“Can you do that for me?” I ask him. He’s proud as he travels the room and opens each window.
The breeze rushes in and the sound of rain makes it hard to hear, while I dump everything from my backpack. A red rose that was left on my doorstep falls to my desk and gets smashed beneath my calculator. I purposely reach over and press the calculator down till my palm hurts, smooshing the irritating rose till it bleeds on my desk. It’s not the rose . . . but the man who gave me the rose.
“Let’s just get through the day . . . shall we?” I suggest.
The day is better than I expect, as the kids keep me busy. I’m able to not think about my mom. The fact that it’s Friday carries me through until the school bell sounds, sending the small beings back home.
I made it. My day may have sucked, but at least it’s the weekend. So, a couple hours after finishing up some loose ends in my quiet classroom, I now sit comatose on the metro system while the sun sets.
After thirty-three years in the city, BART is the only way I get from point A to B just like the old lady with her knitting needles across from me, or the man with a beanie regardless of the weather, and the woman who eats mayonnaise and mustard packets with no sandwich. These familiar faces bounce back and forth as we shoot through the tunnels of the old city.
At my stop, I recoil from the cold, while puffs of white air rise from my mouth. A low fog is rolling in and trapping an abnormal chill between the buildings. Even still, I drink in a damp but glorious weekend breath.
The restaurant is covered in white, sparkling lights for the holiday season. Fresh pine wreaths hang around the neck of each lamp post even though it is only mid-November, which reminds me that I need to bake harvest cookies for the school’s party on Monday.
There is an exciting end-of-the-week exhilaration as I weave in and out of the crowd searching for my friends. While dodging shoulders, ducking beneath glasses, and avoiding eye contact from the men around the bar, I search for Amanda’s unavoidable, brilliantly blue hair and Randy’s ACDC T-shirt. Finally, Amanda’s newly pink curls, glowing under the vintage Golden Gate Bridge sign, catch my attention.
“Willow!” They call. She pulls at her curls, “Pink!” she hollers with a shrug as she hugs me.
“Totally you,” I laugh as I pull up a chair. “Oh, the weekend, thank the Lord!” I say loud enough to hear over the single and mingle crowd.
“Tough week?” Amanda asks.
“Not the best. How about you—” My words stick when the recognizable stomp of Ian, my ex-fiancé, plows through the bar’s patrons.
“I’m so sorry,” Amanda quickly pleads. “Randy invited him after I invited you, without knowing that each other invited the other, if that makes sense.” She places her hand on mine, her eyes begging for forgiveness.
“He left a rose on my doorstep this morning,” my voice comes out in a whisper-yell.
“Really?” she says sweetly. “Because of your mom?”
“That would take thought. It’s because he needs a date tomorrow . . . guaranteed.”
“I can’t believe it’s been a year since your mom died. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I smile at Amanda, her eyes comforting. “Thank you.” I squeeze her hand.
“The flower has to be because he remembers,” she says.
My eyes roll to another dimension. “I promise you, he doesn’t.”
Amanda gets mischievous, “Well, this will be an interesting test.”
“Hey!” Ian calls out. He hugs Randy, kisses Amanda on the cheek, and then we do an uncomfortable song and dance. “Hi,” he says to me.
“Hi,” I say back.
Freedom now morphs into a heavy brick in my stomach as Randy orders four beers. When my arms finally relax from alcohol, Ian sits next to me with a smile. “How did your week go?” he asks. I look at him strangely until he shrugs. “I’m trying to ask about you.”
“After six years? Really?”
“Just answer the question.” His chin creases as he takes a drink.
“Today sucked actually.”
Ian erupts with a yell of frustration, which confuses me for just a moment until I see the Lakers game playing on a television across the room. I close my eyes for a second and try to breathe. He yells at the ref a bit more, then continues. “Did you see the article my sister wrote about your mom?” He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “She told me to give this to you.”
Maybe he does remember?
My mother’s picture stares back at me. I nearly can’t remember her healthy face. “So, your sister got the grant?”
“Yeah. They’ll be spending the next five years studying your mom’s cancer.”
“Wow, that’s amazing . . .” Our eyes meet, which makes me wonder if our friendship can exist. “I’ll make sure to call your sister tomorrow.”
“Or you can just come over?” He grins. Instantly he sees my irritation. “Or not. You got the rose?”
“No,” I lie. “Why’d you leave a rose?”
“’Cause I wanted to.”
“There’s no reason?” I ask, noticing Amanda is listening. “There’s no other reason but because you wanted to?”
It takes a moment, but he soon smiles, “Okay, well the precinct’s winter dinner is tomorrow night. We’re supposed to have dates.”
Amanda shakes her head with irritation behind her big brown eyes. “You’re an idiot.”
“What?” Ian shrugs, yet we say nothing, and his attention goes back to the game.
