Status: back in action
Town Limits
Heavy Feet
It has been three weeks.
Liam will sometimes come to Darla’s. When I ask him why he says it’s because we make the best chocolate chip muffins in town. Then I sigh because I know that’s not the reason and I just want him to admit the same things he told me the day of the wind storm because those words remind me to keep my distance.
Or maybe it’s more important for me to remember my own statement.
I am not a vase. I am not a broken glass thing that he can fix and then place on his dining room table to make himself feel better about his father’s death.
I have been trying hard to fix myself so that he doesn’t have to do it for me. I chew my food wholly and I pour hot coffee into mugs and I poke myself with a jagged piece of stained glass and I listen hard to find reasons to feel something. It is very draining, but it reminds me of my humanness. And every night I collapse into bed and I am so desperate to not be engulfed by my racing thoughts that I force myself to sleep.
I’ve found that I like the listening to other people the most. It’s funny what people will tell you if you just ask them. “Tell me a story,” I’ll say to a customer that wanders into the little cafe. While I’m preparing their order, they will. There are tales of sunny days at the beach and dinner conversations and nostalgia and hope. Tales of Old Shore that don’t involve fighting, screaming, and running away. Sometimes they send a bitter jealousness sweeping through my veins and I have to turn around, pretending to check the coffee maker, and scrunch my apron between my fingers.
Nobody ever asks me to tell them a story. I’m afraid that one day somebody will. My stories aren’t very good. I’m a horrible narrator.
I like Liam’s stories, I think, because he has so many. He’s a social creature and his mother has moved him and his little brother back and forth across the country so many times that it’s impossible for him to not have interesting things to say. He makes me smile with his dramatic gestures and the way his facial expressions are dictated strictly by eyebrow movements. The ladies in pencil skirts sitting at the tables will halt their conversation and listen, too. I want to tell them they can’t do that because he is mine, but then I realize that’s a dangerous thought to be having so I push it back into my stomach.
We have not spoken of anything deeply personal in three weeks. We have been treating each other as friends who met at a club. That’s it. It’s weirdly comfortable. I don’t know how he manages to talk to me like I don’t have a past, but I’m grateful for it.
I press a muffin onto a chipped plate and slide it across the shiny, metal counter. Paige’s mother has gained enough trust in me to let me work the business by myself during work days when business is slow, so it is only the two of us. He begins to methodically unfurl the pastry’s wrapper as I turn away to pour myself a glass of water, and then turn back and lean my elbows against the bar, rubbing my fingers over the small bandage on my palm. I’ve downsized from the gauze.
“I told my mom about you,” He says after dragging a pale yellow napkin across his chapped lips. It matches the shade of his hair, which peaks out from beneath a grey beanie.
Raising my eyebrows, I press my lips together into a straight line, waiting for him to continue, wondering where this is heading. Because I could be just a friend, or I could be a girl, or I could be the Chadwick girl.
“I said ‘Mom, I made a friend. She is very nice and I would like her to come over for dinner.’”
I ask, “Does she know?” And then gesture to myself, hoping Liam gets what I mean. I mean Does she know that it’s the broken girl from 1234 Blue Street with the dead mother and the murderer father?
He rolls the question around on his tongue before answering. “I don’t think she knows who you are, but she knows you’re not typical. Normally I don’t announce when I make friends because it’s not a big deal. It happens often enough.” Am I a big deal? I’d like to think that I’m not, but I know that I am. I just wish it was for something positive. Liam continues when I don’t respond, a smile creeping into his deep voice, “Now you have to come over for dinner. I pulled some serious strings.”
Clearly today is a good day as far as my life outlook and attitude goes. This playfulness reminds me of the something that edged into our voices that first night but I take it in stride. A few days ago, Liam made a comment about how he never sees me eat. And honestly, I just haven’t had an appetite lately. But I know he wants to see me eat and I’ll do it so he doesn’t feel responsible for saving my life.
“What’s she making?” I question, folding my bare arms across my chest, ignoring the bitter taste in my mouth. I don’t actually care; all I can think about is how I wish I had parents who would cook me dinner instead.
Liam smiles a full, toothy smile that reveals his dimples and crinkles his green, green eyes. “You’ll have to show up to find out.”
Liam will sometimes come to Darla’s. When I ask him why he says it’s because we make the best chocolate chip muffins in town. Then I sigh because I know that’s not the reason and I just want him to admit the same things he told me the day of the wind storm because those words remind me to keep my distance.
Or maybe it’s more important for me to remember my own statement.
I am not a vase. I am not a broken glass thing that he can fix and then place on his dining room table to make himself feel better about his father’s death.
I have been trying hard to fix myself so that he doesn’t have to do it for me. I chew my food wholly and I pour hot coffee into mugs and I poke myself with a jagged piece of stained glass and I listen hard to find reasons to feel something. It is very draining, but it reminds me of my humanness. And every night I collapse into bed and I am so desperate to not be engulfed by my racing thoughts that I force myself to sleep.
I’ve found that I like the listening to other people the most. It’s funny what people will tell you if you just ask them. “Tell me a story,” I’ll say to a customer that wanders into the little cafe. While I’m preparing their order, they will. There are tales of sunny days at the beach and dinner conversations and nostalgia and hope. Tales of Old Shore that don’t involve fighting, screaming, and running away. Sometimes they send a bitter jealousness sweeping through my veins and I have to turn around, pretending to check the coffee maker, and scrunch my apron between my fingers.
Nobody ever asks me to tell them a story. I’m afraid that one day somebody will. My stories aren’t very good. I’m a horrible narrator.
I like Liam’s stories, I think, because he has so many. He’s a social creature and his mother has moved him and his little brother back and forth across the country so many times that it’s impossible for him to not have interesting things to say. He makes me smile with his dramatic gestures and the way his facial expressions are dictated strictly by eyebrow movements. The ladies in pencil skirts sitting at the tables will halt their conversation and listen, too. I want to tell them they can’t do that because he is mine, but then I realize that’s a dangerous thought to be having so I push it back into my stomach.
We have not spoken of anything deeply personal in three weeks. We have been treating each other as friends who met at a club. That’s it. It’s weirdly comfortable. I don’t know how he manages to talk to me like I don’t have a past, but I’m grateful for it.
I press a muffin onto a chipped plate and slide it across the shiny, metal counter. Paige’s mother has gained enough trust in me to let me work the business by myself during work days when business is slow, so it is only the two of us. He begins to methodically unfurl the pastry’s wrapper as I turn away to pour myself a glass of water, and then turn back and lean my elbows against the bar, rubbing my fingers over the small bandage on my palm. I’ve downsized from the gauze.
“I told my mom about you,” He says after dragging a pale yellow napkin across his chapped lips. It matches the shade of his hair, which peaks out from beneath a grey beanie.
Raising my eyebrows, I press my lips together into a straight line, waiting for him to continue, wondering where this is heading. Because I could be just a friend, or I could be a girl, or I could be the Chadwick girl.
“I said ‘Mom, I made a friend. She is very nice and I would like her to come over for dinner.’”
I ask, “Does she know?” And then gesture to myself, hoping Liam gets what I mean. I mean Does she know that it’s the broken girl from 1234 Blue Street with the dead mother and the murderer father?
He rolls the question around on his tongue before answering. “I don’t think she knows who you are, but she knows you’re not typical. Normally I don’t announce when I make friends because it’s not a big deal. It happens often enough.” Am I a big deal? I’d like to think that I’m not, but I know that I am. I just wish it was for something positive. Liam continues when I don’t respond, a smile creeping into his deep voice, “Now you have to come over for dinner. I pulled some serious strings.”
Clearly today is a good day as far as my life outlook and attitude goes. This playfulness reminds me of the something that edged into our voices that first night but I take it in stride. A few days ago, Liam made a comment about how he never sees me eat. And honestly, I just haven’t had an appetite lately. But I know he wants to see me eat and I’ll do it so he doesn’t feel responsible for saving my life.
“What’s she making?” I question, folding my bare arms across my chest, ignoring the bitter taste in my mouth. I don’t actually care; all I can think about is how I wish I had parents who would cook me dinner instead.
Liam smiles a full, toothy smile that reveals his dimples and crinkles his green, green eyes. “You’ll have to show up to find out.”