Pictures of You (12 page)

             
“Now tell me about this guy of yours,” he said as he pumped the plunger into the overflowing bowl.

             
“He’s not my guy—yet. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I met him this morning at Tim’s Coffee. He’s, um, really…unusual.”

             
“How so?” he said as he flushed the toilet. I thanked him, placing my gloved hand on his upper arm. I loved how Chris was always watching out for me, taking over the nasty or more difficult jobs. If he didn’t already have a serious girlfriend…

             
I gazed at the clean toilet thoughtfully. “Well, he seems a bit intense. He’s a writer. He’s…I don’t know. I guess I’ll learn more at dinner. One thing I do know: he’s really cute. I mean, really cute. Super hot.”

             
He rolled his eyes. “He can’t be that good-looking.”

             
“Oh but he is.” I don’t know why, but I liked making Chris a little jealous. I opted to leave out the suicidal part for now. I didn’t want Chris to think I was a total freak. Or extremely desperate. Although I was probably both. “We’re going out tomorrow night. At seven. I’ll need to get off early. I was wondering if you’d cover for me.”

             
“Of course. I’m just thrilled to see you living your life again.”

             
“Thanks, Chris. You’re the best.”

             
“I am. I am the best. Don’t forget that when I ask you to cover for me next weekend. Megan and I are celebrating two years together.” Chris and Megan became serious their junior year of high school. They were an unlikely couple—Chris being a hippy-skater hybrid and Megan a cheerleader at the time. One day their science teacher partnered them up for a class project and the two have been inseparable since.

             
“Two years? That’s a long time. Congrats!” I grabbed a can of heavy duty cleaner and a sponge and got to work on the first sink. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

***

Dear Abby,

             
I’m going out (on a date!) with this really intriguing guy tomorrow night. Well, if you want to call it a date. It’s…complicated. But just because I’m dating again doesn’t mean I miss you any less. You know that I’ll never stop missing you. And I know that you’d want me to be happy.

             
So why do I feel so guilty?

             
The other day I saw the cutest old lady. She wore pig tails, can you believe that? An eighty-year-old with PIGTAILS. I thought, that’s something you would’ve done if you stuck around long enough to experience your senior years. Okay, I’m not going to lie. In a way I envy you. You won’t ever have to deal with wrinkles, gray hair, bad knees and failing eyesight. Is that wrong of me to say?

***

              At the beginning of our session, Rose was engrossed in a conversation on the phone. She held up a finger and mouthed an “I’m sorry.” Spaghetti sauce or something orangey-red stained the outer-rim of her tiny lips. That, in combination with her cotton poof hair, made me think of a clown.

             
I nodded politely and let my mind wander. Thinking about going out with Adrien made my stomach feel funny, like it did when I first danced with a boy in seventh grade. It would’ve been perfect had it not been to a nasty country song, the kind my grandpa listened to in his blue pick-up truck when he’d take April and me out for ice cream.

             
I listened to Rose’s fake nails drum against the desk as I weighed the lottery chance of getting Adrien to change his mind about his impending death
and
pretend to be my boyfriend. I pursed my lips. Maybe Rose could help me figure out how to handle this.

             
“Sorry about that. Just a little family emergency.”

             
“No problem.”

             
“How are things going?” Rose asked, carefully examining my face.

             
“I miss Abby, of course, but I feel, for the first time since the accident, almost like a normal human being again,” I said, flipping through one of Rose’s psychology books with a chocolate stain on the cover.

             
“That’s great, September. Describe normal.” She rested her jaw on a fist.

             
I sat the book down. “I’m taking photos again. I’m sleeping better at night. I’m actually happy some of the time now…I even have a date tonight.”             

             
“Really? Oh, September,” Rose said, getting up from behind her desk to hug me. We embraced for an uncomfortable moment. Her rough orange sweater scratched my cheek. She smelled of wool and old lady perfume. “That’s a breakthrough, September.”

             
“I think it is.” I smiled, a big, goofy smile. “Rose, I miss Abby big time. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop missing her. I have good days and bad days. But I really think I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.”

             
              Near the end of our fifty minute session I told her about Adrien and his suicide plans, but I just referred to him as an acquaintance, which he was. She didn’t need to know
he
was the one I was going on a date with.

             
When I finished, she scratched her poodle-tail head with a pen. “I’d like to see him. I’d love to help. Please give him this.” She scribbled a number on one of her business cards. I stifled a big grin when I saw a happy rainbow across the top, above her name. It was so Rose-like. She was the eternal optimist. “I’m giving him my cell number. The initial visit’s free of charge. Even if he’s broke, I’d be willing to work something out. Also, let me look up the suicide hotline. He’d be able to call anytime, twenty-four hours a day. If none of this works, September, I urge you to call his family.”

             
“How? I don’t know them. I don’t even know where he—”

             
“Find out where he lives. Ask him who his parents are. They should know about this. Also, be there for him. Lend an ear. Most likely this is a cry for help. Whatever you do, don’t pass judgment. You don’t want to push him away,” she said, compassion oozing from her. Rose was in her element. This was what she did best.

             
I nodded, feeling a budding hope. “I’m going to do whatever it takes.”

12

             
Incense, curry and high energy sitar music hit all my senses at once. I sat on a bone hard bench, feeling as stiff as the brass elephant statue standing next to me. My heart fluttered as I waited for Adrien to arrive. Not only was I nervous to be going on a date with an attractive guy—my first real date since John and I were a thing—I also felt a great responsibility to be there for Adrien. To help him. It was like Mount Kilimanjaro had been heaped onto my back. A deeply troubled guy had chosen
me
to confide in. He’d revealed his plans for suicide and it was very likely I
was the only who might be able to stop him.

             
              Pulling out a little mirror I kept in my purse, I gave myself a once-over, checking for streaked mascara and leftover lunch stuck in my teeth. My hair had survived the rainstorm, thanks to the expensive product I splurged on last week. I studied my big, brown eyes, my best feature. They were tired but hopeful. My biggest flaw was my nose, which was slightly large, but my dad once told me it meant I had personality. My full lips held their own against my other prominent features. I must confess I dressed up—a little—for the date. Rather than throw on my usual jeans and t-shirt, I wore a purple sweater and a pair of pants that hugged my curves perfectly.                           

             
              While waiting, I people-watched, one of my favorite pastimes. People fascinate me. I saw a tall, skinny guy throwing his arm around his short, watermelon-shaped girlfriend. An elderly lady wearing a handkerchief-sized skirt and five inch heels, undeterred by her varicose veins. A woman with painfully outdated hair on a cell phone arguing with her lover over what time they had agreed to meet for dinner.

             
I caught my breath when Adrien entered the room, bringing with him a rush of crisp night air. It was a chilly September, more so than usual for Brooklyn. I had to dodge meatball-sized raindrops on my way to the restaurant, which was only blocks from my apartment.             

             
Adrien seemed preoccupied as he scanned the crowded waiting area. When he finally saw me, he flashed me a seductive smile, but then just as fast, snagged it back, frowning at himself.

             
“Hey,” he said, laughing nervously.

             
“Hey,” I said, wondering who was more terrified.

             
“Are you hungry?” He shoved his hands into his pockets.

             
“Of course.”

             
“Good. Then let’s get to business.”

             
Business? Was that what he thought of this? Why had he even agreed to go out with me? I eyed him up and down then unsuccessfully stifled a laugh.

             
“What’s so funny?”

             
“You’re wearing all green again. Do you always wear green?”

             
He opened his mouth to say something when a man with skinny arms and a basketball belly showed us to our table.

             
“Please,” the waiter said, handing us menus. A black turban coiled around his head like a snake.

             
As Adrien looked over the numerous options, I took the liberty to gaze at his face, particularly his perfect jawbone I was becoming addicted to. I decided right then and there that I had to photograph him. He’d make a lovely subject with his flawless bone-structure and his brooding disposition.

             
“You already know what you want?” Adrien said, catching me mid-gawk.

             
I nodded, feeling my cheeks redden. “I always get the vegetable coconut kurma.”

             
“Always?”

             
“Always. I love it so much, I suffer withdrawals in between visits.”

             
He raised an eyebrow. “Withdrawals?”

             
“Yes. I can’t seem to try anything else. What if another dish just doesn’t compare? Consequently, my vegetable coconut kurma withdrawals would intensify.” I twisted my burgundy cloth napkin around and around in my hands.

             
Adrien laughed, seeming amused. “I’ll tell you what. How about you order the regular and try something new? Then you won’t be taking any uncomfortable risks.”

             
“That sounds reasonable. I won’t be able to finish it all, though.”

             
“I’ll help you. I can really pack it in.” He tapped his stomach. I could see that. He was slender but very tall. Six-two? Six-three?

             
Our turbaned waiter took our order. I ordered my favorite dish along with aloo gobi. Adrien opted for the chicken tikka masala.

             
“This is my first
first
date in over a year,” I blurted out. I regretted it immediately. I felt my cheeks flush—again—adding to my discomfort.

             
“I find that hard to believe…but funny you say that. It’s been more than three years for me,” he said, running a finger down the side of his glass of water, collecting condensation on his fingertip.

             
Three
years?
I was shocked. “Really?”

             
“Really.”

             
“Suddenly I feel like I’m in an AA meeting. Hi, my name is September. It’s been one year since my last date.”

             
“Hello, September,” we said simultaneously. We broke into loud snickers. People sitting at neighboring tables threw us curious glances. A middle-age woman tossed us a chastising glare.

             
“Three years. Wow. Why? If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, taking a long sip of ice water.

             
“It’s really pathetic. Not first date material. Trust me, you don’t want to know. It’s been awhile for you, too. What’s your excuse?”

             
“I had a boyfriend for nine months and then we broke up about five months ago and, well, it’s complicated.”