Holding Out for a Hero Page 5

  ‘Oh my God, turn it up! Turn it up!’ Dora yelled, bouncing on the seat. ‘I haven’t heard this in forever.’ It was Modern English, ‘Melt with You’, one of our favourite songs from the Eighties.

  We started singing, so Oliver cranked the volume, most likely to drown us out. Just as the chorus came up, my world stopped. I caught his eyes again in the mirror. He held my gaze, then smiled. A real full-on, crinkly-eyed smile, and it was for me. To say I melted was an understatement. I became a warm, syrupy mush puddle right there in the back seat. That became our song.

  At least as far as I was concerned.

  At the theatre, we went separate ways. They had tickets for Howard Stern’s Private Parts, which was rated R, so we were left with the bogus PG kiddie flick, Jungle 2 Jungle. So embarrassing.

  Also embarrassing was the fact I didn’t have enough money for candy. In the middle of the movie, I made a snack run and came up short. I was holding up the line, digging in my bag, when Ollie appeared.

  ‘Hi.’ He ran a hand through his dark, slicked hair, then dropped his gaze to the assortment of boxes on the counter. ‘No Twizzlers? Ya gotta have Twizzlers.’ At the counter he asked for the guy to add a box and paid for everything without a word.

  He ripped the top, tugged one out and took a bite as we walked back, but as we passed the mini arcade he stopped and stepped just inside the cornered wall. I, of course, followed.

  ‘They’re strawberry, just like you, so ya gotta try one.’ He offered up an inch-long bite, but when I reached, he pulled away. ‘Nope.’ He held it right to my lips, almost daring me to bite it from his hand.

  I smiled, confused, thrilled, in awe and burning up from the inside out. I’m pretty sure my ears were pink, and it wasn’t just because they were adorned with multiple neon fuchsia hoops.

  He leaned in more. ‘Just hold it in your teeth, I wanna see something.’

  What was he doing? This was the great and powerful Ollie, and he was talking with me? Like this? I didn’t move. He tapped the liquorice on my lower lip, blue eyes never leaving mine, and for whatever reason, I opened my mouth and claimed it.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said, almost in a whisper, and leaned inches away.

  Slowly, he bit over the extended liquorice; his lips gently pressed to mine, and after what seemed forever, he bit through and leaned back, licking his lips. ‘Yeah, the gloss does taste like strawberry.’ He handed me the box and left.

  I stood there, stunned. He kissed me. That was a kiss, right? Yes, that most definitely was a kiss, I decided.

  Looking back, I wonder if that was a test. Would I tell Dora? I didn’t, of course, because I desperately wanted it to happen again. And after that night, when he called me Shortcake, I didn’t mind. It was like we had a secret. The first of many, as it turned out.

  ‘Libby?’

  ‘What? Sorry, Ollie . . .’ I shift on the sofa to shake away the memory.

  ‘I’m sure your hair looks great, but why didn’t you keep your curls?’ His voice drops an octave so it’s deep and breathy. ‘You know I always liked your curls.’

  Right, we were talking about the makeover. I sigh, still smiling. ‘Well, thank you, but your sister and Finn were in charge, remember?’

  ‘I remember lots of things . . .’ It’s almost as if he were lying beside me.

  Does he remember that?

  See? I don’t need marriage, or kids, or their stupid intervention set-ups. I have love. I do. The kind that takes you over, sweeps you off your feet, and leaves you breathless. I always have.

  ‘Mmm, I hope your next date goes better. You deserve a nice night out, even if it can’t be with me.’

  Maybe I’m breathless from chasing the past.

  Rolling over, I stare at the ceiling. Dread fills me and sits heavy in my chest. The tears are right there, and I’m trying everything to keep them from taking over: reciting lyrics, then a shopping list of supplies needed for the store, even saying them backwards. I’m beyond tired, so why can’t I just sleep?

  Time passes this way. I have no idea how much. The clock doesn’t work, and I can’t manage the effort to move and look at the one in the kitchen.

  Dr P.’s words rattle around inside my head relentlessly.

  ‘Describe what it feels like, Libby,’ Dr P. asked during one of our first meetings.

  ‘What depression feels like?’ I popped my eyes, at a loss for words.

  He nodded. ‘Since I don’t experience it, how can I really know what you’re feeling?’

  He had a point. But how do you describe something so dense? Empathy is recognizing another’s struggle, but true understanding only comes from personally living it. My eyes met his, and I shrugged.

  ‘Just try.’ He scratched under his fuzzy chin, waiting.

  ‘Well . . . it’s not like when you’re sad, or upset with a friend or anything. It’s not the same. It’s . . .’ I leaned back in the wingback chair and let it swallow me as I considered my words. ‘When I’m upset normally, that’s all it is. You get fired up about something or someone hurts your feelings and whatever, you get over it like everyone else, but . . . sometimes at night it’s like a switch is thrown. I can physically feel it happen and everything starts moving in slow motion.’

  Dr P. sat up. He was really listening, interested. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Um . . . I can think rationally, but the emotions are blown out of proportion and get distorted. They’re super-heavy, and then . . .’ I stopped, not wanting him thinking my Crazy Train was completely off the rails.

  ‘This is a safe place, you can say anything. I won’t judge you.’

  ‘I judge myself.’ It slipped out before I could filter it, so I quickly tried to explain. ‘You know the saying, “the voice inside your head”? Yeah, well, mine has a nasty attitude and gets mean. Really mean.’

  This was when I really fought for medication, anything to shut the voice up. I had been seeing Dr P. for a few weeks, and I was still not sleeping and beyond exhausted. ‘If clinical depression is when your hormones get stuck and go out of whack, and I have borderline episodes, why not just send me to someone who can prescribe something to get it back in sync? I’d be set and it’d be done.’ I was being stubborn, resisting his methods and really not seeing the point.

  He rubbed under an eye and took his time to answer. Maybe he got this question a lot; maybe he was frustrated with me. ‘Sometimes the meds are needed, for instance in postpartum . . . this is a chemical imbalance from a major change in the body, not from prolonged stress or emotional trauma. Medication is used to reset things, and it’s temporary.’

  My jaw clenched. Not what I wanted to hear.

  ‘And you are functioning in the day-to-day; otherwise it would make sense to consider it, but only alongside treatment. Medication should never replace therapy. That’s only treating the symptom of an underlying problem. If you stopped the meds and never worked it through, you’d be right back where you started the minute you came off them.’

  My arms crossed. ‘But talking can’t fix the problem. Maybe it can relieve some of the stress, but what can it fix?’

  ‘You’re right. It can’t fix or change the events that led to the trauma, but it can change how your body processes it, and this allows it to heal and move on. But you have to deal with it, let it out.’

  I drummed my fingers. I didn’t want to let it out. I wanted to bury it.

  ‘Why do you think you wake up crying, Libby? You’ve pushed everything so far down for so long, your body has to release it somehow. And maybe it’s only when you’re not standing guard, it can sneak out. It’s a natural process and it must be allowed.’

  That’s what he said back then, but I’m still dealing with it now. How much could there really be to let out? And is that even a good idea?

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘West End Girls’

  The Pet Shop Boys, 1985

  Lower East Side woman

  It’s Monday, early afternoon, and I’m at the st
ore reviewing the legal notice I received from the property owners. Well, I was. I balled it up again, and this time chucked it at the wall. Now I’m staring at the wadded paperwork, knowing I need to pick it up.

  I don’t understand how they can make me vacate in thirty days. I’ve been here forever, and I have a lease. What if I refuse? Are they going to show up and physically remove me? I’m half-tempted to rally support and make a big fuss about it publicly. Maybe then they’d back off? At least I’ve taken the initiative and called Finn for legal counsel. We’re meeting for lunch today.

  I slap my palms on the desk so it rattles, stand, and shuffle to the restroom, passing Jas on my way. In spite of his rubbish clothing choices – today being no different, with his faded yellow Pac-Man T-shirt and ripped jeans – Jasper’s somewhat brilliant. So after I meet with Finn, I’ll have him weigh in on the situation; but only if it’s legit and I really have to quit, or move or whatever, which I won’t because it’s far from Hammer time. See? I’m being proactive and positive. Yay, Libby.

  Leaning over the sink, I study my face. God, I look tired. I swear wrinkles have appeared around my eyes overnight. And what are these? Outlines? Leaning closer, I smile, then release. The paper-thin indents on either side of my mouth remain, and are a perfect match.

  I pop the door and call out to Jasper, ‘Do you think I’m wrinkly?’

  A browsing teen in a grey skull hoodie and skin-tight black pants turns and looks in my direction. As if considering, his eyes scan the length of me.

  ‘Don’t you dare answer that,’ I say, death-glaring him before he has the chance. Startled, he quickly looks down.

  Jas is singing ‘Come on Eileen’ and dancing a bit while he organizes paperwork. He believes that Dexy’s Midnight Runners fall squarely into post-punk new wave, so he likes them. They also slant pop, but it’s not worth the argument. He doesn’t get fired up like Ollie; instead he gets philosophical. I get frustrated.

  ‘Jas!’ I scream, my voice breaking the air, cutting through the music.

  He turns in my direction. So does the teen, only to pretend he didn’t.

  ‘Sorry?’ asks Jasper.

  I take a few steps in his direction and repeat my question, impatiently. ‘Do you think I’m wrinkly?’

  ‘The lyric is do you think I’m sexy, and . . .’ He eyes the slouchy hooded sweatshirt dress I have layered over stirrup leggings, and shrugs. ‘I don’t know, I wouldn’t say in an obvious way.’

  ‘Not sexy, wrinkly. Is my face wrinkly?’ I lift my chin for his assessment, showing no expression, so I don’t appear creased.

  He steps to within inches of me, pushes straight blonde hair from his eyes and narrows them in consideration. Lifting a hand to my jaw, he turns me first left, then right, then locks his gaze with mine. His eyes are the colour of faded denim, where it goes light in the creases behind the knees. I’ve never really noticed before.

  Just as I’m about to say something, he does. ‘I’d say freckly, which I quite like.’

  I smile. It’s a nice thing to say, even if it’s total crap. Stepping back, I reset a normal conversational space. ‘Why can’t men just say it like it is? Sorry, ’ol girl, but yes, at almost thirty-three you’ve gone completely south.’

  ‘Because men like sex, and if we say that, we’ll never get any.’

  I laugh, knowing it’s true. He’s still looking at me. Well, my hair. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re all smooth and . . . curvy.’ He bobs his head and hand around in tandem to give the word a visual.

  It’s a weird visual.

  ‘It was for the first Eighties intervention date. Not that it was a date, or that it matters.’

  ‘And this first date that doesn’t matter was into mermaid waves? That’s a little kinky.’

  ‘Brainwaves. He’s an anesthesiologist, and more like creepy. It was horrible.’

  ‘You could just go out with me.’ Leaning against the checkout, he props his elbows behind him on the counter. When I don’t say anything, he just keeps going. ‘Right, I forgot. That’s why you’re doing their Eighties intervention thing. To avoid going out with me. Isn’t that what Dora said?’

  I meet his eyes – the washed-denim eyes that now hold too much truth. My truth. ‘Why do I tell you everything?’

  ‘Because you trust me, might even fancy me, if you’d ever give it half a chance.’ He offers a crooked smile. Deep-set creases frame it, adding to his appeal.

  Why do we like this in men? How is this fair?

  My lips purse and I glance away, pretending sudden interest in the latest Popstar magazine. I mean, what am I gonna say? It’s all a bit J. Geils, isn’t it? He loves her, she loves him, he loves somebody else, and you just can’t win.

  But I want to win. And yeah, love does stink. So does the teen who’s circling round. In fact, he ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. What is up with teenage boys and lack of deodorant and personal hygiene?

  The hitched door grabs my attention. It’s Finn. The beard’s gone. He’s dressed for work, with brown suspenders to hold the modern-cut dress pants, but missing the matching coat. It’s probably at the office. ‘So, did she say yes yet?’ Finn asks Jas with a smirk.

  ‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ I say, gathering my stuff, ignoring the comment. I also avoid Jasper’s look. I don’t have to see it to know he’s giving me one.

  Finn taxied over from midtown Manhattan, where his firm’s located. Here in the rinky-dink diner just down the street from Pretty in Pink, decked out in his proper business attire, he’s certainly out of place. It makes me think of the Pet Shop Boys song ‘West End Girls’; except I’m not a girl, and this is the Lower East Side. The place is quiet, since it’s after the lunch crowd. Wish my mind was. It’s buzzing from worry, and now with the lyrics, ‘You think you’re mad, too unstable. Kicking in chairs and knocking down tables’ – which is what I’m gonna do, if he doesn’t give me some good news already.

  ‘Well?’

  Finn’s eyes dart from me back to the lease document. ‘You know I don’t practise commercial law, right?’

  ‘Sure, but can’t you pass it along to someone who does?’ I ask in desperation.

  ‘Yeah, I guess . . .’ Finn sets it down to review the eviction notice, which I’ve folded into the popular Eighties fortune-teller game. His eyes lift questioningly as he slides his fingers into the slots and opens and closes the folds. ‘Should I pick a colour or a number? Or better yet, ask a deep, meaningful question? Is Libby screwed?’ He opens and closes with each syllable. ‘Y-E-S.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I say, swiping it back to unfold and smoothing it flat. ‘Just tell me this doesn’t give them the right to officially evict me. Then I can burn it and be done with it all. I mean, I’m never late with rent, and I have a lease.’

  His eyes narrow as he picks it up again and reads. I drum my fingers and wait.

  And wait.

  God, and wait. ‘It’s total crap, right?’

  ‘Uh . . .’ His eyes flick up. ‘Looks like you had a lease, ’cause it was a sublease, and it’s with a company that’s dissolved, so—’

  ‘So? So what?’

  ‘So, sorry, looks like you’re screwed.’ He frowns. ‘From the looks of this, they didn’t have legal permission to subdivide the space. You’re actually lucky the property owners are even letting you stay on in the meantime.’ He takes a sip of tea, then adds, ‘Have you contacted them? See if you can buy out the space or set up something with them direct? ’Cause then you could remodel – which I could help with, ’cause yeah, the space is hideously outdated.’

  ‘The space is supposed to be, and yes, of course I called ’em. I talked with their attorney. Turns out they own commercial property all over the country with major retail chains established, and someone big is already in negotiations for the building.’ I start folding my paper napkin into a micro-flyer, my nervous energy needing a release.

  Finn glances out the window at the busy street. ‘Well, it’s a great location.
I’ll give ya that much. Lots of traffic.’

  ‘I know, right?’ I slump back in my seat and fly my plane. It’s too heavy, and only glides a second before it nose-dives with a spin and crashes to the floor. ‘That’s why I’m not moving. And really, where am I supposed to go in thirty days? How is that even possible? I can’t find new affordable space and move the store in a month. This is New York City, for Pete’s sake.’ I’d have to get packing supplies, actually pack, and hire movers. Years of stuff has accumulated there. I can’t even fathom how long that would take me. And really, where am I moving it to?

  Finn’s face has crinkled into a frown.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t have a month,’ he says drily, and motions to the document in his hand. ‘This is dated from two weeks ago. You, my dear, have two weeks.’

  My stomach plummets. I rip back the document and stare at the date. Oh God, he’s right. I’ve been avoiding it, thinking somehow it would just go away or resolve itself. I shake my head and hand it back. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I wave a hand to dismiss the entire thing. ‘There has to be something. Just work your magic and find a loophole.’

  ‘Oh, honey, even I don’t have that kind of power. This needs – wait – Seth Merriweather. He specializes in commercial law, and if anyone can pull this off, it’s him. Plus, you’re scheduled to meet him anyway.’

  ‘Whattaya mean? Why would I meet him anyway?’ I ask, fiddling with my half-eaten turkey and Swiss.

  ‘He’s your criminal date.’ Finn takes a sip of tea and smirks from behind the rim.

  ‘The criminal is a lawyer?’

  ‘Aren’t all lawyers criminal?’ Finn places the documents in his messenger man-bag and slouches comfortably back in his chair, the small smile still playing with the corners of his lips. ‘Besides, you might like him. He’s a complete throwback. And he doesn’t think you’re mute, unlike Dora’s Brain date fiasco.’ He laughs softly and glances at the waiter while my coffee’s given a topper.