Authors: Kathryn R. Biel
Killing Me Softly (11 page)
Four hours later, I'm finally done. Every minute of those four hours, I am fueled by hatred and vitriol for my sister. Four freakin' hours. I wash the towels but decide I can't stand knowing her blood was on them, so I end up tossing them in the dumpster with the rest of the debris. My eyes and throat are burning from the bleach that I've used to scrub the tub and the floor. Wiping the walls down with one of those eraser things takes off some of the paint. Crap, that means I'm going to have to paint again. Luckily, I have some left out in my garage.
The cleaning process results in three bags of garbage, including the contents of my new wastebasket, which Jenna had somehow filled up in those moments in my bathroom. The knife is still on the floor. If I can't use a towel that she's bled on, there is no way I'll be able to use the knife on my food. In the bag it goes. I haul the garbage to the dumpster by the garage and find the paint.
It's almost midnight when I finish. I'm hot and sweaty and still have some blood on me. I guess now would be as good a time as any to christen my shower. As I strip off my clothes and pull my phone out of my back pocket, I notice the text alert. Max, wanting to know if I'm okay. I text him back.
Things got bad but I took care of it. Ok now. Thanks for checking.
Once in the shower, the water sluicing down on me, I let my mind drift to Max. It's easier this way. To stuff all the upsetting Jenna thoughts down and put them away in a deep dark corner of my mind. Now I'll think of something pleasant. Max's kiss, his mouth, his hands. Damn, I knew those hands would have skill. Would it be wrong if I texted him to see if he wants to come over and pick up where we left off? Pulling my hands through my hair to lather up the shampoo, I decide that yes, it would be bad. Very bad. Even if I didn't think I was cursed, maybe this would not be the most opportune time. I mean, there's everything with my sister. No matter how hard I try, I can't keep thoughts of Jenna from sneaking back into my brain. I wish I could say that I thought it would be better from this point on, but I don't think that's going to be the case. Where Jenna is concerned, just expect the worst. I mean, Rob and the baby are just the tip of the iceberg.
God, Jenna ... and a baby. Two things that should never be said in the same sentence. She doesn't deserve a baby. I deserve a baby. It's not fair that ... well, none of this is fair. At least I have my own house. It's not like anyone gave it to me, either. Years of working my ass off. Nights, weekends. Year round. I never wanted money from my parents like Jenna and Brady did, either.
I need to stop thinking about my sister. She's gone and hopefully I won't have to waste any more energy on her. I close my eyes and will my brain to be rid of Jenna. Now I just need to figure out what to do about Max. I like him. Really like him. He's so ... delicious. And he likes me too. I'm sure once I'm ready to pull the trigger he'll be on board.
Am I ready to pull the trigger? Hell, I almost did this afternoon. Sighing, I turn off the water and grab my crappy old towel off the hook. Damn Jenna. She even took my brand-new, expensive, fluffy towels away. Why does she have to pollute all that is good in my life? Why does she taint everything? What did I do to deserve her as my sister?
I throw on a t-shirt and shorts. Combing out my wet hair, I can't keep my mind from wandering back to Jenna. Back to when we were kids. Inseparable. We could have had our own rooms but we had no desire to be apart. She wanted to be with me and, surprisingly, it didn't bother me. After school, we'd play, picking up our elaborate games where we'd left off the day before. We lived in our own world. Occasionally we'd let other people visit, but we were the reigning queens. And it was great. Then, one day, it was as if someone flipped a switch in Jenna.
Not only was she was no longer my friend, but she was my nemesis. She was angry all the time. Most of that anger was directed at me. To this day, I have no idea why. If I said black, she said white. We fought. Constantly. It drove my parents crazy. Although they tried as best they could not to get involved, lines were drawn. Dad and me, Mom and Jenna. Brady was too aloof and self-centered to care about what was going on in the house.
These thoughts are going to keep me up all night, and I can't afford that. I'm about a half-day behind on work, thanks to my sister. I will need to sleep fast, get up early, and get working on taking apart my windows before the repair guy gets here.
Lucky for me, pure exhaustion wins out over my racing mind and the next thing I know, it's morning. I pick my way around the boxes and piles that litter my bedroom. I'm getting a little tired of living in a construction zone. I long for the day when there are no more tarps, no more tools, and each room has actual furniture to sit on. I'm not going to know what to do with all that space.
Glad that I showered last night, I throw on another pair of cut-offs and a tank top, lace up my boots, and get to work removing the window frames. One window is dismantled, and I decide that I'm not going to be able to go much longer without a cup of coffee. Only fourteen more double-hung windows to go.
I sit at my kitchen table while I take a few moments to enjoy feeding my caffeine addiction. Someday, my front porch will be cleaned off and spruced up, and my summer mornings will be spent enjoying my coffee out there. I need to keep focused on the positives in my life, instead of all the negative energy that Jenna keeps bringing into it. I wonder, not for the first time, if all this competitiveness is typical between sisters. Therese is an only child, so she's no help there. I could ask Max. After all, Helga and Dorothy seem to be able to coexist without inducing bodily harm. I wonder what their secret is.
I've finished my first cup of coffee, so I pour another one and head back to the living room. I was lucky to find someone locally who can help repair and restore the windows that are broken. I absolutely love, love, love the charm of this place and am hell bent on saving as much of it as I can. I'm also fortunate that only the two small living room windows on either side of the fireplace need to be fixed. They're stained glass and are just super cool. All the other windows need to be dismantled, cleaned up, re-glued back together, and then re-strung. This rehashing will help improve their efficiency and keep me warmer in the winter. Once all the windows are put back in, I'll replace the storm windows as well. I'm looking forward to this winter, sitting in my living room with a nice fire going, all snug and warm.
I can't help but think that Rob would have hated this house. It's old and there are no right angles. I think it was built probably about 1920 or so, right before the Great Depression changed everything. The house isn't that big, about 1400 square feet. The mudroom was added onto the back of the house, probably in the 1950s. Someday, when I have the time, I'd like to do a little research on this house. I don't just teach American history, I love it, and the Roarin' Twenties is my favorite time period.
Rob didn't appreciate it. Much like I don't think he appreciated me. I think the only thing he did appreciate was the amount of space and control I gave him. I try not to play the 'if only' game, since it's not productive, but for once I let myself. If I had not lost the baby, I'd have a newborn. I'm not sure if we'd be married or not, but I'd—we'd—probably be living in Rob's sterile, modern townhouse. The thought of that makes it hard for me to breath.
I call Therese with my revelation.
"Things really do happen for a reason." She sounds exhausted, like always.
"I'm starting to think that you're right."
"Of course I'm right. But why the sudden revelation? Mason, get down from there now!"
"What's he doing?"
"Climbing the refrigerator."
"Aren't you afraid it's going to fall on him?"
"No, I'm afraid he's going to find my secret stash of Girl Scout cookies hidden on top."
"As long as you have your priorities."
"So back to the important things. Why am I right?"
"It's just with everything with the house and Max and Jenna and the baby—none of it would be happening if I hadn't had the miscarriage. And while I'm not happy about Jenna, the rest is pretty damn good, and I wouldn't have any of it. And that would make me sad."
"How would you know what you didn't have? Ainsley, put the pots back in the cupboard!"
"I don't know that I wouldn't know, but wouldn't I know that something was missing?"
"I don't even know what you just said, but sadly I get it." A loud scream/cry/yell erupts in the background. "WHAT!" Therese yells, not to me but to whatever—or more accurately, whomever—is creating that ruckus. "What is going on in here? Ainsley, get up, now. Get out of that—what the heck? Sadie, I gotta go."
She abruptly disconnects. Even though someone hanging up on me is one of my biggest pet peeves, it doesn't bother me when Therese does it. It's sort of the norm, since her twins are the original Satan's spawn (her words not mine). I don't take it personally.
The rest of the day passes with the window repairs. It's pretty tedious and time consuming. I haven't heard from Max, which is sort of unusual. He usually calls or texts me throughout the day. Maybe he's regretting what happened last night. Maybe he's regretting what didn't happen. Maybe the repeated altercations with Jenna in his presence have scared him off.
All I know is, it's been one day without talking to him—not even one full day—and I miss him. This is bad. This is so bad. Maybe it's because I'm reacting to the Jenna situation. Maybe it's because I'm sick of being alone. Maybe I'm just in need of some lovin'. Against my better judgment, I decide I'm going for it.
It's like the universe knows that I've decided to go for Max and is now making a concerted effort to prevent that from happening. I probably should take it as a sign. My phone starts blowing up with texts. The first from the restaurant. Two people called in, and they're getting slammed. They want me to come in and work. The next from Therese. Apparently Ainsley got her butt stuck in a pot and Therese had to call 9-1-1 to come and help get her out of it (since she couldn't very well transport a three year-old who is stuck in a pot). Did I mention that Andy, her husband, is away, yet again? Poor Therese. Then, my mom starts texting. Once my mom discovered texting, it became an addiction to her. She tends to be prolific with her messages, and now she wants to know if I've heard from Jenna. Nothing from Max.
I've got to get into the shower to get ready for work. Mondays are usually slow, but they need me, and I need the money. I don't wash my hair, opting just to pull it up in a messy bun. My work uniform is a green t-shirt with the restaurant's logo on it and a pair of black shorts. As I'm getting older, it's been harder and harder to find shorts that are age-appropriate. I'm in decent shape, but there are some things—cellulite—that can't be helped. Not that I'm saying I have cellulite. Some of the other waitresses wear indecently short shorts, and I don't want to be like that. My work sneakers complete the outfit, and I'm in my car within twenty minutes. Not too shabby.
Bumpers, the restaurant where I work, is a family-owned sports bar type restaurant. We do get a fair number of families early in the evening. Later on, it's more of a bar crowd. Our burgers are to die for and may or may not be partly responsible for some of that cellulite, if I was admitting that I had any.
Mel, the owner, is frazzled, as usual. When I come in through the back door, he says, "Oh, Sadie, thank God you're here. What took you so long?"
I look at my watch. It's only been thirty-five minutes since I called and told Mel I'd be in. Tying my apron around my waist, I can't help but smile. I've worked here since I was in college. Sort of sad to actually put a number to that. I guess I never thought that I'd still be waiting tables at the age of thirty-five, but nonetheless, here I am. Obviously, the money's good. My house is proof of that. To be perfectly honest, I like this job. I get to talk to people. I'm pretty good at it too. It can be stressful, but once the shift is over, there's no more stress. There's no worrying about curriculum or testing or teacher evaluations.
"Go tell Jeannie that you're on," Mel barks, probably more gruffly than he intended to sound.
I head out to the hostess stand and get my table assignment. The only other server is Doug, who is one of my favorite co-workers. He's hysterical. I used to hang out with him and his boyfriend, Scott, before Rob and I started dating. Rob didn't appreciate Doug's humor. I've decided that was because Rob had a gigantic stick up his ass.
"Sweet Sadie, are you a sight for sore eyes. I'm in the weeds right now!" Doug calls to me.
"I'm here to bail your sorry butt out, yet again."
"Sadie, this butt is nothing but fine, and you know it!"
I laugh and greet my first table. It's sort of unbelievable how busy it is for a Monday night. Doug's got a large party, about fifteen people or so, and their order is ready. I put my orders in the computer and head back to the kitchen to help bring out the rest of the food. Three plates balanced on my left arm, one more in my right hand, and I head back out to the floor. Passing by Doug, he reaches up and pats my back. "Thanks for helping!"
I should know better. Doug is famous for this. He's unhooked my bra. I don't know how he does it, and no guy that I've been with has ever been that dexterous with my bras. "Dammit Doug! I'm here to help you." I can do nothing but deliver the plates to the table and hope it's not too apparent that my girls are swinging in the wind.
"Okay, I've got a buffalo chicken sand—" I look up to see Max sitting at the table. With a girl. Okay, it's a large group. It doesn't necessarily mean anything. "—wich." A guy raises his hand. Max's arm is around the back of her chair, and she's sitting awfully close to him. I can't even. Max is just looking at me. No, he's looking at my chest. I am so gonna kill Doug. I hand out the rest of the plates and hightail it to the back.
Why? Why do these things keep happening to me?
Doug comes back, still chuckling as I struggle to recapture my breasts through my t-shirt. "Never gets old."
Needless to say, at my age, the girls really rely on the support of the bra, so once they've been unleashed, I'm working against gravity to re-contain them. "Doug, you have got to stop doing that."
"I can't. It's too funny, watching your face." Doug keeps observing my contortions. "You're hangin' a little low these days, my friend."
"Gravity is not my friend, and after this, neither are you." I smooth my shirt and turn the corner to go out and check on my table. And run smack into Max.
"There you are."
"I've got to get to my tables. I can't talk." I'm trying to side step around Max. Either we're terribly in synch or he's trying really hard to block me because as I step right, he steps left and then back again. I'm no closer to getting by him.
"Sorry I didn't get to text you back today. I was ... um, caught up with something. It was a busy day."
"Yeah, I can see that."
"This isn't what it looks like."
"I don't care."
"Will you let me explain?"
"There's nothing to explain."
"Sadie, I—"
"Max, not now. I have to go." Finally I'm able to push by him as I head out to my tables. Several refills are needed, and then orders are up. I'm doing my best not to look toward Max. Of course, that's about as easy as not pulling a loose thread hanging from a sweater. Every time I look up, Max is watching me. He's not smiling. He's just watching. I don't know what to make of it. It's sort of weirding me out.
So it looks like I was right not to want to get involved. Men are just too much heartbreak. And they cannot be trusted. What a fool I am. Apparently I learned nothing with the Rob fiasco. I've learned nothing my whole life. I can't trust anyone. Maybe this is why I've used my premonitions to keep me from getting involved. A defense mechanism. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, and that familiar feeling washes over me. That creepy feeling that accompanies my premonitions, if you want to call them that.
I am utterly alone.
It's the strangest thing, to be standing in a room full of people and feel so alone. And the sensation is much stronger than anything I've ever felt before. I shake my head to clear the feeling and set about filling a bucket with ice to restock the soda fountain. My tables have just about finished up, and it's slowed down enough to where I can go home. Max's party is starting to leave, and Doug will certainly be able to handle the rest of the night.
Hoisting the bucket up to dump it out, I'm startled when I hear my name. "Sweet Sadie, there's some dude out here waiting to talk to you. And if you don't want him, I'll certainly take him. Mmm ...mmm ... mmm."
Doug never fails to make me smile. "Thanks Doug, but I think he's spoken for, and unfortunately, not by me."
"That's a pity and a shame. Take your time. I'll get the side work later."
I return the bucket to its place under the counter and head out to find Max standing in the hallway. He's nonchalantly leaning against the paneled wall and looks utterly delicious. Why is he still here?
"Max, what do you want from me?"
"Why are you mad?"
"I'm not mad." I am so mad.
"Sadie, of course you are. I know you—this is mad Sadie. Usually, I only see her when you bend a nail or your sister shows up."
"Well, when my pneumatic nailer jams, and I have to pull out all those bent nails with a pair of pliers, it's frustrating."
"So are you saying you're frustrated then? About what?"
It's time to be honest with him. "You, Max. Me. Everything in my life."
He frowns and then reaches for me. I step back to avoid his touch. "This is because I didn't text you back?"
"No, not because you didn't text me back. Do you really think I'm that high maintenance?"
"No, and that's why I'm confused. Just tell me what's going on."
I look at my feet, clad in my stained sneakers. I'm not used to being direct. This is hard. "I just thought—after last night—you know."
He reaches out again and this time I let him. His fingers graze my cheeks, lingering, before moving to my jaw. His voice is lower, thicker. "Say it, Sadie."
Exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding, I find the words. "I thought that something was happening—was going to happen—with us. I guess I was off the mark. Wouldn't be the first time this year."
"What are you talking about? I'm pretty sure we were on the same page last night."
The memory of his hands and lips on my body floods my mind, and I feel myself blushing. What I wouldn't give to be able to pick up where we left off. I need to focus on why that won't be happening. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I find the words. "So then, why are you here with someone else today?" I see him inhale and prepare to speak, so I rush to continue while I have the courage. "You know the deal with Rob and Jenna. I can't—won't—do that again. I'm not saying that we're anything yet, but I can't—won't—compete. Just take me out of the running."
Max's lips are on mine. What is he doing to me? Didn't I just tell him to take me out of the running? Why is he doing this? I thought he was a good guy but he can't be. How can he be with a girl and now be kissing me? I don't want this to stop, but it has to. Somehow, I find the strength to use my hands, which are already on Max's firm pecs, to push him back.
"Stop. Please." I'm out of breath.
He too is breathless. And ... angry? "Sadie, what do you want from me?"
"Max, you can't just kiss me to avoid the topic. I don't even understand how you can kiss me right now. Isn't your girlfriend waiting for you?"
"Girlfriend? Wait—is that what you're upset about?"
"Um yeah." What is he, some kind of moron? Why would I be upset about something so trivial as a girlfriend? Dumbass—is that what I'm upset about? I thought he was smarter than that.
"That's Tracy."
"Okay." Where is he going with this? It's not like knowing her name is going to make me feel any better. Quite the contrary. He's looking at me expectantly. "Am I supposed to know who that is?"
"You know, my friend Tracy. The one who I dressed up as Cupid for."
A mental image of a bare-chested Max in his leather chaps and vest springs to mind. I need to focus. "Okay."
"We're friends."
"Like you and I are friends? Friends who take each other's clothes off."
"Not in recent history."
This is about the worst thing he can say. I take another step back, increasing the distance between us. "Max ... I need to get back to work. I can't do this now. I just—can't. If you don't want to keep working with me, I'm sure I can find someone else."
Max turns and walks away without saying a word.
Yup, alone.
Again.