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CATHERINE
It’s only beensix months since I last visited home, but it feels like a lifetime has passed. Adrienne continues to blossom and will own this town in short order. Mom and Dad have never been happier, and the town overall is buzzing with activity and success.
I take a leisurely stroll down Market Street and make note of the new store fronts, a boutique Japanese grocery story, a fancy cheese shop, and a skateboard and e-bike shop. With the new shops comes a bevy of unfamiliar faces. Happy faces of every type, white, black, Hispanic, Native American, and Asian. Mesa, like Arizona, like the rest of the United States, is changing. It’s wonderful to see the shift, the American dream alive despite what the media broadcasts twenty-four hours a day on cable.
Excitement runs through my blood as many of the new faces are young. College and post college aged new adults or young families just starting out. Mesa has a bright future.
I bite my lower lip and my mind shifts to Hunter and our conversation yesterday. When I explained to him that we need to break up a small part of me hoped he’d protest, even if it was just pretend like the rest of our relationship. The speed in which he agreed had me tossing and turning all night. He didn’t, but in my bruised ego head of mine it replayed as a scene over and over in my head of him wiping his brow and pumping his fist to the heavens screaming yes!! A part of me wants to protect what little ego I possess and wish he wasn’t joining Adrienne and me for the bike trip. The more time we spend together the more things could go wrong. But the tapping I feel in my chest tells me the truth - it’s excited to spend time with him, even if it's just pretend.
“Catherine!!” Seventy-year-old Mr. Johnson looks up from the meat slicer as I enter my favorite deli in town. “I heard you were in town and was waiting patiently to see if you had forgotten about this old man.” Mr. Johnson’s deli has been in Mesa since before I was born. Grandma jokes that she was Mr. Johnson’s first customer back in the sixteen hundreds. Mr. Johnson is white, bald on the top of his head, with gray-white hair perfectly styled on both sides. Dark circles hang heavy under his eyes, more wrinkles than I recall across his face. Mr. Johnson wipes his hands on a towel looped through his spotless white apron. He adjusts the white paper soda jerker hat that he continues to wear to this day and tugs to adjust the bottom of his matching white collared shirt. He is easily the best dressed deli operator in the history of deli owners.
“You know I can’t come home without picking up the best sandwich in the world. Adrienne and I are headed to Osprey, and I came to fill our lunch basket.” I save Mr. Johnson a few steps and meet him as he ambles toward me. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes. His hug is filled with love and joyous memories.
“It’s great to see you. It’s been too long.” Mr. Johnson turns and walks back behind the counter. His steps shorter than I remember, his movement slowing with age.
“Adrienne will have the roast beef,” I begin.
Mr. Johnson waves a hand at me. “I know, roast beef wrapped separate from the roll. Horseradish in a container. Tomato in a baggie. Everyone in your family has a unique order, no such thing as a BLT for the March family.”
He’s so right. Everyone in the family has customized their orders over time - myself included. “And I’ll have…”
He turns to me and jerks his chin toward the rear of the store. “You’ll have what she’s having. I don’t think I’ve ever had to make two of these in the same week let alone in the same hour. Ever.”
His words cause my antenna to rise. No way in the world would anyone else order my sandwich. I turn and find my feet gliding toward a woman lost in her phone. A deli ticket, number thirty-seven, peeking out from behind the screen. She is partially turned away from me, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I’ve never met anyone who’s ordered a tuna mixed with sandwich spread, a smear of guacamole topped with turkey bacon. I created that strange mix killing time in the shop waiting out a rare thunderstorm. Mr. Johnson had always claimed I was the only person he’s ever made this sandwich.
I stop a few feet from the brunette woman and make note of her long flowing, perfectly styled hair. A twisted crown, the same style I wore my hair for years. “Excuse me?” I approach and enter her sight line.
Her perfectly manicured hands lower her phone, and a pair of young eyes meet mine. The dark eyes widen in surprise. “Catherine?”
I don’t know this woman, but she feels familiar. “Do I know you?”
She extends a shaky hand in my direction, a wave of nervousness coming over her. “We haven’t met. I’m Claire.”
My hand freezes in mid-air with the name. Claire. The same name on the bouquet of flowers from Palmer. A woman who now receives flowers that I once did, wearing her hair in a style I once did, is now ordering a sandwich that only I order. My hand goes limp in hers, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Palmer’s girlfriend,” she sing-songs as if the world should already know her name. “He mentioned you’d be in town for the wedding,” she clarifies without a trace of attitude or anger. At least the hate Palmer spits in my direction doesn’t appear to be shared by Claire.
If Palmer has sought a mini-me, he’s done a good job. Looking at Claire is like looking at an image of me from five years ago. She’s younger than I was when I was with Palmer but I’m sure there’s a reason for that as well. “Mr. Johnson just told me about your unique sandwich order. It sounds… interesting.” I play ignorant, hoping for a clue.
“We’ll see. Palmer insisted that I give it a try. Sounds strange, but he’s always getting me to try different things I never normally would. Who knew dipping French fries into a strawberry shake would be so delicious?”
I bite my lower lip to hide my reaction. I would. This poor girl has no clue what Palmer is doing to her. I fight my initial instinct; I’ve done enough of that already this trip. I’m leaving in a few days. Palmer is no longer my issue. “I’ll have to give it a try someday, sorry to disturb you.” I begin to pivot when she speaks.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
“Tonight?” I twist back in her direction.
“The bachelorette party? Palmer insisted I go even though I don’t know Ava.”
Shit.
I was hoping to enjoy the party tonight. Catching up with Ava and friends without the concern of Palmer or a fake relationship on my shoulders. Now I’ll have to spend happy hour with a younger, prettier version of me that will report everything that happens to Palmer.
“Ava’s a sweetheart. You’re going to have a blast. You are old enough to go to Smitty’s, right?” I half joke. Smitty’s is my favorite bar in town and Ava selected it to host the bachelorette party.
Claire scoffs. “Palmer and I start most of our Saturday night dates there…”
“Two for one happy couple date night special from six to seven,” the words tumble out my mouth without thought. We had the exact same ritual.
“Number 37,” Mr. Johnson shouts and rings the countertop bell.
“That’s me. Wish me luck with the sandwich.” Claire twists her head to the side, a youthful smirk on her face. “I’ll let you know how it goes tonight.”
My gaze follows her happy strut as she scoops up the bag from the counter and waves to Mr. Johnson.
“I can’t freaking wait,” I whisper.
