The XOXO New Adult Collection: 16 Full Length New Adult Stories (168 page)

Because of the cold, gray weather, the bakery was crowded early and quickly. So much so in fact that the guys in the back could bare catch up to the orders of pumpernickel and rye, while the other counter girl and I ran over each other more than once trying to ring up orders, make coffee, and refill the display counter.

Working those first few hours in the morning made it that much easier to ignore the pain in my hand. Still, I did my best not to use it as much as possible, trying to hold it over my head, and even swiping a couple of Tylenol from a drawer in my manager’s office when I got the chance. Yet, when the pain did start to subside, I was forced to think about William’s insistence on changing the bandage on my hand before he drove me to work, how the sound of his shower was a decent way to wake up, and how dark his hair looked when wet.

At some point in the middle of my daydreams about him, it occurred to me that because of my vehicle situation I had no way to get home. Not only that, but my phone hadn’t been charged in nearly a day so I couldn’t even call someone for a ride—even if I had someone to call.

For an instant, I thought about calling William—even Tabby when I was at my most desperate—but considering I had burdened him so much already, and decided Tabby was probably working, I put both of those ideas out of my mind quickly and went back to work. Maybe, if worse came to worse, I could walk the thirteen or so miles back home. Even if Mom was home from St. Louis already, I was sure I didn’t want to try and explain why I didn’t have my car with me.

I cleaned the kitchen slowly, feeling little purpose in the work and even less motivated given that I was working with one hand. Would it be ironic if I got hit by a car on the walk home? Or just kind of messed-up? The thought was less funny than I expected it to be, sadder instead. Would William assume I had killed myself? Died on purpose? Would he be disappointed in me? Sad?

I thought about it as I finished with the kitchen, running the oversized duster around the corners of the ceiling to stall for more time. It had been raining most of the day, with no real signs of stopping, and yet walking home in the rain still seemed better than dealing with my mom. Hoping the rain might at least slow down, I stayed on, doing even more menial tasks like reorganizing the refrigerator and cleaning the bottom of the cash register until even my manager was trying to boot me out the door. I was hoping he’d kind of get the hint I need a ride home, but he was oblivious and drove away as soon as the door was shut and locked behind us.

Naturally, with my luck, I had only a light jacket and nothing water repellent. I cursed and watched a curbside puddle fill up. Standing under the storefront bodega I watch the rain for a long time, listening to the sound of pitter pattering all around me and absorbing the rain through my yeast covered shoes. What would William think about bad smelling feet I wondered? And what did he think, about movie remakes? About pop-culture and phone apps? Furthermore, what did William Do-gooder O’Reilly think about vegetarianism and the criminal justice system? What did he think about the upcoming elections? Did he think about them at all? What did he think about girls who worked at strip clubs? About Italian girls who could make amazing bombolonies from scratch, but couldn’t throw a ziti together to save her life?

What did William think about girls who had been raped?

I stared into the growing puddle for so long, that when I looked up and saw my car I instantly assumed it was some kind of mirage—a vision my imagination had created as a punishment for straining my eyes. I stepped of the sidewalk and out into the rain, becoming drenched almost instantly. The dented passenger door, and rear license plate were familiar, but it still seemed too good to be true.

I looked around before I tested the door. It was unlocked. It felt like my car, smelled like my car, but the seat was way too far back, the rear-view mirror adjusted for someone at least 6 inches taller than me. Instinctive, I grabbed the piece of notebook paper that sat on the dash.

Jumper—

I changed the oil and the filter. Text me when you get a chance.

—Billy

PS: What kind of modern girl doesn’t carry around a phone charger?

Strange thoughts and questions drifted through my head all the way back home. The mere idea that William had gone out of his way—yet again—to do something nice for me, had not yet lost its novelty thrill. Yet as I did a happy dance in my seat, I couldn’t quiet that nagging little voice in my head that asked how he had gotten access to my car in the first place. Sure I had kept my keys in the garage—a set of them anyway. But my car itself had been locked, locked and in the garage—a habit bred into me after years of hassling by Mom and Dad.

I told myself I had merely forgotten to set the security system and kept right on doing my dance.

Chapter 12

I went to text him the second I was in the door. Plugging in my phone, I sat on Mom’s antique sofa while I was still covered in dried flour batter, and the smell of yeast was starting to come through my shoes and jeans. Truth be told, I was barely aware I was even doing it, that subconscious desire to make her mad getting pushed through the colander when my head was full of William and racing. When I realized it, I giggled to myself and leaned back. The sofa wasn’t comfortable at all, and not nearly as pretty as Mom thought—really, a waste of space and money.

Me:
You didn’t have to bring me my car.

Do-gooder:
No excuse for giving yourself pneumonia Jumper.

How did he know I would walk home? That I would do that before calling anyone else—even him? Did he already know how prideful I was? Or was I just that obvious?

Do-gooder:
But I’ll take that as a thank you.

You:
I take it you fixed the filter? What do I owe you for that?

Do-gooder:
A dozen cookies.

You:
Be serious
.

Do-gooder:
10,000 cookies.

I laughed. Stopping myself and starting again. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to laugh at something clever? Adorable even? I had never committed a terrible crime, had never done anything
really
wrong—unless being boring was considered a sin. Why was I so hesitant to let myself laugh if I wanted to? Was my obligation to death that made me feel guilty? That strange commitment I had made to myself not to feel anymore mortal pain? Maybe I was afraid of laughing. In that same passive-aggressive way I had chosen Mom’s forbidden sofa to sit on, somewhere, in the back of my mind I was terrified that laughing would lead to something terrible.

You:
You’re impossible.

Do-gooder:
Nope. Just hungry.

Silently, and out loud I cursed at myself. If I had thought things through a little better, I could have baked something just before I left work, putting it aside and saving it for later—a solid excuse to see him on platonic terms.

You:
Do you not eat before racing?

Do-gooder:
No races tonight because of the weather.

My spirits fell. Instead of cursing William though, I cursed myself, cursed myself for letting my hopes get so high, and for not even taking the weather into consideration.

Do-gooder:
I was gonna drag you to a Steve McQueen double feature, but I got called into work tonight.

Now, I was mad. A garage open on a Saturday night? Unlikely. If William was going out with one of his girlfriends, or even one of the guys why did he feel the need to lie about it? We had only known each other a week. And admittedly, while he was growing more important to me, I wasn’t quite so crazy enough to think that I meant anything to him. For a second, I was insulted? Did I really come off as “violence against others” type? Myself? Sure. But other people?

Do-gooder
: Are you still with me, Jumper?

Me
: Yeah. Thanks again for my car. I owe you one.

Before I could be tempted to obsess anymore, I turned the phone off and left it in the sitting room closing the doors firmly behind me. Though I had not earned it, and certainly did not deserve it, I felt a sort of claim on William, a possessiveness that I did not understand but was unable to shrug off. More than likely, I told myself, he had been with a couple dozen women, maybe even a hundred... and if he was telling the truth about his family history then his kindness towards me suggested he looked at me like just another sibling—one of many sisters to pick on him.

Not that I needed anything else. Little more than a week ago I didn’t even have a friend to my name, and if William was the person I hoped he was, then having his friendship in my corner put me at a far greater advantage then I was at before. I sighed and peeled my clothes off, taking great care—as usual—to avoid looking at my body in the mirror. Perhaps it was better William wasn’t interested in me that way. After all, it had been a year and a half and I still couldn’t stand to look at myself. How could I expect anyone else to? More to the point, if I wanted to be a good friend, I couldn’t very well have expected him to donate his entire weekend to the Overpass Jumper Foundation.

After I showered I went back downstairs, staring at the sitting room doors for only a few seconds before I made myself walk away. From Dad’s office, I turned on NPR and listened to a program about the life of Julia Childs. Before long, however, I had the butter and sugar out, mixing them together with the eggs, flour, and vanilla. Just like earlier that week, I watched the agitator turn the mix into a complete batter—imagining they were tires, the batter wet ground they were spinning out in. I did this long after the flour had blended in, and my arm grew tired from holding the bowl in the crutch of my elbow.

Every now and then, I looked to the blister on my hand, thinking that I had not bandaged it nearly as well as William though still slightly proud of myself for the effort. Instead of letting the wound get any worse like I might have a week ago, I cleaned it carefully, concealing it with gauze so the blister wouldn’t open while I was cooking. Though I admittedly did it mostly for the sake of William—thinking it would have been a shame to let the wound get infected when he had done so much to prevent it from doing so. There was the smallest part of me that wanted it to heal for myself, wanted it to go away just so I wouldn’t have to look at the scar. I was so immersed in the thoughts of it, that I didn’t even hear the garage door opener, hardly even heard the sound of the patio door open until the wheels of her suitcase on the floor.

“Hello?” Her voice called out from the sunroom. I sighed and unplugged the mixer, instantly feeling annoyed though I had no real reason to be so.

“In here” I called back.

Leaving her suitcase by the stairs, Mom dropped her tote bag of a purse at the entryway of the kitchen and slipped off her shoes—one of many pairs she had that were business but still dressy. Why anyone needed so many pairs of shoes, I hardly understood and asking only ever seemed to bring argument so I kept silent and began flattening the batter into the waxing paper.

“Baking?” She sighed. “Again?”

“How was St. Louis?”

Frowning, she sat at the kitchen table in the very same seat William had chosen before. I tried not to think about that, about him and perverted names for bakeries, but I did. “Rainy and boring as always.”

“And your flight?”

From the corner of my eye, she took off her green business jacket. “Even worse. God, what I wouldn’t give to be your age again, to not have any responsibilities—”

Ignoring her, I dug the cutter into the dough. If I did it hard enough would I put a nick in the countertop? It was doubtful, but I tried again.

“To stay out dancing with my friends at all hours and still have the energy to go to work the next day—

“Mom—”

“Maybe it would be easier if you got involved in more activities at school. What about student government? Or the republican society?”

I considered reminding her that I wasn’t a republican, nor did I have any interest in politics, but decided against it, arranging the shapes on the baking tray.

“I’m just saying, it isn’t healthy to spend all your free time in the kitchen. You aren’t some barefoot housewife, these are the best years of your life and you’re wasting them away like you’re a leper or something.”

“I work, I go to school. It’s not like I’m a hermit Mom.”

“I know that, but—” Pausing, she sighed impatiently and while I didn’t stop to look, I felt her eyes staring, judging because I wasn’t more like her. “—whatever happened to that membership to the tanning salon I got for you? I thought we agreed you were going to try and spend a little more time there? Maybe take a spin class?”

I put the tray in the oven and blinked hard. If I dropped to the floor and played dead would she just sniff me and walk away?

“This is California, Mom. Cancer is free here.”

She continued as though I hadn’t even spoken, listing off the same old suggestions I had been hearing since grade school “You could at least spend more time outside then. You’re so pale anymore. Maybe you could take up jogging? The university has a running club or something don’t they?”

Sighing, I worked to cut out more shapes working to rearrange them alternatively. Motorcycles and hardtops followed convertibles and trucks accordingly. Every time I cut out a little police car, I smiled.

“Charlotte? Charlotte?”

“Huh?”

Looking up, I saw her nodding at the microwave, its timer going off frantically. I got up and quickly turned it off, slightly startled to see Mom had let her hair down. Though clearly her mane had clearly seen the straightener and some product I thought in these rare moments, we almost looked like each other, brown eyes too big for our oval faces and convex noses piecing everything nicely.

“What’s with you?” She asked. “Are you even listening?”

“Yeah Mom” I lied. “I’m listening.”

Skeptical, I felt her eyes roll while I took the tray out of the oven, putting another one in its place.

“Well, I hope you pay better attention in class than you do to your mother.”