Pictures of You (11 page)

10

             
In line at Tim’s Coffee, one of my favorite places to sit and think, it hit me: I have two weeks. Two weeks to find a boyfriend to bring home for my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party. If I didn’t, I’d have to face April and John alone. I had to see them again. It was as unavoidable as puberty and taxes. See John draped on my sister. For the rest of my life. The boy was going to be my brother-in-law (cringe). I could
not
let him—or my sister—see me showing up alone. I swore to myself I’d never let him see I wasn’t quite over him. That I still loved him. Not that he was deserving of my love. At all. But like I told Chris earlier, you can’t just turn your feelings off. These things take time, apparently.

             
John was faaaar from perfect. That was clear now more than ever. Now that I knew he was capable of two-timing
and
falling for someone as obnoxious as my sister. But I could see why April was willing to jeopardize our relationship (well, what was left of it) to be with him. John was not only smart and driven and, let’s face it, really good-looking, he had a really sweet side. In our nine months together I learned he was very protective of those he cared for. For example, one time when my parents were out of town, he came over—at one in the morning—to kill a spider the size of a golf ball in my bedroom. And he was thoughtful. He gave me a ride to school every morning so I wouldn’t have to take the bus, even though it was out of his way. Plus he could, on a rare occasion, be romantic. Last Valentine’s Day he ditched English and stuck conversation hearts all over my locker. He also left a really sweet love note in my Psychology textbook. So it surprised me—no, shocked the hell out of me—to entertain the idea that John was hooking up with my sister for three whole months before he finally collected the courage to break things off with me.

             
Maybe it was meant to be. John and April do seem to be a better fit, I’m starting to realize now. But it still hurt—my heart
and
my pride—to have my always-one-upping-me sister steal my boyfriend like that. And now I’d go to any length, any extreme, to get a guy to take me to my parents’ party. Hell, I’d hire an escort if I had to.

             
A fake boyfriend would be even better because truthfully, I wasn’t ready to open my heart up only for it to be battered by the next boy—and it’s not like I needed a boy in my life to make me feel good about myself anyway.

              Armed with my hot chocolate and bagel-with-everything-on-it, I looked around the café for a place to sit and scheme. The place was as packed as a UPS truck on Christmas Eve. There was not a single vacant table left. Even the couch and overstuffed chair in the corner that were usually empty were occupied by four elderly ladies, wearing silly hats. I growled in frustration.

             
What made this place so popular? My theory: It had the best bagels in the area—maybe even in all of New York. Or was it the exotic gourmet cocoa flavors like banana, butterscotch or peanut butter that drew people here like mosquitoes to a porch light? I for one loved the hip, arsty atmosphere. Odd, tree-like lamps hung over punchy red tables. Inspiring art adorned the electric blue walls. Old pennies tiled the floor. (Even the ground was cool. How many coffee shops could boast about that?)

             
I did a double take when I saw James Dean, the brooding guy I’d rung up months earlier at Anderson Art and Frame, sitting alone by the window, scribbling something on a napkin. His outfit brought the Jolly Green Giant to mind. He wore a sea green shirt with clashing army green pants. Kelly green Converse completed the wacky outfit. He seemed lost in thought with his left hand forked in his hair, his eyes vacantly resting on a dark splotchy spot on the table. He looked so stuck in his head a store robbery involving hand grenades would probably not disturb him from his meanderings. For a moment I stood beside him, maybe two feet away, until I gathered the courage to say, “Excuse me. Do you mind if I join you?”

             
“Fine,” he said, shrugging indifferently, not bothering to look up from his napkin.

             
Plopping down in the seat opposite him, I took a moment to soak in the wonder of his amazing hands. One scribbled away with an expensive-looking pen while the other was now shielding the napkin, guarding it against snoopers such as myself. His most prominent feature was a strong and defined jaw. It was so exquisite, I was sure even Roman statues quaked in envy. Yet his sad eyes made him appear sensitive, vulnerable.

             
“Are you writing a poem?’ I asked, tilting my body to the far right to catch a glimpse of his top secret note.

             
“Something like that,” he said, still not looking up.

             
“Are you a writer?” I asked before biting into my bagel.

             
He said nothing. He was clearly not feeling social and I wondered if it would be rude to get up and sit somewhere else, or if I should sit with him in awkward silence. I knew if I chose the latter, I wouldn’t even enjoy my bagel—it was my favorite flavor and they’d ran out of it the last few times I was here, but I felt too weird getting up and abruptly leaving. I mean, what if I saw this guy again? That would be more uncomfortable than sitting in silence, wouldn’t it? This was my favorite café, after all, I didn’t want to mess up a good thing. Not when they had the best everything-on-it bagel around and they were conveniently located—only a block away from my apartment. I felt I didn’t have any good options. Out of desperation, I tried speaking again. I knew I had to say something clever or important to grab his attention. Shocking would be even better. I couldn’t help but smile when I began the following sentence. “Will you go to my parents’ anniversary party with me?”

             
James Dean looked up at me (finally!) appearing surprised and amused. His eyes were beautiful. As green as baby grass. He cracked a half smile before going back to work on his poem. Looking up at me for only a second at a time, he said, “I don’t usually date strangers. I don’t even know your name. For all I know, you could be some sort of freak.”

             
“What do you mean by a freak exactly?” I said, laughing because in a sense I was a freak. A freak desperate enough to ask a stranger to go out with me.

             
“Like a serial killer. Or one of those people who talks during movies.” He paused, studying my face. “You do look familiar, though.”

             
“Then allow me to introduce myself. Hi, my name is September Jones. You may remember me from the art supply store. I used to work there. I rang you up once.” He looked at me blankly. “Two hundred and ten dollars?”

            “Ahhh. I remember now.” His green eyes flickered.

            “I may be a little weird, but for the most part I’m harmless. To date, I’ve never killed a person. I’m so docile, I don’t even eat meat. I even hesitate to kill bugs, although spiders are a different story. They are just so hideous, don’t you think? The way they crawl and just sneak up on you. So maybe I’m shallow, killing creatures based on their looks and the way they move…” Great, I’m rambling. Shut up already.

             
“You forgot to address my second concern. Do you talk during movies?”

             
I laughed. Was he serious? “What’s your name?”

             
He smiled and shook his head, completely ignoring my question. “Speaking of names, yours is interesting. September. I like it…But you have another flaw in your plan.”

             
“What’s that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

             
“You don’t know a thing about me. What if
I’m
a serial killer?”

             
“Are you?”

             
“I could be.”

             
I shrugged. “I guess I’m willing to take the risk. I’m pretty desperate.”

             
Looking up from his work, he studied my face for a moment. I felt my cheeks flush under his stare. “You don’t look like the desperate type. You’re pretty, you seem smart and well-groomed. Maybe a little naive, but you’re definitely a catch. Surely you have guys lining up for your number.”

             
“It’s a long, complicated story. I’ll spare you the gory details. And it’s not just a date I want from you. I have to confess…” My pulse picked up. “I need you to pretend to be, um, my boyfriend.” I bit my lip, avoiding his gaze. His eyebrows peaked and his mouth twisted ever so slightly. He was clearly entertained by my candor.

             
“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?” He cradled his chin in his open palm, finally giving me his full attention.

             
“Will you?” What am I doing? I don’t even know this guy. I must have lost my marbles.

             
“When is it?”

             
“Two weeks from tomorrow. On October second. It’s just a dinner at my folks’ house. They live in—”

             
“I can’t.”

             
I dropped my half-eaten bagel. “Why not?”

             
He tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I have…other plans.”

             
“Like what?”

             
“Is that really any of your business?”

             
“No. I guess n—”

             
“I’m committing suicide.”

             
I laughed, nearly choking on my hot chocolate. We were quiet for a moment before I said, “You’re kidding, right?”

             
“Would I joke about something like that?”

             
“I wouldn’t know. I know nothing about you.”

             
“I’m dead serious. Pardon the pun.”

             
I studied his face. His expression was even, his eyes locked onto mine, unwavering. I swallowed hard, unsure how to appropriately respond. “Wow. I mean, I’m sorry to hear that…Do you want to talk about it?”

             
“Nope.” He flicked his pen and we watched it roll across the table.

             
I sighed. This guy was impossible and about as approachable as a boarded up meth lab with a
Keep Out
sign. “Can I ask you something?”

             
“Shoot.”

             
“Why plan a suicide? Why not kill yourself now?”

             
He laughed, his troubled eyes sparkling for a short moment. “I want to write the perfect suicide note.”

             
“Is that what you’re working on right now?” He nodded, flipping the napkin over before I could read any of it. “So why October second? Why not three weeks from now—or next year?”

             
“October second is my deadline. It gives me two weeks to write it. If I’m going to come up with the perfect suicide note, it’s best I have a time frame. I don’t work well otherwise. My best work surfaces when I’m under pressure.”

             
“Can’t you wait until October third to do it? I could really use your help…” He shook his head, concealing his face behind perfect hands.

             
No longer worried so much about my own pathetic existence, I was becoming more concerned for him. Although I didn’t know him, I couldn’t help but feel responsible now. Human life was valuable. Priceless. I knew that now more than ever after losing the two people I loved most. “And speaking of help, have you thought about getting any?”

             
He peeked out from behind the shield his hands made over his face. “It would be useless. I’ve tried the whole ‘getting help’ thing already and I just can’t see life getting any better.”

             
“Couldn’t you give it a while longer? Things change. Life has its ups and downs. I know from personal experience—”

             
“I’m sorry, but I’m sticking to my original plan. I’ll go out with you tomorrow night, however, if you’d like. I, um, have nothing better to do.”

             
Nothing better to do? “You flatter me. I don’t know. I’m sort of afraid of long term commitment.”

             
“Very funny.”

             
“But sure, let’s go out. Where do you want to meet?” My heart was racing now. What am I doing? What am I getting myself into?

             
“There’s this Indian place. Do you like Indian food?”

             
“I love Indian food.” And it was the truth.

             
“Great.” He penned an address on a new napkin. “See you tomorrow at seven?”

             
I stood, brushing bagel crumbs from my t-shirt. “Perfect. Wait, so what’s your name?”

             
“Adrien. Adrien Gray.”

             
“Nice to meet you, Adrien.”

11

             
“I met someone,” I said, pulling the massive janitor uniform over my jeans and t-shirt, snapping rubber gloves over my hands.

             
“You
met
someone?”
Chris said, dropping his mop and his jaw simultaneously. I nodded, not bothering to hide my sloppy grin. “A guy?”

             
“Of course a guy,” I said, punching him in the arm.

             
“So does that mean you’re finally over John?”

             
I hesitated. “Not entirely. But I guess it does mean I’m ready to…I don’t know
.
Care about someone again.” My own words surprised me. Was I really ready to let someone into my heart? Probably not. But Adrien was safe. It was highly unlikely I’d have to commit long-term—even if I managed to talk him out of killing himself, he was clearly too big of a wreck to be serious boyfriend material. It could be like a fling. A quick and harmless rebound relationship. If you wanted to call a few dates a relationship.

             
I was also still hoping he’d agree to go to my parents’ party with me. Not only would I be bringing a date, but Adrien’s also some serious eye candy. Not that looks are everything, but they help when you’re trying to make your ex and your sister jealous.

             
If Chris’s girlfriend wasn’t so jealous and possessive, I’d ask him to be my date, play my boyfriend for a night. She would never go for it. She was even threatened by our working together every night. I get that. With school and homework and other commitments, Chris spent more time with me in an evening than his girlfriend usually had with him in an entire week.

             
“September Jones met a guy.” He shook his head, making his butterscotch ponytail swing back and forth.

             
“Why is that so shocking? It’s five months since John and I broke up.”

             
“I’m just happy to hear you’re okay now. Or that you’re
going
to be okay.” His face lit up reminding me of the nickname I’d mentally given him months earlier: Sunshine Boy.

             
“I’m going to be okay.” I nodded, feeling for the first time it could be true.

             
“You’ve been through a lot. You deserve some happiness after John and Abby. What’s he like? Did he ask you out?”

             
“Well—”

             
Chris knocked on the men’s restroom door. “Anyone in here?” After waiting for a reply and getting none, I pushed the sticky door open, dropping a brown rubber door stop on the ground and using my foot to jam it under the door. Chris pushed the heavy cart full of cleaning supplies into the florescent lit room that reeked of urine and cappuccino—someone had left a half empty cup of it by the sink.

             
“It’s your night to clean the urinals,” I said, heading over to the stalls with a brush and a bowl cleaner so heavy duty, the regular exposure to its fumes will likely shave a year or two off my life.

             
He groaned. “I
did the urinals Wednesday. It’s yours, September.”

             
“No, don’t you remember? I found a wedding ring at the bottom of one?”

             
“That was Tuesday.” He shook his head. “Okay, let’s flip.”

             
“Tails,” I said, before he could even dig out a coin.

             
“You’re supposed to call it in the air.”

             
“I always choose tails anyway. You know that.”

             
“I know that,” Chris said, smiling at me affectionately. He flipped the quarter and caught it in one quick, fluid movement. “Tails.” I laughed mockingly as he grumbled. “Okay, but you’re doing the boxes in the ladies room.”

             
“I always do the boxes.”

             
“I know. And I love you for that.”

             
After scrubbing it clean, I flushed the first of twelve toilets. I rolled my eyes theatrically at Chris before heading to the second stall. He and I had become good friends over the past several weeks. Traditionally, janitorial work wasn’t something to look forward to, but I found myself eager to get to work every day to spend time with the guy who’d become my closest friend since Abby. Of course no one would ever replace her, but it was nice to have a soft place to fall after a hard day. I looked forward to our long, philosophical chats and our gut-busting laugh sessions over unexpected surprises we’d find in restrooms. Once we found a decapitated teddy bear on the back of a toilet in the women’s restroom, for example. Another time we found at least a couple of pounds of M&M’s candy smashed into the tile floor of the men’s room. Today I had other pleasant surprises awaiting me—three plugged up toilets, one with fragrant yellow-brown water spilling over the rim. “Ughhh…”

             
“They left you a little present?” Chris said, laughing.

             
“Can you hand me the plunger?”

             
“Let me get that for you.” Chris gently nudged me away to heroically take over. He put on some protective goggles, which made me giggle. They came in handy, however. I learned that the hard way my second day when toilet water jumped out at me and hit me straight in the eye. Chris got a real laugh out of that. I smiled a thanks as Chris’s big-boned frame slid past me, our bodies brushing as we traded places. We exchanged a couple awkward apologies.