Figure Eight Read online

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did.” But that’s not the point. Stephanie’s once stupid decision in my eyes is now my saving grace. “Anyway,” I rush. “She’s been married for ten years. Has five kids and seems to love her family!”

  “Did you just hear yourself? Five kids. She’s probably catatonic from changing dirty diapers and watching cartoons all day.”

  I’ve always said that Sam is an assassin of happiness. Just when one good idea or thing pops up in my life she’s there, waiting and ready, with her scope set to shoot it to smithereens. And that’s why I depend on her so damn much. She’s there to get to get rid of anything I don’t need in my life. She’s there to provide the reality that I desperately need.

  Many times I’ve told her this. But she just shrugs and rolls her eyes. “I’m just trying to protect you. That’s all.”

  Although this time I don’t need her protecting. I realize that I’m taking a risk when it comes to Jackson. And I’m okay with that. In fact, I’m more than okay with that.

  “What I’m really trying to say is that everyone thought that her marriage wouldn’t make it. We were all against her. And look at her. She’s happy. She’s in love.”

  “Are you saying you’re in love?” she asks.

  At that, I look away. I’d steeled myself against the hard-hitting questions. The ones that make you feel angry, helpless and defensive. I didn’t bank on Sam asking such a personal question.

  “I think, if I’m given the time, I could love him,” I reply.

  Sam reaches across the table and places her hand over mine. Her mouth opens but then her phone starts to vibrate.

  “Shit.” She glances at her watch with a small look of pure panic. “I have to get going.”

  “To where?”

  “I’m going back to Chicago and have a dinner with Jason tonight.”

  “So you drove three hours just to ask how I am?”

  She freezes as she puts on her coat and gives me a smile. “Yes I did. I care about you that much. Aren’t you lucky to have me?” she teases.

  For now, our argument is done.

  “I hate this place.”

  “Really? I would’ve never guessed,” I respond dryly.

  “Seriously, Selah. How can you stay here?”

  I tense. “I have to.”

  “No, you don’t.” She places a hand on my bicep. “Sell the house and move to Chicago. You can be near me.”

  The mere thought of moving to Chicago makes me laugh. I went there once to visit Sam and I hated it. It’s too busy, too frenetic. Walking down the street made me feel like I was in an incubator. I couldn’t wait to go back to my cozy apartment in Kansas City.

  “You know what I think of Chicago.”

  “That was one visit, though. Find a job and really settle down and I think you’d like it.”

  “So you think moving will magically solve all my problems?”

  “No,” she admits. “But it’ll probably make you feel marginally better.”

  “Doubtful,” I mutter. “The only thing at this point that will make me feel better is getting a job.”

  Sam sighs and I hate that. It means that she too is running out of options, out of ideas to help and that’s never good.

  “Call me if you need anything. I mean it, Selah. Anything.” She gives me one final hug before she gets into her rental car. I stand by her car and watch her pull out of the parking lot.

  I know that Sam’s offer will always be on the table, but will I take her up on it? Probably not.

  It sounds a bit crazy, but the only person I’m starting to trust is Jackson.

  IT’S STILL RAINING when I pull into the driveway. I hurry out of my car, holding my purse over my head even though it’s pointless; the rain finds a way to my face and hair. The soles of my shoes squeak across the porch. I grab the house key and unlock the door. I’m out of breath by the time I rush inside.

  She’s in the exact same spot where I left her. She looks my way and gives me the placating smile. The one she used on me when I was a kid.

  See? I’m still here, that smile says. Didn’t I tell you everything would be okay?

  THERE ARE BILLIONS of people on earth and yet you chose to talk to Sam.

  Don’t get me wrong. I understand why you open up to her. But that doesn’t mean I have to accept it.

  For example: the cashier ringing up all your items right now. She looks good. I understand it can be awkward to open up to a complete stranger. But sometimes strangers are the only people you can trust. They don’t know you and the chances of you ever seeing them again are rare. It would be like whispering your words into the cold winter day. You speak, and you see your breath in front of you and watch as it slowly dissolves. It’s like it never happened.

  It sounds appealing, doesn’t it? We both know you won’t do it though. So I’ll make another, more obvious suggestion: talk to your mom. You’re with her almost twenty-four seven. And you know for a fact that she’ll listen to you. All Sam is going to do is take all the hard work I’ve put into finding you the perfect gift and rip it to shreds.

  I’m not going to let that happen. I put way too much thought into my present for that to happen.

  Besides, Sam’s not around enough to know that this is the happiest you’ve ever been. I see the light back in your eyes. You’re starting to see the silver lining. You smile more easily. And you’re, dare I say it, starting look a little hopeful.

  No, Sam doesn’t see any of that.

  But I do.

  Keep in mind she’s only ever here for a few days and the next thing you know she’s going back to her fabulous life in the city. Back to her fabulous job where she’s the head bitch. Back to where your problems become microscopic.

  And when you think about it, that’s okay. We’re all inherently selfish human beings who focus on our own problems.

  I’m the only one that devotes one hundred percent of my time to making sure that you’re okay and happy. So much so that I’m starting to feel like your damn therapist. I mark the moments that you are sad and highlight the times you are not. And for what reason? Just so I can make sure that you’re okay.

  Okay.

  Not good. Not great. Just okay.

  Okay isn’t good enough for Sam. She’s the perfect example of a perfectionist. She’d demand that you be great. She’d stick around for bit and then leave.

  Would it be wonderful if you were instantly great? Of course. But anything worth having requires work. Lately, I’ve been reminding myself of that. I’m starting to become exhausted. But trust me, that’s not enough for me to give up on you.

  No, I’m like a runner who hasn’t reached their stride. My legs feel clumsy. My lungs slightly burn. Sweat is starting to pool around the temples. I’m thinking of all the reasons why I should stop. Yet I pull from within myself an inner strength, narrow my eyes and picture the finish line in the distance. Then I catch my second wind and surge forward.

  My eyes are narrowed. Looking straight at you.

  All I need is to find my stride.

  Don’t worry, I always do.

  THIS IS A bad idea.

  Maybe the worst I’ve had in long time. Meeting someone that you’ve been talking to online? Better yet, for only two weeks? It has all the trimmings of a murder mystery. Dateline will run a story of me. I can see the rolling credits so perfectly. Lester Holt solemnly staring at the screen as he says, Tonight, we turn to Keith Morrison as he shows us the young Selah Kerrington and her tragic ending…

  Thus begins a forty-minute monologue of good ole’ Keith interviewing my mom and the few close friends I have. They’ll give me a messiah complex, claiming that I had a good heart, lit up the room and loved life. Perhaps they’ll roll old videotapes of me as a kid, blowing out candles. Riding my bike for the first time without training wheels. Showing off for Mom by doing a series of cartwheels in the backyard.

  Maybe they’ll scrounge up some pictures of me growing up. Un
doubtedly, they’ll list all the hobbies that I excelled at. Cue the B-roll footage of Keith walking down the very block I lived on, telling the viewers that for all my perfect ways I was a very, very lonely woman.

  Yet my future TV debut isn’t enough to make me turn around and get the hell out of here while I still have a chance. The bottom line is that my newfound friendship with this man has me curious. I want to know more about him and if we’ll click in person as well as we do in our conversations.

  The saddest part about it is that’s not too far off from the truth. I am lonely. I know I should do something about it. In a non-dangerous way I am doing it.

  I have friends. I could call them. I know keeping myself locked away with Mom is just making matters worse, but every time I pick up the phone, or go to message someone, I hesitate. Sympathy would ooze from their words. They would give me that sad look. The one that says, I feel terrible for the predicament you’re in but thank God it’s not me!

  I don’t get that with Jackson and I love it. Not being defined by what’s going on in my life feels… refreshing. Like having your head underwater for too long and then reaching the surface. You gasp and suck in all the air you can. And that gasp is the single most important proof that you’re alive.

  Last night we arranged to meet at a Starbucks off of Mound Road. I deliberately chose a public area, just in case something happens or he turns out to be completely different in person and I need to make a quick and safe getaway.

  We agreed to meet at three. My clock reads two fifty-five. I came a few minutes early in the hopes that I would catch an unsuspecting glance at Jackson. With my hands gripping the steering wheel I lean forward and squint at the entrance but I can’t tell if he’s inside.

  Then a thought hits me: What if he stands me up? I’ve been so focused on the potential tragedy of the two of us having no chemistry in person that I never gave being stood up a second thought.

  You can always leave, my mind whispers.

  Yet my curiosity outweighs the risk of embarrassment. Besides, all I can really think about is that if I do decide not to go inside, I’d potentially look back on this moment years later and think, What if I did walk inside and meet him? Would things have turned out differently?

  “I can do this. It’s just coffee,” I say to myself as I open my door. It may be March but that means nothing. In the Midwest the weather is either all or nothing. Winter storms hit with a vengeance. I’ve heard the tornado sirens go off more than I can count and have experienced heat waves that feel like I’m in the desert. Only fall serves as the smallest buffer from the intense weather.

  Yesterday it was a crisp fifty- one degrees. Definitely warm enough to melt away the remnants of past snow and slush. Today it’s twenty degrees with the temperature steadily going down. By tomorrow morning we’re supposed to have up to six inches of snow.

  Welcome to central Illinois.

  As soon as I step outside, I instantly feel someone’s eyes on me. My heart starts to drum beneath my skin. I tuck my hands into my pockets and hurry toward the building making sure to keep my head ducked down, away from the bitter wind. I sigh with relief when I step inside Starbucks and the warmth greets me. Thankfully, the place is all but empty. One girl looks to be deeply engrossed in studying, with a computer on the table and papers spread out. She doesn’t look up when I come in. The other person is a haggard woman with double stroller, trying to take a sip of her coffee while simultaneously feeding an infant and giving the toddler in the stroller pieces of a croissant. She glances my way, a look of envy crossing her face. A look that says: I was once you.

  I scan the rest of the room. Alarm tingles down my spine as I take a seat facing the door. All I can think of is, What if he stands me up? He is the one who wanted to meet. Maybe that’s his MO though. Troll social media. Snare a lonely woman, only to humiliate her and never show up.

  Or maybe—

  Enough with the maybe’s, I tell myself. Get a coffee. Wait thirty minutes and if he still hasn’t shown up then leave.

  My chair makes a loud screeching sound as I stand up and walk up to the counter. When I order my drink the girl behind the counter glances at me accusingly, like I’m some loner with nowhere to go and nothing to do. In a way, she’s kind of right. If I weren’t meeting Jackson today I’d be at home with Mom looking for any job prospects.

  As I walk back to my seat, I tell myself that I won’t stay here for longer than thirty minutes. I think that’s a fair amount of time to wait, plus it won’t cause the other patrons to think I’m some pathetic stranger who eats and drinks her coffee alone. Maybe I’m being stubborn about the whole thing; before I left home I told Mom that I’ve been talking to someone.

  “Who?” she’d asked distractedly, her gaze directed on the TV.

  “Some guy.” I took a long pause. “That I met from the Internet. His name is Jackson.”

  If I’d said that years ago, Mom’s head would’ve whipped in my direction. She would’ve looked at me with shock and anger. But that didn’t happen. She stared at the TV, watching the QVC lady tell everyone to hurry and place their orders for the brown sweater tunic! Hurry, hurry! The green and black ones have already sold out!

  She was giving me the silent treatment. Of that I was sure. And I was also sure that she was banking on me being stood up. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being right.

  “Trying to get a look without me knowing?” a deep voice asks behind me.

  Thank God I wasn’t sipping coffee or it would’ve sprayed out of my mouth. Quickly, I twist around. My left hand curls around the lip of the table but it’s only to hide the slight tremor in my hands.

  A camera can be a tricky thing. People who aren’t particularly beautiful suddenly seem captivating in a photo. Or the petite blonde who does the morning news for WAND, who always looks gorgeous on screen, isn’t as flawless in person. Tricky, tricky thing that camera.

  Yet for Jackson it’s both of those things. He’s just as I imagined, but his profile picture didn’t reveal how his eyes are a mixture of amber and green. His light brown hair isn’t as short and has a stubborn wave to it. I have a feeling that he used to try to tame it with gel but gave up the fight and let it be.

  Dressed in a Henley and black pea coat it’s still easy to see that he has a lean build. He has on cologne but it’s not heavy enough to make me gag. It’s just the right amount to make me want to lean in. And lean in I do as he takes off his coat and drapes it across the chair and sits down.

  The girl behind the cash register glances my way and I want to flip her the bird and say, See! I’m not a complete fucking loser.

  “Have you been waiting long?” he asks. His voice sounds deeper in person than it does on the phone.

  I shrug. “Not that long.”

  He glances at my coffee. “Long enough to get a drink.”

  “It’s not as though the place is packed.” I smile. He smiles back.

  Inside, I’m thinking to myself, So how does this go? Because this isn’t a normal meet and greet. We’ve complied hours and hours of phone conversations and thousands of words between the two of us. But never in person. It’s like building a house only to tear it back down.

  Where do we start?

  All the conversation starters that I’d been going over for the past few hours fly out the window, along with my confidence. I clam up and suddenly turn mute.

  He’s the first one to break the silence: “Never pegged you for a coffee kind of girl.”

  Veering back, I glance down at my coffee. “Why’s that?”

  “Because when I talk to you, you always seem so jittery. Like you’re moving from one task to the next.”

  “True. But the only reason I’m able to move from task to task is because of coffee. I’m a coffee addict.” I take a small sip. “What about you?”

  He shrugs before he rests his elbows on the table. “Eh. Not so much.”

  “If you don’t like coffee then why were you okay with me
eting at a coffee shop?”

  “Because you suggested it. And because it was clear you wanted to meet somewhere where there were witnesses.” He laughs at the look on my face. “I don’t blame you for choosing a location like this.”

  “I just don’t want to be a Dateline statistic,” I say defensively, but with a smile.

  He quirks a brow but his smile never leaves. “What?”

  I go on to tell him about my Dateline spiel, which I realize makes me sounds like I’m prone to conspiracy theories. He has every right to get up and run for the fucking hills but instead he stares at me with general interest, as though what I’m saying has value to him.

  It’s been a really, really long time since that’s happened.

  God, that’s pathetic.

  When I’m done talking, I’m out of breath. Jackson whistles, sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. “That’s quite an imagination you have on you.”

  “You have no idea,” I mutter.

  “Now I know why you’re a writer.”

  “Aspiring,” I correct him. “Completely different from a published author.”

  “So you think there’s a difference?”

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  “I think you’re wrong. Published or not. If you’ve written something, you’re a writer. Anyone who tells you different is full of shit.”

  I find myself leaning in, because Jackson doesn’t just speak, he immerses himself into each individual word, pulling you in right along with him. It makes me more comfortable. Very quickly, the silences that linger as we take sips of coffee become almost… cozy.

  “So where is it?” he asks.

  I frown. “Where’s what?”

  He rolls his eyes and leans in. Just close enough that I get a whiff on his cologne. “You know what I’m talking about. The next five chapters.”

  I’m not going to lie, I was kind of hoping he would just forget that late night conversation when I told him he could read some more chapters.

  I hesitate and Jackson says, “If it bothers you that bad, you don’t have to.”