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Chapter One
Zoey
There are many downsides to being a waitress at The Greasy Spoon, and not just how unimaginative its name is. My boss, Clive, seems to think I’m on call every day of the week, even on my days off, many of the customers are rude and talk down to me, but most of all it’s the fact I have to buy my own plain white T-shirts if mine get stained… and never mind that the stain was caused by Clive spilling some ketchup on me.
I sigh as I walk under the bright lights of the shopping center, my shoes click-clicking and seeming to echo all around me.
I find myself cringing with each noise they make, as though the passersby are going to stop and spin on me, aiming accusatory fingers with fierce glints in their eyes.
“How dare you march through here like a herd of stampeding elephants?” I imagine them saying. “Just who do you think you are?”
I stare at the floor as I walk, annoyed at myself for letting my self-consciousness flurry so effortlessly into my behavior. But this is nothing new. I start the day by telling myself, firmly, I won’t behave so anxiously, so obviously uncomfortable.
But shyness will laugh at my efforts the moment I try as if it’s freaking sentient or something.
I head toward the Goodwill that sits at the very end of the shopping center, hoping they have some plain white T-shirts in my size. I don’t like to think about that.
My size.
I’m not exactly what you’d call swimsuit ready.
Again, there it is, that niggling voice, that you’re-not-good-enough voice.
I hate it.
I would’ve had enough to buy some new T-shirts if I hadn’t splurged on art supplies at the start of the month, but submerging myself in my work is the only way I can blot the nasty thoughts from my mind.
The thoughts come night and day, slithering into my daydreams as well as my nightmares.
It’s your fault, a voice hisses, a tangled cross between Mom and Dad, their memories fragmented and cruel as the voice ricochets through me. You could’ve saved us.
I shake my head as I walk past the ice cream shop, pushing the internal monologue to a deep and ignored part of me. I’ve become skilled at dancing away from the guilt, the ever-present gnawing accusations that flurry into me like a whirlwind of pain.
“Excuse me?” a lady calls out.
I keep walking, certain she’s talking to someone else.
“Miss?”
She strides out in front of me, a tall woman with hair cut into a short pixie bob, her features sharp as she stares down at me with what looks like a kind smile.
But he had a kind smile.
Jerry.
And look where that led.
“Yes, hello?” I say.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was wondering if you’d like to do a good deed today?”
My defenses prick at once. I did a good deed a few years ago, and it led to a whole saga of pain and paranoia, and rage. But I can’t keep letting myself live under the shadow of Jerry, of his stalking, of his twisted obsession. Can I?
“What sort of good deed?”
She gestures to a booth on my left. I was so focused on staring at my feet – my regular state when I’m out in public – I didn’t even spot it. It’s a big airy space with placards on the walls showing various war scenes.
Soldiers hang out the side of helicopters. A group of them wrap their arms around each other and grin at the camera. A dusty road shows a few of them silhouetted by the sunlight.
“We’re running an event today,” the lady goes on. “We’re asking members of the public to write uplifting letters to members of our armed services. It doesn’t have to be long. A few lines will suffice. Just something to let them know we’re grateful for their service.”
Something stirs in me, an ember telling me that humanity isn’t as bad as I sometimes allow myself to believe.
“Oh? That sounds nice.”
“So you’re interested?”
“I’m not much of a writer,” I tell her.
Give me a canvas and a paintbrush, or even a notepad and a sketching pencil, and I’d be much better equipped. But somehow I don’t think they’re going to let me freestyle this.
“I’m Sara.” The lady offers me her hand. “Do you mind if I ask your name?”
“Zoey,” I tell her, as we shake hands.
I’m glad when she doesn’t mention how sweaty I’ve become. I can’t really help it. Put me in any social situation and I start to blush, sweat, and act like nervous prey, as though there’s a joker living inside of me who wants to see me suffer.
“Come on, Zoey.” She nods toward the stand. “It might be fun.”
“I’m not sure what I can say that will make their situation any better.”
“These are for veterans if that helps. Men and women who have already served.”
