Before I can stop myself, I fire off the text.
There isn’t a chance she ended up finding me on her first day in Ithaca by coincidence.
No… that was fate.
Our… no,myElizabeth is back.
Maybe Hart was right. There is no controlling a pattern that plays out over and over again. There was no way to prevent the inevitable. Because if it’s her, everything we thought we knew was wrong.
A flash of memories assaults me, making my heart ache. If we fail, I know what happens…
We can’t fail this time.
She’s at my door, looking hopeful.
Her immediate response to my text last night was surprising, but her accepting my invitation to stop by my house is concerning.
What if I wanted to harm her?
I hold the screen door open, catching a whiff of her flowery perfume, her thick dark ponytail grazing my arm. Deep inside me, a warning flag rises. This isn’t good… this attraction to Biz.
On the other hand… I’m not Eric or Hart.
I can protect her.
“Mornin’. Should we discuss your lack of self-preservation, or would you like a cup of coffee first?”
The Victorian house I rent along with two fussy housemates on the edge of Ithaca, perched on a hillside, is just as eclectic inside as it is outside. On the lawn sits a sculpture of a parrot made from metal scraps welded together. All the grass has been replaced by white rocks, and flags from Rock Am, the state of Texas, and Brazil hang from the top of the porch. Inside, the walls are dotted with art I’ve collected from around the world. Aboriginal pieces, abstract art from Amsterdam depicting various sexual positions, landscape watercolors by a one-armed man from Mexico. Then there’s the mismatched furniture and lamps.
That’s all on top of wild jungle wallpaper, rugs made by my Meems (grandma), and the constant din of talk radio playing in the background.
She spins slowly, taking it all in. “I think If I’m killed, they may check here first…”
I lead her to the porch and the tiled swing, where she sits next to me, blowing on her coffee.
Through an open window comes a loud chant: “Go, cocksucker, go. Go, cocksucker, go.”
She jumps slightly, looking in the window. “What was that?”
Mimicking her, my African Grey Parrot, Hobey, says, “What was that? What was that?”
I tell her about finding Hobey on spring break in Brazil three years ago and the adventure of getting him home. She laughs until tears stream down her face as I explain how he adopted one of my wooden spoons as his favorite possession.
I have to stop myself from firing questions at her… Do you still love grape Jolly Ranchers? Can you still draw blindfolded? Is your favorite song still U2’sWith or Without You? I settle on just asking, “Getting settled in at Jameson Hall?”
Because you belong at Rockefeller Amherst.
She shrugs. “I’ve met some of the people on my floor, but no one seemed interested in making friends.”
“Their loss.”
She’s pretty… in a girl-next-door, sweet way. Dark wavy hair, freckles across her cheeks and nose, light hazel eyes, perfect Cupid’s bow-shaped lips. Yeah… I’m locked in…
“...Cocksucker, go. Go, cocksucker.” Hobey keeps squawking. I usually tune him out. His noise usually blends into the other ruckus, but Biz covers her mouth to smother a laugh.
We go over what needs to be done at the gallery… changing out displays every three days, except for the large back room that stays up for a month. Occasionally, we handle exhibits or parties,serving refreshments and cleaning up. “...Most of it is opening mail and prioritizing it, answering phones, upkeep cleaning… that sort of thing.”
Even with the piddly pay, she takes the job. I want to react, but I keep my cool.
