“Mary,” I call as I walk in, the bell above the door chiming. She’s standing at the long counter, placing two platters of steaming hot food in front of a couple guys.
“The Cuban or the Monte Cristo?” she asks, pouring my iced tea and setting it down at an empty spot.
“Cuban,” I say, tossing my keys down on the Formica countertop and swinging a leg over the circular seat. Mary walks away and sticks a ticket in the window, yelling back to the cook that it’s for me. Saying my name is code forGive him extra fries.
I take a long sip from the tea, drinking all of it in nearly one gulp. Brighton might not be the desert, but it’s still warm here.
Cassidy Anders walks by, her arms full of dishes. She’s a nice girl. Graduated two years after me, but made the mistake of getting involved with a guy from the next town over, and he got her pregnant. Five months in, he left her high and dry, swollen belly and all.Dick. Brooklyn is a sweet kid though.
“Hey, Connor. Working hard today?” Cassidy drops her dishes in a big brown plastic tub and circles the counter, picking up a pitcher of tea on her way.
“Always,” I answer. She refills my cup and I thank her.
“Want to hear some good gossip?” She pushes her bangs from her eyes and laughs softly. “Not that you’d be interested in gossip, but it’s not the bad kind.”
I lean back in my seat and cross my arms, my interest piqued. “I suppose so.”
She sets her elbows on the counter and leans forward. “I got a new neighbor yesterday,” she says, voice lowered. “Ginger went to Europe to sow some oats, and rented out her place. A girl, probably around our age, arrived in a car, but the car left.It left her there. Isn’t that odd?”
“So she doesn’t have a car?”
“No. She arrived in a new town, without a way to get around. I took a pie to her, just to be neighborly, and you know I make one heck of a peach berry pie.”
My stomach grumbles when she mentions her pie. “Uh huh,” I say, and nod Cassidy on.
“This girl was…cold, I guess. That’s the best word I can think of. She wasn’t friendly to Brooklyn.” She gestures with her palms up, showing her consternation. “I mean, who isn’t friendly to Brooklyn?”
I don’t think it’s a question that needs an answer, so I lift my shoulders and let them drop.
“She wasn’t interested in chatting, and getting her name out of her was like pulling teeth. The whole experience struck me as odd.” Cassidy pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and chews on it. “You know—”
“Order up,” yells someone from the kitchen. He has already disappeared from the window, so I can’t see if it was Mutt or Grizzly. Nice names, I know, but the cooks nicknamed themselves.
Cassidy spins around, spies my sandwich, and grabs it. She sets it in front of me, along with a bottle of ketchup. “I’ll let you eat. Just keep an eye out for the new girl in town. I think she’s nice under that layer of spikes, but,” Cassidy pauses, her eyebrows pulled together, “I guess you don’t always know when someone is batshit. And maybe the people who seem like they could be, aren’t.” She throws her hands up and laughs at herself. “I don’t know anymore. I have mom brain.”
“You must,” Mary says, passing through as fast as her considerable, sixty-three-year-old body will carry her. “Table twelve has been out of tea for about five minutes.”
“Crap!” Cassidy grabs the half-full pitcher and hurries away.
Mary rolls her eyes and throws my check down next to my plate. I place my customary twenty on top of the slip of paper, and tuck into the sandwich I would never admit to having dreams about.
The rest of my afternoon is nothing to write home about. A trip to the hardware store, talking an expectant mother out of painting her nursery neon green, and then putting the crib together for her. I didn’t know it, but cribs are really hard to assemble. The pressure of knowing what was going to lay inside it made me go three times slower than I needed to. I only charged her for the hours my mom quoted for the job, but that means now I’m late meeting Anthony.
My best friend won’t care. He’s probably already three deep.
I’m on my way to the bar when I realize how close I am to Cassidy’s street. Curiosity fills me, and I swear it makes me turn the wheel. It’s mid-evening, but thanks to the summer sun the sky is a muted blue, with streaks of deep purple and fading pink. Slowly I pass Cassidy’s small home, then Ginger’s.
It doesn’t look any different. I don’t know why I thought it would, or why I’m curious at all. Stopping at the end of the street, I peer at the house with the black door. Some people say that house is like a body, and the black door is the heart of the old man who lives inside.
Maybe somebody should warn this new girl about the cantankerous old guy living at the end of the street. A young girl should be aware of someone off his rocker. I’ll remind Cassidy the next time I see her.
The street is only a few blocks from where town really gets started, with its maze of shops and restaurants. Warm air pours into my open windows as I start down the main street in the middle of all the action. Bluegrass music drifts in from the amphitheater one block over. Brighton in the summertime is a magical place. Sun-stroked Phoenicians flee the valley, sometimes for just a week, looking for a respite from the oppressive heat. Tonight, even though it’s a Monday night, the sidewalks are crowded with people. The bar where I’m meeting Anthony is at the end of all this, so I continue my crawl through crowded downtown.
A family with young children step into a crosswalk. I slow and wait for them, and return the dad’s wave. When they are through, I let off the brake and lift my jug of water, drinking deeply. I don’t think I had enough water today, and dehydration is a bitch to deal with.
My eyes are on the road. I’m still drinking, but I can see what’s in front of me. There’s nothing but open road, cars parked along the sides, and a green light up ahead.
Suddenly, that’s not all there is.
