Parker
Friday night rolls around with as much speed as a sloth on Ambien. I watch the clock all day, anxious to close up and get to Sally’s birthday celebration. Her carefully chosen present is already wrapped up and waiting in the back of my car.
I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Lukas Donovan since he blindsided me the other day. Which is a good thing, since the more I think about the way he made fun of me and teased me about my freckles, the angrier I get. If he turns back up in my store, I’ll probably flip out on him, and nobody wants to see that.
I’ve gotten myself worked up with comebacks I wish I’d thought of before. Now I’m itching for Lukas to show up, just so I can tell him off. I get a little thrill of anticipation anytime an engine roars by outside on Main Street, but it’s never him. So, I just save up all the sassy retorts in a mental catalog labeled: “Use to Eviscerate Lukas Donovan.”
The list is getting so long I’d probably need at least three sightings to use them all. Some of them are rather specific, but there’s no way I’m going to let him catch me off guard again. The armor is in place, metaphorically.
I lock up right at closing time, double checking the locks before walking to the municipal lot where I park my Civic. It starts right up, with only a minor rattle and a little thunk, and I pat the dashboard affectionately. This baby has seen better days. It was a beater when I bought it in high school, and at this point, it’s mostly held together by the faded paint job. But she keeps holding on, year after year; as long as I top up the oil every other week. And I really can’t complain because I couldn’t afford to replace it and still make rent.
Driving home with the windows down makes everything else go away. I swear, I’ll never tire of the wineries and golden sunshine. I park on the street and walk around the side of my landlord’s house to the back gate. The chain-link fence rattles as I fight with the latch. It’s bent just enough to make it impossible to open with one hand. I get it open and slam it closed again once I’m in the backyard.
A black mass slams into the fence from the neighbor’s side. A hundred and fifty pounds of terrifying muscle barks at me, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me and sending my heart slamming around in my chest.
“Down, Cujo!” I gasp. You’d think I’d be used to the darn Rottweiler by now, but he’s stealthy! He sneaks up on me on purpose, I know it. I dig in my purse, pulling out the crust of bread I saved from my lunch, and toss it over the fence. He chases after it, his short little tail wiggling in excitement. I watch him wolf it down and trot back to the fence. This time he gives a little hop and lands his front paws up on the top bar of the fence, a puppy smile on his big drooling face. He’s wiggling so hard it makes his paws dance around.
I rub his ears and scratch around his collar while he makes chuffing noises at me and licks my face. “Who’s a good boy?” I baby talk. He’s a big softy, even if he likes to scare the pants off of me. Cujo dances harder and snuffles in my ear when I hug his colossal head. I’ve always wanted a dog but having him next door is as close as I can get right now.
“Go play,” I say, shooing him off the fence before heading inside.
My place is a one room backyard… bungalow? Bungalow sounds cuter than shed, but it sort of implies more space. I guess it’s like an old-school version of a tiny home. Let’s go with that. Anyway, my tiny home has a mini kitchenette, a little closet of a bathroom with the world’s dinkiest shower, and a loft bed. The elderly couple who own it tried to use it as an Airbnb, but the neighborhood sucks and it’s too far from downtown to be ideal for tourists. It’s fine for me, though. I don’t mind a bit of a drive and I literally couldn’t find anything cheaper.
Inside, I hang my purse on the hook and start a pot of coffee. When it comes to partying, I can’t keep up with Sally and Julia without caffeine, it’s just a fact of life. I spread peanut butter on a piece of bread, fold it in half and take a big bite while I watch the coffee drip into the pot. It’s a sad little dinner, but it’s what I’ve got for now. I really need to go grocery shopping, but I’m tight on money until next week. At least I have half and half for the coffee.
I flick through my pitiful clothes rack, trying to decide what to wear. My options are… limited. I left most of my old clothes behind when I bolted. As far as I’m concerned, Puritanical floor-length skirts and turtlenecks have no place in California, but the bookstore has chewed up almost every cent I have. It’s a necessary sacrifice, and I’ll subsist on my meager collection of Walmart clearance rack finds for as long as it takes.
I land on a fluttery pink tank top and a pair of white denim shorts that I haven’t been brave enough to wear yet. I usually wear jeans but it’s so flipping hot out; I think I might melt in that much denim. Slipping my feet into my (only) pair of cute sandals, I throw back the last sip of coffee before washing my mug and straightening up the kitchenette.
I pull my hair up in a messy bun and check it in the mirror by the door. It’s way too hot to wear it down tonight. I don’t care if the bar is air conditioned or not; if we spend more than five minutes outside, I’ll be a sweaty mess.
For all the minor annoyances of my shed—I mean tiny home—one of the big benefits is that a single baby air conditioner does a great job at keeping it a comfortable temperature. The sun is setting as I leave, but I’m hit hard by a wave of heat the second I open the door.
I’m definitely not a summer girl, but a hot day in California still beats the hell out of any day back in Middle River. I might live in a closet and sweat constantly, but it’s all worth it to have the freedom to come and go as I please. To read anything I want without hiding my books under the floorboards. Plus, you can’t argue with the views out here.
The drive back to Main Street is quick. I find a parking spot two blocks from the bar where I’m supposed to meet the Donovan sisters and Sally. I’m out of my car and halfway down the street before I remember Sally’s gift and have to run back. I special ordered the box set just for her and can’t wait to see her face when she sees it.
The light in the bar is dim, even compared to the twilight outside, but once my eyes adjust, it’s impossible to miss Sally. She’s wearing a tight black dress and her hair is a shocking shade of pink this week. She wouldn’t tell me how old she was the last time I asked. She just said “twenty-nine” and winked at me. I’m guessing she’s been twenty-nine for the last thirty years, but age is more about how you feel, right?
“Parker!” Sally yells from her spot on the dance floor. She waves wildly for me to join her. Lilah and Ben are dancing nearby while Olive and Brooks are at the bar. They all cheer my name in chorus and it makes me blush. I’m not used to getting this much attention, but it’s sweet and I’m learning to love it.
When I don’t join Sally on the dance floor, she barrels over to me.
“Get your cute butt out here!” Her voice is muffled by the music and the clink of glasses behind the bar. I shake my head because I really need some liquid courage before I brave dancing in public. She wraps me in a mama-bear hug and it feels so good. I didn’t exactly get a lot of hugs from my parents growing up and I have to admit, I want to bask in Sally’s affection like a turtle in the sunshine.
She releases me and looks me up and down, holding me at arm’s length, her eyebrows raised. “What are you wearing?”
“You don’t like it?” I know my clothes are cheap, but I thought I looked cute.
“Oh, I like it, but you look like a juicy little chicken that just wandered into a wolf den.”
“I brought you a present!” I tell her, desperately trying to change the subject.
“You didn’t need to do that!” she says before holding out her hand. “But gimme!”
I laugh and give her the bag, watching with glee as she rips into the tissue paper and pulls out a filthy series of books featuring a group of cougars finding their happily ever afters with hunky billionaires. Sally cackles and hugs the box set to her chest.
“I love you, baby girl!” she shouts over the music before kissing me on the cheek. “Come on, I’m buying you a drink.”