Malena opens her mouth to shoot me down. I can tell by the set in her shoulders. I’ve approached her in a place she isn’t comfortable in. “The diner?” I supply when her reply isn’t immediate. “Or we can grab Chinese at the spot in the next townover? It’s worth the drive. I’ve been there a handful of times since I moved here.”
She shakes her head, her long brown ponytail brushing the collar of her shirt. “I can’t tomorrow. I have some work to do from home, and I need to be there for my mom.”
Rash decisions, right. “I’ll bring over lunch. Can I? For your mom, too?”
That gets her attention.
She turns all the way around to face me, peering over my shoulder at the girl at the register. I’m sure she’s glaring at her coworker.
“Come help me find the beer while you think about it,” I say, nodding my head to the side. “I need your help.” I say it loud enough to be heard by all.
Smirking, she nods.
“Was that a yes, I can bring over lunch?”
Malena is much shorter than I am, so I have to look down at her and lean away a bit to see her face when she replies.
“I’m still thinking about it. People don’t come to my house,” she explains, meeting my eyes. “Not that I don’t want you to, you understand?”
“You’re not comfortable having me there?” I ask.
“A little of that,” she says. “Leave me your number, and I’ll get back to you after my shift is over.”
She slides her cell phone out of the apron pocket and looks confused as she enters in my phone number. “I haven’t switched to a Florida area code yet,” I respond. “The last piece of California that I am hanging on to is my number.”
My other cell chimes in my pocket. I’m sure it’s Sutter wondering where I am. He never distinguishes between which phone he’s calling. He doesn’t care. Pulling it out, I glance at a text message from my friend. It’s a photo of three blond chicksin barely there bikinis. According to the words below the photo, he’s waiting for me.
Even though I shouldn’t care, I try to click off the message quickly before Malena sees. Her face tells me I wasn’t successful. She sighs as I pick up a case of beer and two sandwiches from the pre-made section. “Need any more help,sir?”
I don’t need help from her, but I do need a few other things. I shake my head. “I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”
“I’ll text you,” she fires back, mouth hanging open. “It’s probably a no.”
Sighing, I narrow my eyes at her. “You can text me what you want for lunch. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Malena smirks. “You’re so rude.”
I have her. I have her. When my head is clear, I can spit the game she wants to hear. It’s when I’m all hard-dicked for her that I’m fucking shit up.
She folds her arms across her chest, a glint of challenge in her eye.
I grab the end of the ponytail lying on one shoulder. “And you’re fucking beautiful,” I reply.
She looks away, then remembers where we are and takes a step away from me.
“See you tomorrow, Ms. Winterset,” I tell her, reminding her of the end of last night’s conversation.
FOUR
Malena
My shift crawlsas I stock shelves in the canned goods aisle, the dreaded task no one wants that I always get because I’m not a full-time employee. The other women have worked here for decades. Those old bats probably worked here while they attended Bronze Bay High School and decided they liked it so much they never wanted anything more. Could I do this forever? I’d like to think no, but I could if I had to. My dream to be a full-time event planner isn’t something that seems out of reach, but it’s hard to do anything while my mom needs my help. The guilt rears anytime I align my goals aside her needs, and I squash my desires to instead meet her needs.
With my familiar guilt, I’m reminded of the handsome shadow wafting around in my world. Leif is pursuing me, and he’s making it blatantly evident. It’s something to ponder during the mundane hours of minimum wage tasks and menial customer conversation. Why is he trying so hard? Why me? Wouldn’t a hookup squelch the inevitable and save us both time? Leif must think I want to be courted, wooed, and primed forbedroom action like the typical woman my age. I don’t want what the typical woman my age wants, though. Rather, I can’t have it because of my living situation, so I try to avoid it if I can help it.
When I asked him at the beach what he would say if I asked him to come home with me, I thought I was making my intentions clear—that I don’t have patience for the subtleties of casual dating, nor the time to date. Shirley gave me the full lowdown on Leif Andersson when I called her late last night. She’s seen his sisters around town and knows he lives down by the water next door to Mr. Olsen. I know where that’s at because the sunsets along that road are the best. We’d ride our bikes out there on weekend nights as children just to see the watercolor splashes in the sky. There are fiery oranges and reds that overtake the bright blue. Right before the sun dips behind the ocean, the horizon looks like the world has tipped upside down. I’d stand on my head and get my hair all sandy watching that moment, trying to dissect it—trying to make sense of it.
My brown card slides into the slot, and I bring down the handle on the machine to punch my hours for the day. Stepping away from the time clock, so the woman behind me can clock out, I take off my apron and straighten my hair in an antique mirror that has hung here so long the glass is aged, all speckled black in places around the frame. Leaning in, I wipe under my tired eyes.
