Broken Girl(70)

“Well, see ya tomorrow. I’m off to meet my friend I haven’t seen in a while.”

“Is this friend a he or a she?”

“He’s a he,” I quipped.

The manager strolled in from the kitchen. Claire didn’t waste time filling her in on the details of our conversation.

“Did you hear that, Tempest, our girl Rose is having a date with a dude.”

“It’s not that type of date,” I huffed.

“That’s great! The people on table four need refills, Claire. And I don’t think Rose needs you broadcasting her life to our paying customers. Hustle it up. Rose, have fun, but not too much, keep those bags out from under your eyes. We’ll see you for the lunch shift.”

“Thanks, Tempest. See you tomorrow, Claire.” I pushed the door open and stepped out into the world another day as Rose Newton, the waitress at Angel’s Cajun Kitchen and not the woman who used to sell her body in the Tenderloin.

Even though I worked a legitimate job and waitressing was hard work, it was always in the back of my mind that I’d make three times the money selling myself in one night than the meager tips I pulled in, in a week. I had the fear of failing and having to go back to the stroll, but my promise to Sybil was stronger than that fear. Let’s face it, Portland had its diamond district where I could easily stroll the track and make a quick couple of dead presidents. This was the first time I made an honest living and didn't have to sacrifice my soul in doing it. Sure, I was sore, my feet ached and my back was killing me, but it felt rewarding to connect with people on a level I’d never had before.

I wasn’t being contacted anymore by Garrett Chadwick, aka, Mr. C or any of the other men I left behind for that matter. I figured at least for Mister, he was married and happy by now, maybe his wife was enough for him. I haven’t received any more packages from him since leaving San Francisco and oddly enough it felt good and at the same time, bad.

Maybe someday my fear would shrivel up and blow away. Until then, I was taking one day at a time, in the words of my shrink. Take each day as it comes.

I found a group for recovering prostitutes. We all had our own f*cked up and tainted stories we worked to overcome. Self-esteem building, and how to manage drug and alcohol dependency at its best, but group therapy was a trip in and of itself. So many broken girls, some with stories more horrific than mine, who sat in a circle and waited for their turn to have their actions validated by someone else just as f*cked up as they were. Each and every single one of us carrying the belief that we aren’t like the girl to the left or right of us. But when we had the sessions on how to create real relationships with people, we were exactly like the girl next to us, we all struggled with feeling worthy.

I’d lived my whole life creating bullshit stories to fill everyone else’s fantasies and desires that I’d never learned how to foster a healthy relationship with myself first and foremost. But as provoking as the meetings were, I never piped up with stories and smart-ass comebacks. I was a listener, sometimes active and sometimes distracted, but I always listened. Some of it felt like stupid bullshit, whack-job-nut-case-dome-planting-thinking, but some of what they’d talked about made sense. I’d go twice a week, something had to be sinking in. If I could see the worth in those other women, I had to be worthy too. I was getting better at ignoring the f*cked up voice in my head. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked for me.

It has been five months, three weeks, and six days, since I’d talked to or seen Shane. I would go round and round with myself about texting him, or calling him just so I could hear his voice and hang up. My self-doubt f*cked with me, not seeing him, or talking to him played right into the fear of him not waiting for me to get my shit together. I’d promised him my heart. I had to take care of myself first this time. I had to trust and as cliché as the saying was, if you love someone, set them free, if they come back, it was meant to be.

I had to focus on where I was. The air was brisk and the traffic was too heavy to daydream about Shane. I pulled my thoughts back to the street. It seemed later than what it was, I f*cking hated daylight savings. Dark sidewalks did nothing but staple me against a past I was all too ready to let go. I tightened my sweater around my neck and jay-walked across the street avoiding getting hit and slipped into the corner coffee shop where I was supposed to meet my platonic date.

“Rosie! There’s me gir’.” The sea of people parted as Briggs shuffled through customers waiting in line to order their coffee. He pulled me up against his chest and squeezed me so tight I could hardly breathe. It felt so good to have his massive arms around me, a comfort, and a familiar I had been missing the last six months.

“Oh, I’ve missed you, me gir’.”

“I’ve missed you too. Oh my God, Key, I can’t breathe.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he put me down. The vacancy of his hug reminded me how much I truly missed him. He’d come up to Portland to investigate a business venture with an old friend and asked if he could come see me before he had to fly out.

“Let’s sit.” he said as he pulled me over to a small isolated table in the corner. His accent was a comfortable reminder that someone in this world cared about me.

“I hope you don’t mind, I ordered you a drink and a lit’le somethin’.”

The barista sang out his name across the sea of people waiting.