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The light was on, illuminating a neat garage and a few rows of stacked boxes on one side, a minivan on the other. I gave the boxes a cursory glance. They were labeled with kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, etc. A stack of labels and a permanent marker sat on the topmost box.
He was moving.
I heard a clattering noise behind me and turned in time to see a little calico cat scurry into the garage through the cat door.
“Hi, kitty,” I said softly, and I swear he sat down and stared right at me for a few seconds—then settled in front of a bowl of cat food. I followed him and crouched beside him as he ate. I thought of Frank with his chirping meow. He was probably tearing up the carpet at the bottom of the stairs in protest that I hadn’t fed him yet.
I knew I couldn’t cry actual tears. Even so, I felt the familiar prickling feeling in the back of my eyes and sadness that spread through the center of me. I wouldn’t ever feel the downy fur underneath Frank’s chin or his rumbly purr as he flopped down on the bed beside me with his eyes closed again.
As the feeling got bigger, I heard a quiet pop that plunged the garage into sudden darkness.
I froze, listening to the quiet tinkling of the filament in the bulb.
“I think I did that,” I whispered to the cat, who continued crunching away.
There were little pinpricks of light surrounding the door to his house. I moved toward them and the sound of the muffled voices inside.
An hour ago, he had taken everything I had.
I didn’t know how, but I planned to return the favor.
3. SKYE
Kuna, Idaho
Now
He came into the Daily Grind coffeehouse a lot when I was on shift that summer.
It didn’t bother me. I looked forward to it, actually. He tipped. He was cute. He was one of the few white folks in Idaho who didn’t try to make small talk about where I was really from or take the opportunity to test out their fledgling Spanish. (Much to my mom’s disappointment, I had taken exactly one year of Spanish elective in middle school.)
He called me “Dolly,” on account of me wearing a Dolly Parton shirt the day he first came in for a hot chocolate. Never coffee. Always hot chocolate. That was a little unusual, so I remembered his order. I started adding a little smiley face on the cup, next to his name. James.
“Thanks, Dolly,” he always said with a grin that made me blush. So of course I mumbled something awkward and turned around to prep the next order. His amber eyes—I swear, they looked like dark, liquid gold—lingered on me while I pretended not to notice.
My manager, Ken, teased me about him once in a while. He told me I should write my number on his cup next time he came in. “The hot chocolate dude that looks like Chris Hemsworth is totally flirting with you,” Ken said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Ball’s in your court, honeybun.”
I almost did. I rolled the idea around in my head sometimes while I was toasting somebody’s bagel or adding exactly 5.5 pumps of caramel syrup to a Frappuccino. I was embarrassed to admit—even to myself—that I had never been on a real date, let alone made the first move. I told myself that’s what college was for. When I got there in the fall, somehow I would shed my skin and lose my awkwardness when I crossed the threshold of campus at Idaho State.
It wasn’t unusual for me to see him three or four times a week that summer; however, a few weeks before I was set to drive to ISU, he suddenly stopped coming by. I felt weirdly sad about it. Like I had missed my chance or something. I pictured his face while I worked, feeling wistful that I’d probably never see him again. He was older than me by a lot—late twenties, if I had to guess. Honestly, he was so good-looking with those caramel eyes, dark hair, and dramatic celebrity-style beauty mark that I didn’t really care.
It felt like fate when, on my last day at work before I left for ISU, he walked through the doors with a big smile and ordered his usual. I could feel my cheeks go red as I tried to bully myself into writing my number on his hot chocolate cup. I told myself it was practice, I guess. To prove I was ready for college (I wasn’t). But I chickened out. I reasoned that I was leaving for school in two days, so what was the point?
I told him in a mumbled rush that today was my last day. He probably wouldn’t see me at the Daily Grind again. He looked genuinely disappointed and then sort of shrugged. “Well, I’ll miss you, Dolly.”
My cheeks flared even hotter, and I pretended that the espresso machine was spilling over until he left. Idiota, I thought to myself. I remembered the curse words.
I finished my shift at four and turned in my apron and employee door tag. I gave Ken a hug, promising I’d text him. Then I walked to the bus stop. I was about to hit send on a text to my mom about dinner—pupusas at our favorite food truck? I had skipped lunch and was starving—when I saw a car slow down beside me in the shopping center.
It was him.
He gave me that smile, like he was as surprised as me. Like it was serendipity. Then he said, “Hey, Dolly. Want a ride?”
I didn’t even hesitate. The universe had given me a second chance after I’d punted earlier—and all those other times. I easily batted aside the voice that quietly piped up to wonder why he was still in the sleepy shopping center two hours after I’d last seen him.
“Sure, why not?” I said, pleased that my voice sounded so easygoing, even when I could feel my heart pounding hard against my chest. It’s not a big deal, I told myself. It’s not like he’s a stranger. I smoothed down my curls, which were a mess like they always were after work.
Then I got into the blue Kia and buckled my seatbelt.
