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“I got you fruit punch.” Grace puts the cup in my hand.
“Thank you, Baby Bear.” I take a sip. It tastes like childhood.
Grace flops back down onto the grass and peers up at me and Rowan, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “What have you guys been talking about?”
“Your Auntie Summer’s coffee shop,” Rowan replies, flashing me a wink.
I’m sure it’s an innocent gesture, but that wink is like a stab to the heart, as my guilt gauge goes into overdrive. My mind races, wondering if I’ve led him on. Was I flirting by accident? Are we in winking territory, now? DidIput us there? I feel sick, and take another, long sip of my drink. It’s cold and refreshing, if a little too sweet, and it helps to center my rampaging thoughts.
“What coffee shop?” Grace sits up. “Did you buy one? Can I come and visit?”
I muster a laugh. “You can visitifI decide to open one.”
“Will you serve hot chocolate?”
I nod. “With extra marshmallows, just for you.”
“I can’t wait.” Grace lies back down, kicking her feet as if her legs can’t contain their excitement.
I dare to glance across at Rowan, wanting to offer a nod of gratitude for his business support. But he’s looking at me strangely, his warm eyes shining with the glow that rises from that lopsided smile of his. And though it’s better than the glare I thought he was shooting me earlier, I have to wonder if my first instinct was right—that I really shouldn’t be here at all.
4
ROWAN
“It’s Saturday…” I fumble around for my phone to check the date, remembering it’s in my hand “… May 21st. It’s… uh… eleven-thirty at night. Not too warm, not too cold.”
I’mthisclose to setting the phone down and giving up. What am I even saying? Nothing I want to say, that’s for damn sure. I knew this “mindfulness” thing was a bust the minute the company therapist suggested it, but if I don’t do it, and show I’m following policy, they’ll put me in some office in Nowhereville. Not that I’m against therapy; I’m all for it, but I’d rather talk to an objective, real-life person than my wonky face, reflected back in a screen. No angle makes it any more flattering, and nothing I say makes this feel any less awkward.
Seriously, it’s not even necessary. You have one unfortunate episode, one time, after working your ass off for weeks—no, months—on end with a bunch of American kids who thought they were on an all-expenses-paid vacation to Malaysia, and you suddenly have “acute stress disorder” that could rear its ugly head again at a moment’s notice? Something they have a “duty of care to be concerned about” due to its link to heart disease and sudden cardiac arrests? Give me a break. I’m a workaholic and was stressed out.
“I guess it was out of character,” I mumble, making my video diary even more disjointed. “Maybe, that’s why.”
I’m not a hard ass but more of a softly get-shit-done-ASAP kind of boss. Either way, I made the Malaysia office a success, and this is my reward—videoing myself talking to myself.
I hurl the first attempt into the digital trashcan and try again. “It’s Saturday, May 21st, eleven-thirty at night and… today has been a good day.” It feels nice to say that and mostly mean it. “It was Grace’s birthday party. I’ve never seen the kid so happy, and Christ knows she needs something to smile about. I know how much it sucks, not having your dad around for big life stuff, but it’s worse for her—she doesn’t get a choice, and it’s not because her dad couldn’t be bothered.”
I’m sinking into a blacker hole than I intended, and ought to clamber out before it drags me too far in. The company therapist, bless her heart, told me it’s okay to dwell on some of the bad things, but I should focus on the positives if I can. Which basically means - don’t self-pity: it won’t be good for your heart. Pretend the world is sunshine and rainbows. And the world can be, but getting put in the “naughty seat” by my boss has turned everything black and white.
I bet that’s what the company is most worried about: me, having a heart attack due to the pressure of makingthema success. I wouldn’t be the first, but I like to think I’m made of tougher stuff than that; they just won’t believe me when I insist I’m fine.
“I met someone,” I continue, taking a sip of the fruit punch that Grace insisted I have in case I get thirsty. “Well, I met her again, but I doubt she remembers much of the first time. She said as much. Called it a “weird time,” like that’s not the biggest understatement of the century. I remember, though. Thought she was the most beautiful creature I’d ever set my peepers on.” I pause. “Peepers? Really?”
I groan, wondering if I ought to edit the video after I’m done, though that’s not really the point of the “stream of consciousness” system the company prescribed. “Honestly, I didn’t realize who she was when I first met her,” I wax nostalgic. “Lyndsey briefed me beforehand, of course, but… she didn’t look sad, so I guess I didn’t put two and two together initially. Sorry, didn’t mention her name—it’s Summer. Summer DuCate.” I take a breath and give myself a stare, like I’m clocking the cameraman in a mockumentary. “Yeah, exactly.”
I keep the figurative tape rolling as I think about her. Summer. Summer in a summer dress, with summer on the way. Her mom gave her a good name; there’s no mistaking that, though her history isn’t something she seemed to want to talk about. I get it, and mine wasn’t even that bad—just an absent father and some run-of-the-mill high school bullying, but who’s laughing now? I bet those bullies aren’t jumping through protocol hoops, spending a month on “medical leave” before I’m even allowed to set foot in the New Orleans office. An office that I’m supposed to be running. A ship without a captain.
“It was probably a good thing Grace hid my glasses,” I carry on, hesitating as I hear a door close, somewhere in the house. “If I’d seen her from the outset, I’d have tripped right over the crab boil and the kids would’ve been crying over spilled seafood. Man, I wish I could show you how beautiful she is. She’s sweet, too. Quiet, I guess, but endearing. I can see why Lyndsey, Grace and Oscar adore her.”
Downstairs, soft footfalls halt my tongue, like someone is tiptoeing around the kitchen, trying not to make too much noise. Is it Summer? Oscar and Lyndsey would just stomp around, same as always, knowing Grace can sleep through a hurricane. At least, she used to be able to. I haven’t been around enough to know how things are, these days.
“I mean, I guess I could put her on video,” I hear the clink of a glass being set down on the kitchen island and the scrape of a stool, suggesting whoever is down there is going to be down there for a while, “but that’s kinda creepy. She doesn’t know me, and I’m not going to be the guy who’s like, ‘hey, can you just make a cameo in this video I’m supposed to make as part of my stress rehabilitation program, so I can show no one at all how pretty you are? Thanks.’ She’d think I was nuts. Then, I’d have to explain that I’m not back in town to put out fires: I am the fire that needs putting out.”
I’m easing into this video malarkey. Maybe, the therapist was onto something. It’s kind of… cathartic to just ramble on at a screen, recording thoughts that no one is ever going to see or hear. Huh, who knew?
“See, when I met her at the gallery, it was the first time I stopped thinking about work for two seconds,” I go on, cautiously lowering my voice. The walls in this house are pretty thick, but Grace’s room isn’t too far across the landing and the last thing I want is Summer hearing me talk about her… to myself. “I needed that brain break, and when I saw her, like a lighthouse in a sea of people, my brain pretty much shut down. There was just… her, and nothing else. I’d had the worst day at work, and I’d rushed from the office to pick up Grace as a favor to Lyndsey, so the gals could all have a beverage without a kid running around. I can’t even remember what I said to her—to Summer, I mean. Something like, ‘I’m sorry… I’m always late.’ God, my brain really must’ve gone on vacation that night.”
I laugh, and it’s a nice feeling, rumbling deep in my chest. I like to think I laugh a lot. No one can accuse me of not having a sense of humor—you just have to look at my shoes. I know people think they’re corny or stupid, but if you live by a motto, why not wear it loud and proud? Summer seemed to appreciate these kicks. She kept looking at them, anyway, and I’m choosing to think positively, as instructed.
