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I stared at a black-painted door. I’d traveled two thousand miles from Nowhere, Georgia, to get to this place: a black door. Beyond the door was my fate. Beyond the door held the key to everything. Beyond the door lived my brother.
Or at least that’s what I hoped.
Did I hope that? My hand was up, fist curled, ready to knock, but my brain wasn’t sending the right signals. There I was, having traveled all that way just to meet my brother, yet I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t knock.
I was fixing to turn around and walk my way back to Georgia when the door opened on my frozen fist. A tall woman stood in the doorway. She was absolutely stunning. With red hair, blue eyes, and classically good looks, I suddenly felt unworthy.
“Oh!” The woman jumped back when she saw me, a trash bag in her hand. I eyed the trash bag, my hand still poised to knock. I coughed, bringing my hand from knocking position to my mouth.
“Excuse me miss,” I said. “I’m lookin’ for Vic Wall. Does he live here?”
“Vic!” the woman yelled, turning her head back into the apartment. She dropped the trash but didn’t leave the doorway. “A woman is here for you. Do you have another wife I don’t know about?” Leaning casually against the frame, the woman brought her attention back to me. “Do you mind if I ask how you know Vic?” She tilted her head, smiling warmly.
I swallowed. I’d prepared myself for the inevitable confrontation with Vic, but not for this woman. I had no idea how to respond to her. Time ticked past in slow motion as I thought of what to say. Do I tell the truth? Do I stall? Do I outright lie?
“I’m not his wife,” I said, trying to make a joke. The delivery was bland because I was nervous and scared.
“Oh of course not!” She laughed playfully. Her laugh faded and we settled back into an awkward silence. She smiled at me kindly. I smiled back, like a dumb mute. As I opened my mouth to speak, not prepared for what was going to come out, I was saved by the sound of another voice.
“Oh ha ha, Lenny. I only had the one hidden wife.” My stomach dropped. Despite the constant slew of pep talks running through my mind, I still wasn’t ready to meet Vic.
My big brother.
My only sibling.
My last real family.
He’d abandoned me, left me all alone with Daddy, and moved on to greater things. He sounded happy. He sounded fulfilled. No doubt he was, living with a supermodel and having the time of his life.
I realized then that I hated him.
“One is really more than enough,” the woman—Lenny, apparently—replied dryly. I was barely paying attention to their conversation. All I could concentrate on was the inevitability of my brother’s appearance as she stepped aside to make room for him. I panicked. I tripped back, trying to exit before he appeared.
“You know what…” I started to form an excuse, any excuse to not have to see him. Even if it meant I had to leave and go back to my horrible life, it was better than seeing him in that moment.
“Who is—” Too late. Vic rounded the corner and upon seeing me his face dropped and his tongue tied. Apparently I wasn’t the only one with filial hangups. “Grace?” Vic spoke my name so quietly it barely registered.
“Grace?” The woman looked from Vic to me and back to Vic. “Who is Grace?” She looked at me, eyebrow raised. “You’re Grace? I’m missing something, obviously.”
“I am. I’m…” My tongue seized in my mouth. What am I doing here? I had no place to stay. No job. No lick of the kind of life I was interrupting. I wasn’t welcome.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” I turned around without another word and dashed down the hallway, disappearing down the staircase. By the time the heavy iron door clanged shut, I was already two flights down and nearing the exit.
I’d made a huge mistake.
I sat alone at a coffee shop, drinking water because I didn’t have enough money to buy coffee. Five dollars for a small—excuse me, tall coffee? When did being a Rockefeller become a prerequisite for ordering coffee? I had really wanted coffee. I was tired from the bus ride, having only slept a few hours total in the past couple of days. Instead of coffee, though, I had to settle for water. At least the cool liquid was refreshing.
Staring at the wall in front of me, which was decorated with French paintings, I couldn’t keep my mind still. It seemed like dreams were mixing with reality, and it was becoming harder and harder to control my thoughts. Memories were slipping past my usual defenses.
“What is that?”
“It’s a backpack.”
“I know what it is. Why do you have it?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Could you not cuss at me please?”
“Sorry…it’s just, I got word that you were leaving, but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe you would just leave like this.”
“What did you think was going to happen?”
“Hey? Excuse me? Hello?” I blinked lazily, my mind caught in the past. A hand waved hurriedly in front of my face, trying to get my attention. I blinked some more, willing my thou
ghts to return to the present, and followed the hand to its owner: a woman with inky black hair, macchiato skin, and freckles dusting the shoulders that peeked out from her off-the-shoulder shirt.
“I apologize,” I said, voice sluggish. “What do you need?”
“Did you see who took my bag?” the woman asked, eyes darting furiously around the shop.
“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her properly.
“Over there.” She pointed to an empty couch, eyes still trained on me. The couch was the kind where people were supposed to lounge, drink coffee, and compose the next great American novel. “I left my bag there and now it’s gone. I was wondering if you saw someone take it. It must have happened in the last five minutes while I was in the bathroom.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, no. I was kinda lost in thought.” Lost in memories, more like. No matter how far I went, I still couldn’t escape them.
“Well that’s just fuckin’ great ain’t it?” The woman huffed a sigh and turned her attention back to the couch.
“I’m sorry,” I offered meekly.
“It’s not your fault,” the woman said, frowning. “I mean, I’m the idiot who left her bag alone. Welcome to California, right?” She put her hands on her hips, frowning at the empty spot on the couch.
“You’re new to California?” I set down my waning water and watched the woman. She looked young, probably around my age. She had big brown eyes and one arm of her coffee-colored skin was covered in colorful floral tattoos.
She reminded me of the type of Spanish paintings done on mosaic tiles, where women with long eyelashes and big smiles wore red flowers in their hair and were dressed in turquoise. I imagined that’s what she would look like when her bag hadn’t just been stolen.
