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It isn’t sadness or remorse, a steady beat against wonder.
Will a heart break without the other?
Phoebe’s last words mock me; even after months of no contact, I am strung by the phrases she confided in me. These stupid unresolved feelings. This has to stop. I can’t keep doing this to myself, but I know it is a selfish thought. Because I have been doing this to her for years now.
But dear God, her words are deliciously painful.
I can’t think about this right now. It’s a Saturday night, and two sous chef’s called out sick, and we are running behind on orders for the dinner rush.
“Do we have the order for table forty-five ready? How long ago did we send out the appetizers?” I flip over a steak, counting the sound of its sizzle.
I don’t think of Phoebe. Even if the shadows make me startle a bit, knowing she could be hiding in them. I tell myself this is the best choice. This is what I always wanted. Even if it feels wrong when everything reminds me of her. But I left because I knew I had to. It was too soon, and I couldn’t trust myself to make the right choice.
I should feel accomplished, proud of how far I’ve come since meeting her. Our greeting was also one of the worst days for different reasons. Here I am, slinging plates next to the ocean, in a great big city that humbles me every day.
The Golden Gate Bridge welcomes every morning, and it doesn’t hesitate to stand proud. The shitty high-priced apartment is mine, and having something no one can take away from me is nothing I have had before.
“I heard you the first time, Enzo.” The new waiter has an arrogant mouth on him.
“Come again?”
“Yes, chef! The orders are ready.” The fucker almost rolls his eyes.
“Good boy. Take my food out before I decide to replace you.” I pile on mashed potatoes and sprinkle a little pepper on top. The napkin in my finger wipes away the splashed gravy.
Perfectionist,Phoebe used to call me as we ate dinner inside the small hotel rooms. The makeshift meals I was able to make on hot plates and the microwave.
I tried to break every habit she commented on. Stop the weird tendencies, knowing she noticed me too intimately for my comfort.
If Phoebe was anything to me, she was my first phobia. The only person to make me fear for a feeling I didn’t know I could. The black-haired woman reminded me of a horror movie. A character who walks out in blood and guts, unfazed by the destruction and evil. She was fearless, and I found it ugly and incredibly satisfying.
I push play on a list of songs I know Phoebe would hate, and it cools the burn I have going through my gut for a few minutes.
My thumb rubs my chest; the knife in my hand doesn’t bother me. I begin dicing vegetables, feeling back in the zone, when the new salad girl comes over to chat.
“What was that? Sorry, my headphones are on full blast.” I pull them down to rest around my shoulders.
But I wish I hadn’t.
“I said, how did you get that scar on your wrist?” Stevie has this curious smile, and it makes me queasy. Not because she isn’t pretty, but to her, I look like the bad boy she wants to try out for a few nights. I’ve been used before, and the user. Both positions don’t make me happy, even for the typical Valley girl.
Before I can answer, I try to think of a lie. But the only thing that comes to mind is the one I told Phoebe when she first noticed and asked the same question.
“Tree branch from rock climbing.”It slipped out smooth, and she didn’t hesitate to question if it was the truth. Her black hair slipped down and then up, nodding with me to agree it would be the truth I wanted it to be.
“Tree branch, huh?”I realized how awful it felt to express a white lie by repeating it from her mouth.
It didn’t matter how the conversation started; soon, I was touching her in ways that made me consider praying to a god.
Because when Phoebe brought my scarred forearm between her legs, those secret lips brushing and kissing the depths of teenage sorrow in those scars, her hips began to dance over me as my hand caressed her backside. While those thighs squeezed tighter on my wrist, milking its pain out and replacing it with pleasure.
“What knife was it? So, I know which one to be extra careful with.” Perky, too; how fucking annoying. I blink and shake my head as she drags me into the dialogue.
I lift the one in my hand and shrug.
“Good to know. I clipped a few of my fingers the other day. Guess I’ll be wearing gloves.”
“Probably be smart.”
