This Place of Wonder (48)

By three, it has cleared out, only four or five tables. At one of them is a dark-haired woman I’ve seen here before, and at another a pair of businessmen talking over something that needs a lot of spreadsheets to explain, and in the prime corner, his back to the wall, his face toward the view of street and palm trees and ocean, is Ayaz. He was here when I arrived, and gave me a simple lift of the chin in acknowledgment, but has nursed the same cup of tea for two hours. I keep expecting that he’ll leave, but he’s writing on yellow legal tablets with a fountain pen. Quickly, slowly. Pause. I find myself looking at his lovely hands far too much.

Mind your own business.

Maybe it’s just waking up after being so constantly soaked in the poison of alcohol, but my body has been asking for attention, food and sleep, and now this, too. I want to feel hands on me. I want kissing and friendly engagement. Nothing deep or connected. Just sex.

The idea of poison makes me think about the detectives. Did someone poison my father? The idea seems absurd, and I can’t believe they’re taking it seriously. He had enemies, for sure, but did anyone hate him enough to kill him?

It’s hard to believe.

Across the room, Ayaz focuses on his tablet. From the corner of my eye, I admire the way light highlights his profile, and the pleasure it gives me is a warning that while the need for sex is pretty ordinary and addressable, maybe not with him. It feels like it could be too much, like I might want more.

The dark-haired woman, the one who’s been working on her computer, scribbling notes and nodding to herself, brings her ceramic cup to the counter. Her focus is impressive, and I’ve tried to leave her alone. Up close, she’s remarkably beautiful, with enormous dark eyes and shiny hair and poreless skin. “Can I get another cup, please? The Tiger Blend, with cream.”

“Sure.” I rinse the cup and pick up another, filling it from the pot on the counter. “You’re working pretty hard over there.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She glances over her shoulder almost guiltily. “Research, mostly.”

“Cool.” I set the cup on the counter. “Anything else?”

“No, thanks.”

“There’re some day-old pastries going for half price.”

She hesitates. “Yeah?”

“Apple fritter,” I say, “two dollars.”

“Done.” She digs the bills from her jeans pocket and smooths them out on the glass.

I fetch the pastry from the case and plate it. “Enjoy.”

“Definitely,” she says, raising the plate.

In the lull, I rinse a bar towel in hot water and come around the counter to wipe the tables and counters thoroughly, spraying them all with a lemony cleaner that probably isn’t organic but smells like it.

I’m not sure what happens, but I swing around to spray a table behind me, and my foot catches on a chair or a table leg or something, and I’m falling before I realize what’s going on. The spray bottle is in my left hand, and instinctively, I’m idiotically protecting it as I go down.

Which means that my right hand takes the full brunt of my fall, my palm landing half on the metal round of a table base, half on the floor. Pain rockets through my wrist, and before I even fully register what’s happened, I know the rest of my day is going to be quite a bit different from what I imagined.

Then the slow motion stops. I slam into the ground, crumpling under the force of my fall. The spray bottle goes flying, and my feet knock over a chair. People leap to my aid—the woman with the shiny hair, Ayaz crouching, another customer who’s been sitting at the counter. He’s a long-haired surfer in board shorts and bright pink flip-flops, and he’s first to my side. His hands are on my shoulders. “Dude, are you okay?”

I’m both very embarrassed and in a lot of pain. I sit up, holding my arm close to my chest. “I’m all right.”

“Sure?” the woman says gently. “That looked like a pretty hard fall.”

“I’m good.” My face is flaming. “Can you help me up?”

She’s strong, and hauls me to my feet with my left hand.

Ayaz calmly says, “May I see your wrist?”

“It’s really okay,” I say, but tears sting my eyes. The pain is loud.

He takes my elbow and very, very gently braces my hand on his palm. Even that much pressure makes me bite back a cry, and the joint is swelling right before our eyes.

“You’ll need to get that looked at,” Surfer Guy says. “Kinda looks broken, I’m sorry to say.”

As if to emphasize this, a pain shoots through the bone, all the way up to my elbow. “Thanks.”

The dark-haired woman looks at her watch and swears. “I have to get to work in five minutes. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes. I’ll be fine. My mom lives here. Or I’ll call my sister.”

She touches my shoulder and I feel like she’s going to say something else, but my boss comes out right then. “Holy shit, lady,” Jessica says. “Did you break your arm?”

“I’m really okay,” I protest.

“You really are not,” Ayaz says calmly.

“You can’t drive, either, can you?” Jessica says. “I just sent Randi home. If we both leave, I have to close.”

I stare at my wrist and know I can’t drive. “I can call my sister.” Except I think her kids are getting out of school, and after the big stand over sending Meadow home, I’d feel like a total ass calling her.