The Light of Day (9 page)

              “Ah, one of the many perks of being an athlete.”

              “Other than per diem, I’m pretty sure it’s the biggest one.”

              “Per diem?” she asks.

              “Like grocery money — the payment you receive for being an athlete on away trips and vacation times that you have to stay on campus.  Meal money, but for those programs who are big enough, or supported enough, it can be excessive.”

              She stares at me for a second and then laughs and sips her coffee.  “One last question.”

              “Shoot.”

              “If you were having such an easy time finding females ready to spend the night with you while someone else footed the bill, why did you come here? I’m guessing they had to honor your scholarship, at the very least, and I know for a fact that a broken, dark soul is almost more appealing to girls than a happy one.”

              “Is that right?”

              “Yeah, bitches be crazy,” she says and I smile again.  “Seriously, they think they can fix you and so they sleep with you thinking you’ll let them try.”

              I remember my last few months at school, the drunken haze I walked around in, the females I found solace in only to wake up and not quite remember who she was or how we had gotten to my bed.  The irritation that Murph would try to hide as he escorted them out so I could nurse my hangover in silence and try to piece myself back together enough to function for the day.

              Cora’s still watching me, so I shrug and give her the truth, hoping it doesn’t close the door on the conversation we just got back.

              “Sometimes, you realize that however fun the moment is, you want something more.  My future is more than I was giving it when I was at school those last months.  Since one look at you made me realize that, I figure you’re the more I needed too.”

Chapter Fourteen

Cora

The mind is a funny thing, shaped it seems, not only by what it experiences and remembers, but by our desires, fears, needs, and perceptions of everything around us.  Memories take on different hues as time progresses, manipulated further by what we observe throughout our lives, who we meet, and how we view ourselves.

              Although I’ve always thought of myself as a confident and strong woman, which I showed through unwavering opinions and a fuck you attitude, counseling taught me that hindsight is much clearer and, in actuality, what I saw as confidence was an innate fear that no one would ever love me, therefore, I refused to let anyone try.  (Therapy can be a real bitch when it works.)

              During my childhood and teen years, I thought my mother to be overly confident.  She was demanding, opinionated, rude when she thought it was her only option — or even just a viable option — and needier than any toddler I’ve ever come into contact with.  When Suzanne Whitley wanted something, she did anything she could to get it, and most often what she wanted was for everyone to think she was a raging success in life.

Anytime she didn’t get her way, she would throw a tantrum of epic proportions, screaming, tossing things around the house, slamming doors, until she eventually broke down in a fit of needy weeping, where my father would scoop her up and she would cling to him as if he were the only life raft after the Titanic had done its thing.  It’s that memory, and the ones that follow it like the shifting forms of a shadow in the dying sunlight, that show me my perception about my mother was just as inaccurate as my perception of myself. 

              My mother was an easy target for my unhappiness growing up, because she and I have never gotten along.  She wanted a quiet, demure daughter who would rise with her in the social ranks and keep a beautiful home.  I wanted to be someone,
anyone
, important and I didn’t want to worry daily about what other people thought.  Where my mother envisioned her little girl growing up as a mirror image of herself, I imagined growing up as anything but and soon all my mother had was a younger, sexier version of herself who threw that fact in her face daily.  The results of our dislike were disastrous and, after several volatile years, we came to a cease-fire that was much worse.

              The silence between us widened the already existent emotional gap at a rapid rate, therefore compounding that anything we did say to one another was cold and short, critical in nature and lacking in any feeling.  I dealt with this by being loud everywhere else in my life — my clothes, my friends, my social life, and she dealt with this by trying to be a younger, more gorgeous version of herself to prove that I wasn’t special.

              In the end, we both lost ourselves.  The only difference is that I came back, and she’ll never get to do that.

~

I’ve let two of the other stylists from the salon I work at talk me into grabbing a drink after work.  I’m not sure how it happened, except one minute I was sweeping up my station, wiping down my tools and cleaning my counters, mentally going through my few scheduled appointments for tomorrow, and the next I was walking out the door and down to a trendy little bar in the Pearl.

              We snagged a booth pretty easily, since it’s a Wednesday evening, and now I’m sipping my sparkling mineral water and lime while A.J. and Liam are tossing back a pair of shots and chasing them with some sort of import beer.  I cringe, wondering if the burn of tequila is the same.

              Jake texted me to let me know he was on his way home (since my ninja keys have disappeared again and I’m without them and, therefore, without a way into our apartment) and, for some reason, I told him to come meet us.  I’m half listening to A.J. talk in her short, rapid sentences about everything around us while I click the power on my phone and check to see if Jake texted back.

              “Okay, Snow White, spill your story.  What’s with the beauty on ice routine? The eyes that speak volumes and the mannerisms that tell me you’re a lady, when we both know you’re not.  The water instead of alcohol?”

              “Jesus, A.J., this was a friendly invite, not an interrogation,” Liam says and throws his arm over the back of their booth.

              “What, friends can’t ask questions?”

              A.J. is what one might consider a ball buster — which is odd since she’s gay.  Or maybe not odd considering.  Either way, she’s beautiful in a unique way, with her dark hair shaved short on one side and left to flow over on the other.  Her nose is pierced twice and she wears two tight gold hoops through it, plus one through her opposite eyebrow and too many to count in her ears.  She’s got beautiful skin, attributed to her Indian heritage I would bet.  She’s petite, has the voice of a foghorn, and a personality as stealthy as a bulldozer.

              Liam is her polar opposite.  He’s quiet, beautiful in a pure way, with clear skin, blond hair, and brown eyes fringed with dark lashes.  His hair is short on the sides and styled on the top in the ever fashionable gentlemen’s cut, his wardrobe is trendy without being over the top or flamboyant and, despite his profession as a hairdresser and the stereotype on sexuality that goes with it, I think he’s straight.  If I didn’t know A.J. batted the other way, I would consider them a beautiful match.

              “Are you gonna answer, or do I have to guess?” A.J. asks and I smile.

              “It’s a long story.”

              “Give me the basics.”

              I smile and take a sip of water.  “Grew up in Portland, moved to California after high school, lived with my cousin this last year, but she just got married and moved so I decided it was time to come home.  There was a stint in rehab somewhere in there and, since I don’t want to go back, sparkling water is as hard as my beverage choice gets.”  I smile as I say all of this, not even changing the tone of voice on the last part, hoping she’ll take it as I’ve said it, a thing that’s no big deal.

              A.J. studies me for a minute and then leans back, her beer in one hand and her lips pursed.  Liam gives a supportive smile and head nod.

              “You’re a Snow White all right.  No worries, I’ll figure you out.  One question, and you have to answer.”

              “I don’t have to do anything,” I tell her, but she only grins.

              “Boys or girls?”

              My mouth kicks up on one side, and I can’t help myself.  “Neither.  Men.”

              Liam lets out a laugh and A.J. smiles her approval, before saluting me with her beer.  Talk turns lighter and though I’ve found that my new personality likes to hang back, I find myself laughing and even adding tidbits to the conversation every now and then because A.J. makes it impossible to do otherwise.  She’s a firecracker, or a sparkplug, engaging, entertaining, exploding everywhere so everyone around her is invested in what she’s talking about.

              Halfway through a story about when she came out to her mother, I have to hold my hand over my mouth to keep the laughter in.

              “You lie.”

              She shakes her head.  “No need to.  When you meet my mother, you’ll understand.  Everything she does defies logic.”

              “In fairness,” Liam interrupts, as he has been all evening, “you aren’t exactly tactful or gentle in the way you present information.  It’s just one day ‘I have a boyfriend’, and the next, ‘meet my girlfriend, I’m a lesbian’.  It tends to throw people, especially people like Didi to whom the world is very ordered.”

              “Not you,” A.J. says and I realize their relationship extends way beyond that of comfortable co-workers.  “You just patted my shoulder and told me liking what a man liked didn’t mean I had to dress like one too.  It was rather poetic.”

              This elicits a number of other stories and memories that A.J. begins to work through, and though I’ve been entertained all night, the picture on the opposite side of the table is so beautiful and comfortable that I feel suddenly lonely.  Mia’s the closest person I have that could be considered a best friend, someone who knows me better than anyone else, and yet our relationship isn’t like A.J. and Liam’s.  Mia saved me, and we were always close growing up, but her family moved to Arizona before we started high school and, even before then, we didn’t spend our time together.  She was a student and an athlete who wanted nothing more than her parents’ approval.  I was a party girl who spent her days shopping and her nights worrying over my boy of choice, usually settling on the one that would shock my mother the most.

              It hits me hard, here and now, that I don’t have this, the bond of a childhood friend who’s watched you grow and had your back.  I don’t have the shared stories and memories that A.J. and Liam do, and the affection that underlies everything we say to one another.  I have the regret that comes with being a surface friend for most of my life.

              “Hey, are you okay?”

              I nod at Liam, though I feel hot and a little sick right now.  “I think I need some air.  I’ll be right back,” I say and slide out of the booth, but not before I see the look they exchange.  I instantly hope they think I’m leaving to break the temptation to drink instead of because of the fact that I’m jealous.

              I feel stupid, but I can’t make myself go back yet, can’t make myself brush off the feeling of absolute isolation that has washed over me in the last ten minutes.  I step out of the bar and lean against the side of the building, taking out my phone.  I’ve been trying to prove to myself and everyone else that I’m strong enough to live without constant support, and as a result I haven’t texted or talked to Mia or Nina in a few days.  They call or text me, but I wait for them to initiate because I don’t want to be needy.  Now, though, I text Mia because I can feel myself wanting to sink, and I know she’ll pull me out.

Her response is immediate, but rather than text, she calls.

“Is it raining still?” she asks when I answer and I smile, knowing she would never mention the desperation in my text unless I brought it up.

“Nope.  It’s a balmy sixty degrees right now.  How’s the desert, dry and suffocating?”

She laughs and I feel myself relax.  We might not have the history of shared moments like Liam and A.J., we have a connection nonetheless.  We chat about the salon, my new friends, the apartment, a little about Jake.  When she asks about my mom, I pause.

“Good — I see her, but she doesn’t really talk to me yet.  I think I might be wasting my time.”

“You’re not, Cora.  Do it for you, and for her.  Keep trying, I promise you aren’t wasting your time.”

I nod, but don’t say anything and we sit in silence for a minute.

“I’m glad you texted,” she says, and like she can read my thoughts, she adds, “I miss you, Cora.”

I blow out a breath and feel my shoulders relax.  “I miss you, too.  Tell your husband I say hi.  I have to get back.”

“I will.  And Cora?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m always here.  Don’t forget that.”

I close my eyes and nod.  “Thanks, cousin.”  I hang up and stand there, bringing myself back together.  I’m watching people pass by me on the street when I hear his voice.

              “If I’d known you were waiting outside for me, I would’ve tried to get here faster.”

              Jake finishes walking toward me and I turn my head to watch him.  His hair’s damp and he’s no longer in practice clothes, so I can deduce that he went home to shower after his training session.  He’s wearing what I’ve come to understand is pretty standard attire for him, with his dark levis, white long sleeve Henley that’s pushed up to his elbows, and a pair of worn brown boots.  His hair is long enough that it curls damply around his face, and his jaw holds a day or two worth of scruff. 

The sight of him brings a tingle low in my belly, but it also brings a slight relief from the loneliness that was sucking me down so instead of looking away, like I’ve done the past month, I keep staring at him.  He stops next to me and leans back, his hands stuffed casually in his pockets.

              “You okay, Blue?”  I nod.  “Then why are you out here? Aren’t your friends inside?”

              “I needed some air.”

              “Too hot in there?”

              I could say yes and take the lie he’s offered, but I don’t.  The other night was a kind of truce for us, a thawing from the freeze out I had employed to safeguard myself against him.  For whatever reason, when he’d walked in the door I’d known he needed something — and I wanted to be the one to give it to him.  We talked about his arm, but after his initial frustrations were vented and after we made dinner, we moved onto different topics, things like favorite movies, books (of which my list was pathetically short and somewhat contrived as I’ve only heard of some of the books and never actually read them), music, and food.  And then back to baseball, which he clearly loves and misses.  He didn’t make a move all night, not even when we went our separate ways to bed.  Which shows me that we can be friends… and I think I want to be.  Whatever else he wants, well, I try not to think too hard about it, because I know my answer is definitely not the one I want it to be.