AllFreeNovel
Share Us
If I knew how to talk to my mom, I’d call her right now. I know she was just here for a weekend with me, but she loved Jean-Marc; she thought he was the answer to everything, thought he’d whisk me away, save me from myself. And yet here I am—alone and single again and not quite certain that I can take care of myself despite all my indignant assertions.
But of course she’d think Jean-Marc was the answer. She’s the one who craves the fairy-tale ending even more than I do. She’s the one who believes it’s a man who will, and must, save us… that women need to be rescued, as if we were all helpless, fragile maidens locked in towers and dungeons or lying asleep, poisoned.
Rapunzel had to let down her ridiculously long hair so the prince could climb up it and free her.
Cinderella needed a fairy godmother and glass slippers for Prince Charming to save her from a life of misery.
Snow White needed not just one but abunchof little men—seven, to be exact—to protect her until the prince could stumble through the woods and discover said maiden, unconscious and waiting for him. A gift offering on ice.
No, can’t call Mom, can’t tell her what I’m feeling, or let her close to my pain. I don’t think she knows what to do with pain. She doesn’t even know what to do withherpain. For God’s sake, she’s fifty-five and sleeping on the living room couch in front of the TV every night!
I lost my husband and I lost my dad, and in so many ways I lost my mom, too.
The losses, added up like that, are rather horrifying, and there seems to be a pattern here, and the pattern requires examination, but that’s the one thing I can’t do. I’m afraid to pull out a mirror and inspect all my flaws and wounds. I’m scared. What if I’m not a real human being after all?
What if I’m an alien?
A two-headed monster from Mars? Something from one of those old sci-fi films I used to watch at the Tower Theater in Fresno back in high school?
I bundle my arms across my chest. It’s colder, and I’m chilled all the way through. My teeth have begun to chatter, and the chattering teeth have helped dry up my tears.
I make another turn, climb another hill, and return to my neighborhood.
I reach the café where I went to breakfast a couple of weeks ago and order a cup of decaf cappuccino, and I sit at a table by the window with my grande cappuccino and stare down into the oversize cup. The tears are so close to the surface but there’s no one to call, no one to tell. I’ve spent too much time trying to be okay; I don’t know how to ask for help.
I reach up to swipe tears, and somehow I hit the rim of the big mug with my elbow, and the cappuccino tips, spilling. Suddenly there is someone shoving paper napkins at me, a whole handful. I say a muffled thanks and clean up the coffee. As I move to throw away the soggy napkins, I realize that the person who shoved the napkins into my hands is Gorgeous Guy, the one who looks like a Gap model, the one who wanted to see the sports section.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks.”
“You didn’t get burned, did you?”
I’d forgotten what a great voice he had, forgotten that it’s slow and a little sexy. “No. I’m fine.”
“Good.”
He stands next to my table for a moment, staring down at me. “You look familiar,” he says.
“Oh.” I reach up, push hair out of my eyes. “We talked once, briefly. You asked to borrow the sports section.”
He seems to remember, or at least almost, because there’s still a funny line between his eyebrows. “Right.”
“You wanted to check your high school’s score.”
He smiles, expression clearing. “You have a good memory.”
You’re kind of hard to forget.But I don’t say that, because it goes without saying, and I wonder how genetics does this—makes someone so strong and clear, all clean lines, perfect geometric planes, and then throws in the thick hair, the deep-blue eyes, and the intelligence on the inside that makes it come together, the energy that makes the person more than beautiful, but intriguing. “How’s your school doing?”
“Okay.”
“You’re not in high school.”
He laughs. “No. I teach in San Mateo, at the high school. Science.”
“Science?” I look up at him briefly and look away, a hint of heat in my face. I would have loved science if I had a teacher who looked like him.
“Biology, advanced biology, that kind of thing.”
I nod, trying not to think too much about the birds and the bees—reproductive science I’m sure he covers at some point, somewhere in the curriculum. And I think we’ve just about wrapped up our conversation when he gestures to the chair across from me.
