she finally looks over at me.
“I corralled him.”
“What?”
“You wanted me to corral, and I corralled.”
She stares at me wide-eyed for a second before bursting into pure, unfiltered, and untamed laughter.
And without warning, in a move so sudden it nearly makes me fall back, she comes to me and frames my face, her hands still shaking from the run. Her thumbs stroke my cheekbones, and the laughter fades, her gaze roaming every inch of my face like a book to study.
I’m frozen to the spot, not wanting to break whatever spell this is. But I can’t stop my hands from coming up to cup her elbows. I want to touch her, some small piece of her. The feel of her warm skin beneath mine, combined with her fingers stroking my face, turns me inside out.
She takes a sharp breath at the new contact and steps away. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t explain why she held me. Just pulls the barriers back around her and walks away.
Like none of it ever happened.
But no matter how far from her I try to stay, we’re constantly thrown in one another’s paths.
The next time we’re together, the kids are in the herb garden planting seeds. The scents of sage and thyme permeate the foggy air, and through it all I see Gemma’s bright hair, pulled back in a braid again, shining like a beacon through the mist. She’s wearing a black polo that hugs her thin frame perfectly, and plain khaki pants. Unassuming and boring. Perfectly coiffed and put together. Annoyingly so.
I’m itching to unearth what’s beneath the carefully assembled facade.
She’s struggling to pull a root from a pot for replanting, so I kneel next to her.
“Hey, Rudolph, let me help you.”
She touches her nose, her glove-covered hand leaving a smudge of dirt on her face. “I hope you’re not referring to me as Rudolph.”
“Your hair is so bright I always know where to find you, even through this thick fog.”
“Don’t listen to Jack, Miss Gemma!” One of the little girls stands to defend her. “Your hair is pretty.”
“Thank you, Barb.” She points at me. “Don’t call me Rudolph. Teasing is not nice. Right, kids?”
“Right, Miss Gemma,” they chime in unison.
I grin, loving the way she’s enthralled them. They’re devoted to her now, her little soldiers marching to the tune of her whistle.
“Like this,” I say, my voice low.
I cover her gloved hands with mine and push her fingers deep into the soil. The move, one I can do with my eyes closed, turns into something suggestive when we do it together.
She looks up at me, her mouth slightly parted, and I can’t seem to tear my gaze from her pink lips, especially when she bites the bottom one.
My body stirs, my chest tightening as an urge to move close and cover her lips with mine takes root.
I force my gaze away, focusing on the task. Together we pull the stubborn root out, place the plant in a new pot, and cover it with fresh soil. As we use the small spade to fill the pot, the bare sections of our arms, right above our gloves, skim and touch. The hair on her arms is delicate, light and pale, soothing.
Her hands stop moving, and I glance up to see her staring at me, her mouth scrunched to one side in concern, and the dirt on her face smudged like an inkblot on white paper. I tilt my head in question, wondering if she needs me for something. She shakes her head and goes back to work.
For a second, I could swear she wanted to say something to me. At the moment, I’d give anything to know what it is, and as the days pass, I find myself wanting to know the real Gemma more and more.
***
The next day Gemma and I cross paths at closing time. She’s walking to her car, bag hanging limply in her hands, and I’m coming out of the side entrance, not even thinking she’d be there.
But she is, curls frizzy from the humidity and dirty handprints on her neat pants. The disheveled look contrasts with her put-together nature so intensely, I have to laugh. I try to hold it in, don’t want to embarrass her, but when she sees my pained expression she rolls her eyes and waves at me.
“Go ahead. Laugh. I know I look awful.”
“Naw, you’ve got it wrong. You’re more beautiful than ever like this.”
Her smile fades and she looks away, her open posture turning inward again, disengaging. I curse myself. Why did I have to say that? Change the subject. Say something.
Easy conversation with people is never an issue for me, except when I try to engage with Gemma apparently.
“So the kids were rowdy today?”
“There was paint. It was messy.”
“Enough said. You must be happy it’s almost over.”
“It’s not like I know what I’m going to do after.”
“Aren’t you job hunting?”
“It hasn’t been going as well as I’d hoped.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I like spending times with the kids. They’re so innocent and fun, no matter how many times they cough on me. You want kids some day?” she asks suddenly.
“Uh…I don’t know. Yes, I suppose. There is a paternal instinct I feel whenever I’m with those little monsters.” I give her some side-eye, wondering where this is coming from. “Do you?”
“I have the BRCA1 gene mutation. Found it a while back and got a hysterectomy. I can’t have kids.”
She gives me a hard stare, challenging me, and I’ve got to wonder why she’s even admitting this, to me of all people. Even so, it’s a gift I won’t squander.
“Shit.”
She seems surprised by my comment, or maybe it’s that she told me this at all.
“That is—just… Shit, women are fearless. Sometimes it astounds me what your gender has to go through every single day.”
She smiles, and hot damn, it might be real because it makes her glow.
“At least I don’t get my period anymore. That’s pretty nice.”
“Don’t even get me started on the whole period thing.”
“Why? Does the topic make you uncomfortable?” she teases.
She’s playing. That’s gotta be a good sign. I run with it.
“No, it’s just another reason why there is no way in hell men will ever be as badass as women. We are whiny bitches, and you ladies take bleeding for a week every month like it’s nothing.”
She chuckles, and I must’ve said the right thing because she’s nodding now, and the smile has only gotten bigger. She’s engaging with me. No barriers.
“It isn’t nothing. Sometimes the pain is detrimental.”
“Yeah, companies should give women extra sick leave for it.”
She stares at me for a second with this dubious look. At least that’s what I think she’s going for because she’s got her round face all scrunched up, and her mouth is pursed, and it makes me think of all the other shapes her mouth can make, and hot damn, she is adorable.
“Are you for real?”
“What?” Did I step in it again?
“Are you pulling my leg right now?”
“No…why?”
“I have never heard a man say that. Ever. And I have been a woman my whole life.”
“Honey, there are a lot of ways I believe the woman has been wronged by society, just like the black man has been wronged.” I have to step that back a little. “All right, not the same way, because a beautiful white lady like yourself can get away with a hell of lot more than I can. But we’re both fighting the same tide that holds us back, if you get my meaning.”
“Hmmm, true. But you can walk home alone at night without being scared the whole way.”
“Are you kidding? I’m terrified of the dark.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“I’m not lying. I even have a nightlight.”
When I hear her full laugh for the first time, a rolling, sensual sound, it surprises me, like so much else about her. She’s a tall, fit woman. Her frame is distinctly feminine. If I’d had to guess, I’d have assumed she would have a high, lilting laugh. This sound is deep and sexy, and it’s rusted with disuse. It’s a dark, wild ride, one that I’m holding onto for dear life.
She opens her mouth to respond when a young punk, bold as brass, darts out of the shadows, snatches her purse, and runs off.
“Did that fucker just steal my purse?”
We stare at his retreating form, dumfounded. I move to offer Gemma solace, sorry for the inconvenience this is going to cause. The sad, maybe even scared woman I expect is nowhere to be found. Instead I get a wild child.
“Oh, hell no,” she snaps, outraged, and takes off after the guy.
I spring off after them both, trying to process both the theft and her going after the guy like a super hero. “That did not just happen,” I mutter as I push myself to catch up to them.
The thief runs into the park, past the gate as it starts to close. Gemma yells at the security guard, demanding he do something. The old man shrugs but keeps the gate open so she can run through.
“Thanks, Hank,” I wave as I dash past him.
We make our way through the park, and she’s screaming and hollering at the thief the whole way, her pace never faltering. The skullcap-wearing idiot keeps looking back at her, the fear of God in his eyes.
“Give me my bag or I will fuck you up, you piece of shit!” Gemma screams as she leaps over a log and chases him into the tree line. “I know lawyers. Do not fuck with me.”
“You’re crazy, lady!” the kid yells back, still running.
“Agreed,” I mutter, no matter how impressed I am by her speed.
We come to an open field, and I catch up with her, keeping pace at her side. She doesn’t look at me—just keeps running, her gaze never moving from the kid with her purse.
“Gemma,” I pant, not used to this kind of exertion. She’s a mess, leaves and twigs sticking out of her hair from running through the trees, but her jaw is tight and her stride never falters.
“What are you doing?” she grits, color high in her cheeks. “Corral him.”
“What?”
“Corral him or something. Come at him from the opposite side.”
“Sure,” I say through gritted teeth as we get closer to the tree line. “Because I know the finer points of sheep herding.”
“If you’re⎯” She clutches her side, finally showing hints of exhaustion. “If you’re just going to be a smartass then go away.”
“I’m chasing. I’m running with you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
The purse-snatcher makes a hard left, and I know where he’s going.
“Fuck, the bus.”
“What?”
“He’s headed for the bus stop.”
I point, and through the thin crop of trees on this edge of the park the sidewalk looms, and so does the bus, turning onto the street and nearing its marked stop.
“No,” she grits. “I will not lose.”
She puts on a burst of speed that pulls her out in front of me. I break off, knowing a shortcut. Branches scrape and skim my skin, the wind bitingly cold as the sun sets. My blood is pumping, and I grin, the exertion filling me up in a way even a long day of hard labor doesn’t seem to do anymore. I haven’t felt this good since my dances on the stock exchange floor, volleying and challenging the other brokers. Placing bets and daring to take a chance. Seduced by the potential to make all that money.
I’m full of audacious life, and the feeling is fucking scary.
I hear the bus, the screeching of the brakes, the creak of the door as it swings open. I burst from the trees the same time as the purse thief, Gemma following not a second behind him.
“Don’t let him on that bus!” she yells, her hair a total mess now, falling around her face in wild curls, making her look like a woman on fire. “He’s got my purse!”
But she doesn’t need to say a thing, because I’m there, tackling him like the linebacker I never was. Our bodies collide with a sickening crunch, and I put my hand beneath his head to keep it from cracking on the pavement.
He may be a thief, but that is not a killing offense.
The bus driver storms from his seat, and the passengers pull out their phones to take videos. I shudder at the sight, memories assailing me.
“Turn those off!” I yell at the passengers. No one listens, of course. I turn my back so my face isn’t on camera. Gemma eyes me before turning her attention to the kid I’m holding down.
“Should I call the cops?” the driver asks Gemma.
“I don’t know. Jack, you okay?”
I’m too focused on wrenching the purse out of the thief’s hands to answer.
“Give it up, man. You’ve lost.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“You really want me to call the cops?”
I pull his skullcap off, revealing a pale, shaved head with a thorny rose tattooed onto his temple. He’s a punk, but he can’t be older than sixteen. Probably lives on the street, if the smell is anything to go by. God, I can’t call the cops on this kid, and sure as hell hope Gemma doesn’t either.
“Hey,” Gemma yells, standing over him with her fists on her hips. “Give me my purse, or I will let all these people on the bus video me personally testifying how a woman ran you to ground.” She leans over, her voice deepening. “And then I will tell them how I kicked you in the balls off-camera, and you pissed yourself while crying for your mommy.”
The punk lets go of the purse quicker than I can say Twitter.
The people on the bus cheer.
“You go, girl!” a teen calls from an open window. “Tell that asshole off.”
“Hey, lady, should I call the cops?” the driver asks again, this time less concerned and more annoyed by the interruption to his route.
Gemma takes a long look at the kid. He’s got his eyes closed, his face turned as far away from the cameras as possible. Gemma holds out her hands for her purse then fishes inside until she finds her phone. She takes a picture of the thief.
“No. We’re good here. Maybe he’ll think twice before targeting redheads.”
A voice from the bus calls, “Hashtag gingers unite!”
I laugh then. Even holding down the thief, I laugh. Gemma’s smiling too, running her hands through her loosening hair, pushing back the frizz and picking debris out of the curls.
When the bus pulls away, the thief asks with a surly mutter, “You gonna get off me now?”
“Don’t get up yet, Jack.” Gemma sits on the ground next to the guy. “I never said I wasn’t gonna call the cops. I told the bus driver he didn’t have to. Why’d you steal my purse?”
“I’m hungry. Was gonna sell what’s in it for food.”
“How much can a smartphone get you on the streets? Twenty bucks? Thirty?”
She pushes his sweatshirt up on both arms and examines his inner elbows. She’s checking for track marks. God, any other woman would have tossed this kid to the police by now.
“I’m not a friggin’ junkie.” The punk raises his eyebrows at her, challenging.
“Just because I can’t see physical evidence of drugs doesn’t mean you don’t do them.”
“And just because I’m stealing your shit, doesn’t mean I am. Maybe I like stealing. Maybe it’s fun. Gives me a thrill.”
Gemma flicks his ear. “Maybe I had my last dollar in that purse, and you just took it away from me.”
“You’re too pretty to be broke.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.” She rummages through her purse and pulls out what appears to be a gift card to a fast food restaurant. “This has a hundred bucks on it. Go get some food. Find a new hobby.”
He takes the card and stashes it in his oversized pocket, scrambling away as I get off him. We watch him go, too wrung out from our race through the park to really run, but he’s scampering as quick as he can, heading toward Haight-Ashbury.
I point at him when she finally looks over at me.
“I corralled him.”
“What?”
“You wanted me to corral, and I corralled.”
She stares at me wide-eyed for a second before bursting into pure, unfiltered, and untamed laughter.
And without warning, in a move so sudden it nearly makes me fall back, she comes to me and frames my face, her hands still shaking from the run. Her thumbs stroke my cheekbones, and the laughter fades, her gaze roaming every inch of my face like a book to study.
I’m frozen to the spot, not wanting to break whatever spell this is. But I can’t stop my hands from coming up to cup her elbows. I want to touch her, some small piece of her. The feel of her warm skin beneath mine, combined with her fingers stroking my face, turns me inside out.
She takes a sharp breath at the new contact and steps away. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t explain why she held me. Just pulls the barriers back around her and walks away.
Like none of it ever happened.