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Currently, the repercussions seem too distant to think about. I’m still a bit hung over from the party and the sleeping pill Grant made me take. I knew I slipped up. I shouldn’t have mentioned that I haven’t been sleeping. It was a poor choice for a lie, clearly. Usually I sleep like a baby. Now, I’m groggy. Sleeping pills and alcohol don’t mix. Neither do lies and my husband, but maybe that was the point. Speaking of which, I woke up to a ton of direct messages—most pictures of people consuming shellfish. The church has a way of reminding you what’s important, and obviously, I’ve committed some sort of infraction I have yet to pay full price for.
When I pull into the parking lot, it’s packed; it seems everyone on the southwest side and their mother had the same idea about coming here. I drive around in circles, and I’m about to give up when I see a sign that says there’s additional parking in the back. When I pull around into the alleyway, it’s mostly empty. I put the car in park and glance over at my daughter. It’s probably better this way, parking back here. It’s slightly less conspicuous. This is a busy shopping area, and at least back here, it lessens the chance I’ll run into anyone we know. This way they won’t say they saw my car. My husband’s patients are everywhere, especially on this side of town, and you never know who you’ll see from church. It’s my job to be social. But it would be nice not to have to explain myself for once. Not to have to worry about doing or saying the wrong thing. It’s a blessing and a curse, all the rules I have to remember. Like traffic laws—or any law, for that matter. What keeps you safe also limits your personal liberty.
In this case, I have a plan. It was a rough day, given everything. I spent hours scrubbing the clubhouse to perfection, my just punishment for—I’m not even sure what. Disobedience, I think. But more likely a reminder that no one is above service. No one is above God. Anyway, I did my duty, I showed that I’m willing to be put in my place when necessary, and for this my husband might let the minor infraction of slipping from my diet plan slide— if I played it just right. Checks and balances, that’s what this is.
“What are we doing?” Avery asks, glancing up from her phone. She meets my eye, but her fingers never stop moving across the screen.
“Your dad and I found this coffee shop the other day,” I tell her, and I have to stop and think. How long ago was that now? It seems that hours turn to days, and days bleed into months. I can’t stop it. No one can. We wanted a slower pace of life, but I’m not sure if that’s what we ended up with. I watch my daughter as she turns her attention back to her phone, texting or snapping or doing whatever it is the kids are doing these days. What have we done?
“Coming in?” I ask.
She doesn’t glance up. “I’ll wait here.”
This is perfect; I won’t have to involve her in my little deception. Plus, it makes sense, given her phone is glued to her face. I imagine it would be hard to walk anywhere that way. That reminds me. I pick up my phone, open my camera app, call her name, and when she looks up, she knows exactly what I’m after. She smiles. Big and wide, happily. I click and capture the moment, posting the photo to Instalook with the hashtags #qualitytimewithmygirl #howluckyamI #theygrowupsofast. Then I shove the phone in my pocket and ask her what she wants.
“Surprise me,” she mutters without looking up. I tell her to lock the door, but I don’t think she hears me.
“Avery!” I yell, and she looks at me then, eyes wide. She knows I do not yell. “Lock the door.”
“Okayyyyy.” She rolls her eyes. I shake my head and stand there outside the door for a moment until I hear the click. She’s turned the speakers all the way up; She knows I hate it when she does that.
I take out my phone and check the number of likes Avery’s photo has gotten. Eighty-nine so far. I shove it back in my pocket, wondering if the hashtags I used were good enough. That’s when I see the girl from the coffee shop standing there, back against the wall, staring at me. She takes a drag on her cigarette and tilts her head. She’s watching me. It isn’t until I get a little closer that I can smell it isn’t nicotine she’s inhaling. She’s already stubbed it out, but a scent like that lingers.
“It’s you,” she says, and I look behind me even though I know she couldn’t possibly be speaking to anyone else.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry,” she scrambles, and I can see that she’s clearly flustered. I’ve busted her smoking pot, and she’s only just now realized her infraction. “Excuse me. I’m…I’m… so sorry. I don’t usually do this—I just—I just—”
“Don’t be,” I tell her, and then because I can’t think of anything better to say, I add, “There wasn’t any parking out front.”
“Everyone comes at this time. The 3:00 p.m. crash.”
“Crash?”
“Blood sugar. Or whatever it—it’s a dip. People need their fix.”
“Right,” I say, glancing back at my SUV, wondering whether or not I’m going to have to walk around the building or whether or not there’s an entrance back here.
“Tell you what,” she says, reading my mind. “I’ll bring your order out to your car…if you promise to keep this between us.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her, even though it’s a great idea. Leaving Avery alone in an alley clearly isn’t the smartest plan, seeing that I’ve already run into at least one person doing drugs here. I can just hear Grant now. No doubt, Avery would mention it, if she’s seen. She likes to hear her father speak of the lesser people. Already, it makes her feel important. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Also, it’s a deflection, and already she’s good at those, too.
The girl clears her throat, that or she coughs. It’s hard to tell. “It’s no trouble, really.”
I look over my shoulder to see if my daughter is looking my way. Of course, her head is down. Grant tells her all the time she needs to watch her posture. Maybe we should glue that phone to your face.
“So what’ll it be? Another Americano?”
I cock my head. I’m impressed. I thought stoners were naturally forgetful. “Do you remember everyone’s order?”
She shrugs.
“No,” I say. “I want the Lucky’s Special. And a latte. Almond milk
, please.”
“Okay,” she nods. “But just so you know, those two don’t pair so well together.”
