He winces when I say Helen’s name.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say. I decide I don’t feel like paying. I turn to leave.
“She’s a plague on this town!” he shouts, thick, ugly veins swarming his neck.
Really? A plague?
I sip my coffee and give him a sweet church smile.
“Then move,” I say.
I step out onto Main Street and walk to my car with my shoulders back, my head up, a regal posture. But on the drive over to school, my confidence begins to pill like a cheap sweater.
The embarrassment spiral beckons.
Doubt waits there, too.
I know Oskar has a major chip on his shoulder when it comes to Sophie. I know this. Still, for him to be so adamant in his animosity . . . is there something I’m missing? Some part of the story that Sophie may have left out? I have known her to be not particularly forthcoming with the whole truth, and she does tend to be deliberate in her edits. Case in point: the ghosts.
I guess if I thought someone had kidnapped my spouse, and then, when I confronted them about it, they threatened to wear my teeth as a necklace, I’d also be pretty miffed.
Maybe that is the whole story.
My intuition yawns, awakening briefly from its endless slumber to deliver a message before rolling over and going back to bed.
That’s not what’s bothering you, Sherlock.
Right.
My insecurity returns like a villain in a sequel. The same but worse.
I’m not upset about Oskar’s grudge against Sophie. I’m concerned with his perception of me.
I shouldn’t have told him that I’m spending Valentine’s Day by myself. And I definitely shouldn’t have done the floaty-cup thing.
I’ve opened myself up to judgment and maybe worse. I’ve made myself vulnerable.
I try to take a deep breath, calm myself down, but it’s like there’s cellophane over my lips.
Am I ashamed to be associated with her? With Sophie? Am I embarrassed by this newfound power?
I mean, I was sad before, but at least I was normal.
Spite-floating hot beverages in a local café is not normal.
Have I made a mistake?
I pull into the school parking lot and sit in my car, take a few minutes to compose myself.
When I open the door and step out into the brutal February wind, there’s Jill. We make eye contact. She turns to Rebecca Deacon, an uppity AP history teacher. She whispers something in her ear. Rebecca looks at me. Now we’re making eye contact.
Is it too much to ask never to have to make eye contact with any other living being ever again?
I offer a weak smile that goes unreciprocated. They huddle together and scramble away from me.
This is how it is to be like Sophie. To be different. To be feared.
I put my head down and hurry to my classroom. The day crawls by, the clock mocking me from above the door. After school, I force myself to go to the grocery store to get the ingredients for my Valentine’s Day dinner tomorrow night.
As I stand beyond the automatic doors sanitizing my hands before selecting a basket, I realize something. It seems to fall out of the sky and strike me with the force and precision of a ballistic missile.
None of this has been by choice.
Sam and I didn’t break up. He dumped me. And if he hadn’t done that, there’s no way I’d be out here proclaiming how wonderful it is to make risotto for one. I’ve spent the past few weeks convincing myself that I’m becoming empowered, but I know that if someone, if anyone, wanted me, I wouldn’t be here.
Maybe independence is just the flag we wave to distract from the pain of being alone.
And if everyone’s afraid of me, alone is all I’ll ever be.
I’m tempted to abandon my list and instead purchase multiple frozen pizzas, a bag of cherry Twizzlers and an enormous jug of Arizona iced tea, but I suspect that will only make me feel worse.
I stick to the list. Then I stop at the pet store to get Ralph some live crickets as a special treat.
I leave them out on the stairs, so he doesn’t see. I planned on surprising him tomorrow morning, but then end up crying as I put the groceries away and, for a while after, sitting on the couch, catching what seems like a disproportionate amount of snot with my bare hands.
This of course upsets Ralph, who lies on his back and flails his legs around for the duration of my sob session.
Afterward, I feel too guilty to let his gift wait until tomorrow.
“I got you something,” I say, wiping my hands on my pants.
He perks up.
“Wait here,” I say.
I take a few steps toward the front door. I spin around quickly, catching him right behind me.