She cocks her head while furrowing her eyebrows. “Believe what? That he’s dead? I mean, I was present at the funeral. So, yeah, I believe it.”
My foot starts bouncing under the white linen tablecloth. “No. Do you believe it was a drug overdose?”
She studies me for a moment, opening her mouth before closing it again. She attempts to manipulate her hair behind herears ahead of speaking. “That’s an oddly specific question. If I’m being completely honest, no. The coroner’s report was vague, and authorities refused to look into any other possibilities. They wrote it off as an unfortunate accident.”
I finish off the glass of wine, raising my glass for the waitress to top me off. It’s hard to swallow, but I ask anyway. “You think there was foul play?” My breath stills… awaiting a response.
She nods just as the waitress tops off my glass and asks Cindel if she would like a refill. I wait until they leave us alone.
Finally allowing myself air, I whisper the next part, “Do you miss him?”
She looks up to the high ceiling, before bringing her now glossy eyes back to mine.
“Every day.”
I understood wholeheartedly how she felt. Our food arrives shortly after that, putting a temporary hold on any questions she may have for me. I have Wagyu beef with seared veggies and petite potatoes, while Cindel opted for honey glazed salmon, sweet potato risotto, and carrots. We kept the rest of the conversation lighter. Chatting about clothing, what’s in style, and her side hustles in the world of passion projects. She even invited me to some little craft event coming up. I shared what it’s like running the Bay Boxing Club. Leaving out any incriminating details about the true nature of the businesses. The best lies are woven from truths after all. She has a good sense of humor. Although, she manages to poke fun at herself whenever she starts to feel a little self-conscious. I don’t care much for that. Her likeness in some instances causes my stomach to twist. Cindel was a pleasure to be around, I like spending time with her, but I needed to crawl into the little cracks that appear around her vulnerable edges. The ones that go deeper than surface pleasantries.
After our meal, I take Cindel for a stroll alongside the harbor. As predicted, she begins to shiver in response to the sea breeze. I offer my jacket; our hands briefly brush against one another as I drape it over her shoulders. Despite the temperature, I felt uncomfortably warm. This is already so much more taxing than I thought it would be. Our hands found one another as we turned and walked back toward the valet. My insides knot by the time we arrive at her apartment building, but I can’t circumvent her questions any longer.
“I was an idiot… I didn’t want to upset you… and I didn’t have cell service.” Were all I could come up with in response to why I ignored her texts this past weekend. She seems content, but I could tell she was holding back too.
Her body naturally gravitates toward the car door as she fiddles with her nails. To my surprise, she invites me upstairs. I was both nervous and pleased the night wasn’t over yet, especially with the timetable my father laid out for me.
Her apartment is quaint, with a few flares of her artsy personality, expressed by vintage food magnets on the fridge or antique rugs between rooms. Cindel arranges the roses in a vase while I meander around the room. Her roommate is working late, which apparently happens quite often from what she’s said.
I see a familiar glow that urges me deeper into the apartment. Upon a bookshelf, adjacent to the living room couch was a garnet lit tank with an active little tarantula, perched atop its faux skull.
She walks over to my side, “Would you like to feed Thelma?”
I nodded, unable to form words at that moment.
She quickly retrieves a couple of waxworms from a lower cupboard and places them in a tiny dish.
I flip the enclosures lock with ease and lower the creature's food onto the bedding of its home. The arachnid taps her frontlegs. Cindel smiles but also watches me with mild curiosity, as I close and lock the top.
“You're very good at that. Did I tell you I had a tarantula?”
I rub my jaw, instinctively putting some distance between us. Then I continue, touring her place. “Yeah…you mentioned it briefly.”
She nods her head, as if to convince herself she must have forgotten the conversation. “Did I mention she was my brother’s?”
Biting the inside of my mouth, as to not say anything stupid, I settle on shaking my head no. “Do you have any other family you're close with? Distant relatives? Long lost cousins?”
She giggles, but her eyes don’t lie. Her thoughts are carrying her off. She walks past me and puts a kettle on the stove. “Not really. The only family I have left in town is an uncle.”
Right. She mentioned that before.
“We have breakfast once a month to catch up. I like those days, because he actually doesn’t mind me talking about my brother. My parents have distanced themselves so much, it’s like they don’t want to remember the past.”
I lean against the fridge while she looks in different containers for what I can assume are tea bags.
“What about you, are you close with your family?” She fires back.
That’s a loaded question. “Not really. My dad’s a bit of a loose cannon and my sister is unbalanced, to put it nicely.”
There’s that smile again that meets her eyes.
“How about your mom?” Soon she pours the hot kettle into a mug of tea. The scent of orange blossoms fills the space.
