Ten Days of Perfect (2 page)

“I’m fine
,”
h
e clutched his ribs as he coughed, “thanks.” Well,
that
was convincing.

“You don’t look too good,” I said as I
leaned in
close enough to see him moving
with a
strained and painful effort. I remained far enough away to leave room between us should I need to run. “Can I call an amb
ulance for you, or
something?”

“Look, you need to get out of here. It’s dark, you’re alone, and those guys might circle back.” He didn’t look up. Speaking through clenched teeth, he had his hands on his knees, regulating his breathing.

Why did he say “those guys?” How did he know I’d just witnessed the fight?

“What guys.” It wasn’t a question, really, since I didn’t need an answer.

“I saw you dropping off your car when I came down the front street, there, earlier.” He pointed to the front of the lot
and took a deep breath
before he
straightened
himself all the way upright. He stood maybe 6’0”, 6’1”; it was hard to
tell given the distance I kept.

“Those idiots were sitting in their truck waiting for me. I didn’t want you to get caught up in the middle if I had shown up right on time. They must have had music on and
didn’t hear you pull in.”

“
I . . . uh . . .
I’m
really sorry . . .
” I stood there like a deer in the headlights. He’d just suggested that he planned on being on time for whatever the hell that was all about. He saw a woman alone in a garage parking lot and circled the block, effectively making him late. He was beat up, in part, for protecting some woman he didn’t even know
.
Me.

“Sorry? For dropping off your car? Look . . .just . . . we both better get out of here. I’m fine, no need for medics. Get home, or wherever you’re going.” His words were even. He sounded like a man who rarely took “no” for an answer, and
expected me to
follow
his orders. He turned without bravado and headed for his car.

“I . . . OK . . .” I just stood there as the ice-cold wave of the last half hour crashed violently over me. Spike turned around and stared in my directio
n for a minute before speaking.
He couldn’t see my face, of that I was sure, due to the darkness that swept in without invitation.

“Shit. I’m sorry. Are you ok? I don’t know what you heard or saw and it’s probably best if you don’t think too much about it.  Are you OK to get home?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

I suddenly had no words; my throat was tight under the noose of panic. If I’d blinked
, I would have started crying right there in the parking lot, so I kept my eyes wide and slowly
turn
ed
to go home.

“Hey, you alright?” he repeated,
his voice up an octave.  He took a step forward, landing just under the streetlight to the side of the parking lot.

He was standing much closer to me now, but still about 20 feet away. Despite the haunting shadows cast by the street light, I could make out more than his height. He was broad, tight but not a muscle-head, with a narrow waist that held up his dark blue jeans. A snug red t- shirt clung to his shoulders and rested just on top of his belt.
He
was pretty hot and that thought annoyed me, given the circumstances. I couldn’t make out his face, but could tell he had dark hair and a fair complexion.

“No, yea, it’s fine. Glad you’re ok.” My emotions bound an unforgiving fist around my vocal chords. I had to get out of there.

He nodded as he touched his hand to his bloodied lip, cursing as he pulled it away.

I turned an
d ran. He didn’t call after me,
didn’t follow me, and I didn’t look back. I ran all the way to my apartment, locked all the doors and windows
,
and tossed through a sleepless night.

***

Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
The clock marched time through my ears on Friday as the work day neared its end. Usually up to my neck in paperwork, today had been graciously light, and I was ready to
go
home and get ready for girls night. I thought I might wear my black pants and a
tank; not too conservative and not too slutty. Never too slutty.

“You want a ride tonight, Ember, or you gonna meet us there?” Monica, my best friend and co-worker, startled me away from my gaze out of the window.

“Geez Mon! You scared the hell out of me!” I huffed, realizing I startled her, too, and continued. “Sorry, yea I’ll meet you there- nine o’clock, right?”

“You sure? I mean, after what happened the other night you don’t want us to come get you?” She tilted her head to the side.

“Monica, it didn’t happen
to me
, remember? Besides, I have my car and I’ll meet you there at nine. You can’t imagine how much I’m looking forward t
o it.”

“I guess you’re right.  See you at nine.” She turned and headed out of my office.

“See ya!”

I still hadn’t shaken off the events from the garage a few nights before; the emotional trauma loitered in my gut days later. Tonight, I declared to myself, I would get over it.

I took stock of myself in my full-length mirror while I touched up my make-up.
Looking good, November.
My height of 5’8” seemed to work in my favor; people typically didn’t mistake me for younger than my 26 years, and guys usually didn’t try to mess with me the way they might a 5’1” counterpart. My thick auburn hair fell in soft waves to just below my shoulder blades, and my green eyes set
in
my pale face made people think I’d won the DNA lottery.

I rarely struggled with self-esteem issues growing up, save for the acne debacle of freshman year high school. I liked how I looked,
so I took good care of myself.
I was an athlete in high school, continued working out through college, and maintained a healthy relationship
with the local gym.

My friends assume my lack of boyfriend means I have some serious issues since
clearly,
according to them, my looks don’t have anything to do with it. They are the kind of friends that fuss over their looks more than I do, and they insist I don’t
have
to care what I look like. Why do women do this to themselves? Anyway, my lack of boyfriend didn’t have anything to do with my looks or my personality. It had to do with the men. They’re idiots.
Not all of them, of course; just the
ones that are single, 25-29 (my preferred age range), and trolling for a meaningful relationship in a bar with Jose, Jack, and Jim as chaperones. Please.

Even though my parents raised me with an appreciation for all things
love
, I’m a realist. I was born on the warmest day of that November in New England, under the bluest sky they’d ever seen. My name, November Blue Harris, exemplifies everything my parents loved about that day. Despite my mother’s encouragement to always love with reckless abandon, I grew up slightly guarded and suspicious. To her, spontaneity was as easy as breathing. To me, it seemed like skydiving without checking to see if you had a backpack or a parachute.

Either way, I was going out with my friends for fun. Although, in general, I disagreed with their hopes of finding
a
future husband and father of their children at a bar, I was supportive in the kind of way tha
t every girlfriend needs to be.
I learned to do this in college.

I worked hard to get in to Princeton
University
and remained focu
sed on my studies so as not to blow my parents money
.
Monica and I found eac
h other there.
We were the same major,
and had most classes together.
We formed an instant friendsh
ip over our comfort in hard work
and penchant for sarcasm. I had my fun, but I just wanted to get through school in one piece and
find a job. I
really
didn’t have an interest in a boyfriend. Not after Adrian anyway. Adr
ian and I dated for a year, but
it
was purely physical and when I wanted mor
e he backed off. That was that.
Well, that wasn’t really all there was. I loved him. It was the first time I had truly felt like
this
was love. I shook thoughts of Adrian out of my head as I flipped my hair and checked the time.

“
Shit,
8:55!” I yelled at my clock. I jammed my feet
into
a pair of not-too-ta
ll heels and ran out the door.

Finnegan’s
, the Irish Pub, is only about a five minute drive from my apartment, which allowed me to show up at 9:00 on the dot.
I liked Finnegan’s
;
t
hey often have live music, and the bartenders know me by name. In the
four years that Barnstable ha
d
been our home, Finnegan’s served our drinks.

I’m from Connecticut
- for all intents and purposes -
a
nd Monica is from Rhode Island.
We both wanted to move to Cape Cod, Massachusetts so we found
a non-profit agency on the Cape that helped at-risk teens and fami
lies, and set our sights there.
I got a job as a grant writer for the agency, and she secured one as a community
educator; we
agreed to have separate apartments so we wouldn’t get sick of each other.

Finnegan’s is the kind of place
that
has a
hometown feel
,
appealing
to both locals and tourists
.
It’s always busy on
Fridays
;
I had to use a little extra muscle to make my way past the people drinking out on the patio and
find my friends who would be waiting for me at the bar.

“HEY! EEEMMMBEERR! Miss November!” Monica screeched like an idiot. Her milk chocolate hair was twisted in to a cute up-do.

When Monica is giddy, drunk, excited, or a combination of the three, she likes to shout out ‘Miss November’ as if I’m pictured on a calendar somewhere in my bra and panties. My friends typically just call me Ember, which is equally as counter-culture, but somehow “cooler
”.

As I headed toward the
bar, I
noted a stack of CDs by the bouncer signaling who was playing tonight. The name ‘Bo Cavanaugh’ graced the CD, and his smoky hot face sat above it. Steely blue eyes were set masterfully in his pale face against a black background. There may have been a guitar on the cover, but who could be sure
- and
who really
cares
- with a face like that?
What is it about a bar, and a gu
itar, that makes me so tingly?
I shook my head at the carnal thought and met Monica
, Callie and Sarah
at the bar
.

“Ay caramba!” Callie rolled o
f
f her tongue like the sexy Venezuelan goddess she is.

“Thank
God
you wore a heel,
Em.”
Sarah slid in, “
A
s much fun as it is always watching you wear flip flops…” Sarah’s about 5-foot-nothing and is constantly tip-toeing around in impossible heels, God bless her. She pulls it off, though, and is nearly more graceful
in her heels than out of them.

“Thanks guys, you’re all
so
sweet,” I
gushed
sarcastically.  “Who’s the new guy singing tonight?

“Don’t know,” Monica entered, “Josh said he’s not from here, but has performed for years.”

Josh is Finnegan’s manager, and Monica’s boyfriend of 2 years. We’ve known him since we moved here.  He is boyishly rugged with sandy hair, olive skin, and a killer smile. He helps bring in the
music at Finnegan’s, so we always share our likes and dislikes,
which he promptly ignores. Josh
and I share musical taste so
actually, I do have
some
input.

Artists that play
ed
at Finnegan’s were warned well in advance that the patrons enjoyed live karaoke and they were expected to facilitate that. It’s amazingly fun. My parents’ affinity for music served me well on these nights. While I never took to an instrument myself, I was able to sing along with those who could play. I rarely had anyone to sing with at Finnegan’s, since my folk-rock taste isn’t shared by a majority of the musicians that turn up. However, since Josh took over the bookings, I found myself on stage more and more.

Over the next several minutes we drank beer, talked about our week, and I reassured everyone that
I’d recovered from
the frightening scene at the garage; when
I picked up my car on Wednesday, everything seemed in place and no one mentioned a disturbance. Josh left us, hopped up on stage, and tapped the microphone.