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She stares into my eyes for a few seconds before shaking it off and turning around. Dropping the peeler back into the canister, she rounds the corner. “You’re exasperating, Charlie. You know that?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.” I peek around the corner. “But that’s why you love . . .” I catch myself, “. . . hanging out with me.”
With an apple-shaped kitchen timer in hand, she smiles, redirecting the conversation to a topic she’s more comfortable discussing. “Timers are antiquated. Why buy a timer when your oven and microwave both have the feature? It’s like timer overload.” Her arms go into the air as she glances back, but then she keeps walking—the timer is just a distraction tactic. “I need cupcake liners,” she says before taking off toward the back of the store.
I stand there a moment, watching her through the open racks of supplies. She’s mumbling to herself. That’s a nervous habit she’s started doing the last couple of months. Sometimes I wonder if she only does that around me, if maybe I’m the source of her anxiousness, but I don’t dare bring it up. I don’t want to make her feel self-conscious.
Roaming down the aisles, I find her in front of an impressive display of cupcake liners. Her finger taps her lip as she contemplates her choices, as if cupcake liners will ever matter in the grand scheme of life. “What kind of cupcakes do you want on Saturday?”
“I’m not one to turn my nose up at a cupcake, so any kind you like,” I reply, resting my shoulder against the case.
She leans forward and picks a pack of liners that are white with a lime wedge design on the side. “I’m thinking of making margarita cupcakes.”
“I’ve never heard of cupcakes the flavor of cocktails. It’s genius.”
This elicits a giggle from her. She takes her liners, and I trail behind as she proceeds toward the checkout counter.
Walking out into the early June heat, we both pause at the store’s door before we’re hit with the sun’s harsh rays. “I freckle easily,” she says, looking at me.
“I know.” I’ve watched freckles slowly start to cover her nose and cheeks as the warmer weather set in. I even made my heroine freckle. I recall a passage of my book that I wrote the other day.
* * *
My Everything ~
Though she considered them blemishes, he loved them. He loved every unique little sun spot on her, and often let his eyes drift from one to the next, making invisible patterns on her beautiful skin.
* * *
“Charlie?” she asks, breaking into my thoughts.
“Let’s go get you a hat,” I reply. I hope she didn’t notice my momentary mental disappearance.
She walks from one awning to the next, staying in the shade as much as possible.
Ducking into a corner store, I see a shelf in the front with baseball caps. “Yes, you need a Mets hat,” I say, convinced this is the right choice as I put it on her head.
“No, the Cubs.” She scans the shelves for a Cubs hat. She won’t find one, because this is New York City, and no store here is stupid enough to carry a Cubs hat.
“The Cubs? Are you crazy, woman? Talk like that can get us hurt in this city. I almost could have tolerated you supporting the Yankees, but the Cubs? No can do.” I shake my head at the horrid thought. “Maybe we should go to a Mets game this year. The smell of peanuts and popcorn, a cold beer on a hot day, watching one of the best baseball tea—”
“A Yankees game?” she asks, putting on a Yankees hat.
“You’re hilarious,” I deadpan. “The Mets. Always the Mets. Their games are more entertaining.” She rolls her eyes, and I decide I can’t stomach seeing her face under such an abhorrent logo, so I swiftly remove the offensive hat. “You’re a New Yorker now, pretty girl. It’s decision time. The Mets or the Yankees?”
“Why do you like the Mets so much? Don’t the Yankees have more history?”
“The Mets are the underdogs. I liken myself to them. Oh, I know what’s going on here. Don’t tell me Jim was a Yankees fan?”
I knew I shouldn’t have said it the second the words came out. But they did, and though I know it’s painful for her to think about him, I’m glad she’s faced with these memories. She’s been more open about her life with him, and how she felt after they broke up. The hardest part has been trying to help rid her of the guilt she feels over his death. Why should she feel guilty? He was the ass who cheated on her. He was the ass who ended it with her. She has no reason to feel guilty, but maybe that’s what happens. Maybe the living carry the burden of the deceased.
