In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(32)
To be honest, there isn’t much in her in-box for me to work with. Mostly spam, including all the counseling newsletters and support group information blasts I signed her up for. That she hasn’t bothered to even delete, let alone open.
I know that she finished her senior year of high school, even if it was a year late. Based on a few old emails from her counselor, requesting meetings to discuss her grades and what options she has for improving on them, she didn’t do it with flying colors. I have to commend her for not quitting, though. Not like I did.
I also know that she started working at Starbucks last summer. It sounds like she’s here almost every day now, picking up extra shifts every time this manager guy, Jake, emails her. They were only occasional emails at first, with just her schedule. But over the months, he’s begun tagging cheesy and borderline inappropriate jokes onto each request. It’s obvious to anyone that he’s flirting with her. At least, I see it.
That’s why I finally broke the rule I made on the day I was released and drove out here today. Because when I read this last message, I decided that I needed to know once and for all.
To: Kacey Cleary
From: Jake Rogers, Starbucks Management
Date: June 11, 2011
Re: 3-11 shift this Sunday
Hey, Red – Can you work this Sunday? Joanne has a family thing. I’ll be there
To: Jake Rogers, Starbucks Management
From: Kacey Cleary
Date: June 11, 2011
Re: 3-11 shift this Sunday
I’ll take the shift. Despite you being there.
No smiley face. No LOL. No indication that she’s kidding. It feels like a blow-off.
That night, I lay in bed, wondering if there was something going on between her and this Jake guy. What if he’s taking advantage of her? What if they’re together?
I couldn’t fall asleep for hours. So I decided that I had to risk it.
It could be a boneheaded move. She may know what I look like. Not that she’d remember me from the frat party. I know I look different from my college days—my hair now shaggy, my face perpetually covered in scruff. I’m leaner than I was back then, but hard.
Just in case, I grabbed a baseball cap and wore a loose jacket, trying not to attract too much attention from my corner, in front of an obscure mirror on the wall that shows the entire counter space. From here, I can hear their conversation perfectly.
I just need to see them together for two minutes and I’ll know if she’s got a thing for the douche canoe I’ve been eyeing for the better part of two hours—a cross between Carrot Top and the Fonz.
If she does?
My chest floods with disappointment at the thought.
And suddenly Kacey’s just there, standing behind the counter in a black employee golf shirt. She must have come in through a back door because there’s no way I would have missed her. I suck in a breath. It feels like a lifetime has passed between the last time I saw her face and now, more than a year ago. Where I was mentally, then and now.
But, more importantly, where is she? I don’t know what else she’s been doing, but it can’t be filling her nostrils with cocaine and her stomach with alcohol anymore. As fit as she looked before, she’s all sinewy now, her arms corded, her movements reminding me of a leopard—sleek and graceful and dangerous. Her face hasn’t changed, in that it’s still hard and unyielding, the smiles fake and fleeting, and never reaching her eyes. Those watery blue eyes that haven’t found their sparkle again.
Will they ever? Why isn’t she getting help? Why is no one making her get help! It’s been over three years.
Her face also has changed, though. She was a pretty girl before.
Now, at nineteen, she’s a stunning woman.
So much so that I struggle to peel my eyes from her reflection as she begins serving customers and pouring coffees, always polite but never warm. It’s almost like she’s mentally not here. That she’s put herself on autopilot, not really noticing her surrounding beyond her purpose for being here.
Kind of like I was for so long.
Until she steps out from behind the counter, that is, and begins weaving around tables, collecting dishes and trash left behind, those strong, lean legs within black, fitted shorts stirring the blood in my body.
And panic.
I duck my head as she passes around my back.
“Done with those?” She swoops in and collects my dishes without my answer, my nostrils filling with the scent of soap and shampoo. I’m guessing she just came from the gym.
“Sure, thanks,” I mutter to her back as she walks away. She doesn’t seem interested in making eye contact. Or any contact. With anyone. It’s for the best, at this point, though just once I’d like to lock eyes with her, feel them on me. And know what she knows.
Know if she realizes this connection we share, being the only two people to walk away from that night, to get stuck within the vortex of its aftermath, unable to move on. Would she hate me for it? Or would it help her to know that she’s not alone? Not anymore. Not with me, here.
Those are the thoughts I can’t shake. But the great news is that she ignores Jake for the most part, throwing him only enough of a bone to keep him happy. A tiny, emotionless smile, a flat giggle. Smart on her part, with him being her manager and all. He seems to drink the attention up like a lap dog.
And she continues existing.
I can tell she hasn’t gotten any better. She may not be tumbling anymore. Maybe she did hit rock bottom, like I did. But I don’t think she’s started her climb back up yet.