Repeat(18)

“You and I were that close?”

One of her shoulders rises. “Well, yeah.”

Previous me’s life continues to make little sense to me. The way she disappeared on people who supposedly mattered to her. But I’ll take all the information I can get.

A bird pecks at the remains of a muffin on a nearby table. The sounds of chatter from patrons and the noise from an occasional passing car fill the air. Shannon rests her elbows on the table, leaning in. There’s a certain wide-eyed innocence to her. I don’t trust it, but then again, I’m paranoid. Or maybe I’m just having a shitty day and am jealous that she gets to spend quality time in Ed’s presence while I’ve been exiled.

“I’d like to hear your take on it all,” I say, settling into the chair. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

And the girl opens her mouth and talks for over an hour, while I listen.

Seems there are two types of people in this situation. People who probably do know you better than you know yourself yet manage not to rub it in. And people who think they know you and have plenty of opinions about you and are more than happy to shove it all in your face. Shannon belongs to the latter.



*



Operation Get a Life starts with me enrolling in a self-defense course in the city. Something I’d been wanting to do ever since the police informed me of how I’d wound up in the hospital. Not even Frances can object to me leaving the house for the sole purpose of better learning how to defend myself. Though she does try. With her on night shift, I continue to Uber around. Suits me fine. I can’t take part in all the physical aspects of the classes, but I sit and watch, soaking it all in.

The instructor, Gavin, a fit-looking Korean-American guy, tells us to look at any odd thing we hear or see when we’re out and about. To let anyone following us know they’ve been spotted. To let them know that we’re not an easy target through confident body language. He also talks about things in our handbags, such as keys or a ballpoint pen, that could be used as a weapon. Step three is to remove yourself from the area as swiftly as possible. During the next lesson, we’ll move on to the three key attack areas: eyes, throat, and groin. Gavin doesn’t mess around.

He spends a fair bit of time making sure I’m following everything. Maybe he’s just a good teacher, making the new student feel welcome. Or maybe it’s more than that. The bruises on my face haven’t gone away yet. And sharp enough eyes might even make out the scar on my forehead, not completely hidden beneath my bangs. Easy for Gavin to conclude that my interest in self-defense is not an idle one.

After class, I walk from the West End where class is held down to Old Port. It’s only about eight o’clock and there are plenty of streetlights and people around. But I can’t stop looking behind me, my small can of mace held tightly in my hand. Being out and about is good.

Fuck being always afraid. I won’t do it. I can’t live that way. The mace goes back in the bag, and I swing my arms as I walk. I stop thinking about eyes-throat-groin, and force my attention to the surroundings.

Pavement turns into cobblestones and there’s a more touristy feel to the shops in Old Port. Lots of beautiful, over-a-century-old brick buildings. I’m almost tempted by a waterfront lobster place, but continue on, looking for Vito’s—the Italian restaurant Ed recommended I try.

And I’m glad I did. It smells amazing and has heavy wooden tables and dark red napkins, silver cutlery glinting in the low light. There are plenty of shadowy nooks and atmosphere aplenty, despite the crowd.

Just when I think I’m going to get turned away, the ma?tre d’ smiles, obviously recognizing me on sight, and leads me to the only available table.

I feel comfortable here. Maybe it’s the warm welcome. Or maybe some part of me deep down recognizes this place. Unlike the froufrou clothing, Vito’s still fits. Though I should probably dress up more next time. Black yoga pants and a T-shirt is a bit slummy.

“Clem?” asks a familiar deep voice.

I raise my eyes from the menu to find Ed staring down at me. He looks good. But then, he always does. More dressed up than normal in gray slacks and a white button-down shirt with his hair slicked back. God, he’s so handsome and smooth looking, like a movie star out of an old black and white movie. Just behind him is a woman with wavy shoulder-length dark hair. She’s beautiful too. Of course she is. They make a great looking couple, dammit.

Meanwhile, the ma?tre d’ stands nearby, visibly flustered. “I’m so sorry. I just assumed . . .”

“Shit,” I say, realization dawning. “This is your table.”

Ed clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Awkward. Okay.” I slide out of the chair, grabbing my usual bag with money, cell, and book inside. God. The brunette is dressed in a sexy off-the-shoulder number and I look like crap. “What a coincidence, huh? Enjoy your meal.”

And I’m out of there, pronto. Not even the cooler air outside can take the heat out of my face. It’s just as well that I’m wearing sneakers and not heels. Otherwise, there would be no chance of moving fast on the cobblestone streets. The usual ache/awkwardness caused by the thought of Ed escalates into an agonizing kind of pain. I think I’m having a heart attack. Or maybe my heart just hurts. Which makes no sense at all because he’s not mine. Not in any way, shape, or form. The man doesn’t even like me. And I definitely don’t enjoy the riot of feelings he inspires.