“So, lucky you,” Ginger drawls, clearly changing the subject, “what about this Sleeping Bear of yours?”
“Dude, would you stop calling him that?”
“Ooh, touchy. I like it. Speaking of secret languages, that’s Daniel for ‘I’m invested in someone and it’s freaking me out.’”
“If by ‘invested in’ you mean ‘made a complete fool out of myself in front of,’ then, yes.”
“You didn’t make a fool out of yourself; he kissed you.”
“Yeah, to calm me down. Then I basically assaulted him.” My stomach sinks and I shiver at the memory, despite it being approximately two thousand degrees in my car right now.
“Whatever; he obviously wanted you. He was just being a gentleman and not falling into bed with you when you were drunk and possibly suffering from a closed-head injury.”
I snort.
“Sooooo, do you think you’ll see him again?”
“Dunno. I mean, it’s not like it’s a bustling metropolis; I’m bound to, right?”
“Great. So, do you think you’ll, like, see him see him?”
“I just….”
“What, pumpkin?”
“I just can’t stop thinking about him, Ginge. It’s idiotic. I mean, I barely know the guy. But when I woke up and he was gone, I just….” I was fucking devastated.
That morning, I woke up warm, the blanket wrapped around me, soft light coming in through the curtains. It took me a minute to remember where I was, but when I registered the cedar smell of the blanket, the whole night came rushing back. I rolled off the couch, my bruised chest and my throbbing head competing for which was most pissed off at me, determined to talk to Rex. To apologize for throwing myself at him, to thank him for not only saving the dog but kind of saving me as well.
But the house was empty. Even the dog was gone. I wandered around the cabin, feeling like some demented fairy-tale character (and cursing my stupid brain for instantly supplying about ten filthy Goldilocks and the three bears references). In the kitchen were a pot of coffee and a plate of toast that was slick with butter and cool to the touch. On the lip of the plate, where I couldn’t miss it, was a Post-it with a phone number on it. I called it right away, thinking it was Rex’s, but a cab company answered.
He hadn’t left a note. Not even a Nice to meet you, or a Try not to hit any more dogs in the future.
“I’m just nervous about running into him, that’s all. I didn’t make the best first impression—you know, what with me practically killing a dog, getting drunk and sexually assaulting him, insulting his town, and all.”
“I have the feeling you made a better impression than you may think,” Ginger says in the know-it-all voice she generally reserves for lecturing me about people I sleep with and telling college students who wander into her shop that they should definitely not get that tattoo.
“Whatever,” I say, sounding petulant even to myself. “Hey, what ever happened with that new guy you hired? The one with the Motörhead shirt.”
“Changing the subject: check. Um, he’s…. Well, he’s….”
“Ah ha! How was he?”
“Let’s just say that Motörhead isn’t an inapt analogue to his approach in the bedroom,” she says.
“Um, I’m not actually sure I know enough about Motörhead to understand that,” I admit. “What does that mean: wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?”
“Yeah, only without the thank you.”
“Yikes. Well, at least he didn’t seem the type to make things awkward in the workplace.”
“No. And he’s only here for the month as a favor to Johnny. No big deal.” Johnny taught Ginger to tattoo.
Out the window to my right are trees, trees, and more trees. I’m not sure exactly where I am, but I should be about an hour away.
“Listen, Ginge, I’m getting close; I need to go so I can look at the directions.”
“Okay.” She pauses. “Hey, pumpkin, listen. I think this is a good thing. This Michigan thing. This job. I’ll miss the shit out of you and I’ll be royally pissed if I don’t hear from you at least once a week, just so we’re clear, but seriously, I have a good feeling.”
“God, I hope you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.”
“Well, I’m glad the self-esteem is coming along.” I don’t want to hang up. I don’t want to cut off the one tie I have to the only place I’ve ever called home.
“Bye, babycakes.”
“Later.”
LYING IN bed, tossing and turning, I try not to think about how freaked out I am.
The apartment is even worse than it looked online. First of all, it’s tiny. The door at the top of the stairs opens into a kitchen that’s sticky with disuse. That opens into one medium-sized room that’s the living room slash bedroom, and off to the side is a tiny bathroom with a shower stall and a sink. The walls are a greasy off white; the kitchen linoleum is yellowed and peeling up at the edges. The blue carpet in the other room is thick with dust and matted in places with I don’t want to know what. The windows are mostly painted shut, so it’s incredibly hot and stuffy. What I thought, based on the pictures, was a door to another room turned out to be a door out to a rickety fire escape that would as likely kill me as save me in the event of an actual fire. The ceiling is low, since it’s really an attic room, and even at average height it feels claustrophobic. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever not wished to be taller.