Shoot the Moon
Part Two
It's fall now, the air crisp with the absence of summer, and especially sharp with the onslaught of night. The sky is pitch black, dotted with stars whose existence I doubted while living in New York. Here, though, I've tried to pick out constellations before catching myself and remembering that four-year-old girls do that.
I look up when the door chimes and you walk in. You're shivering—no coat—and your knees are knocking together in your skirt. Wordlessly, your hair hanging down around your face, you sit at the counter. I set a cup of coffee in front of you, and you extend an arm out and bring it up to your mouth. Silently, you look up to thank me.
I feel what I think might be sympathy course through me when I see your face. Your eyes are red-rimmed, glassy with tears, and your chin is wobbling. Without looking away, I hand you a napkin, and you daintily dab your eyes. "Thanks," you whisper brokenly.
Looking down, I start wiping tables. "What happened?" I ask, whisking my rag over the smooth surface.
All I hear from you is a slurp and a sniffle. Slurp. Sniffle. Slurp. Sniffle. "Dean and I broke up." Sob. Realizing that the last sound didn't fit the pattern, I release my rag and turn. You're looking down, towards your shoes and blue toes, but I can see the tear trailing down your cheek. "I just didn't expect it." I can hear the shame in your voice.
"When?"
You just shake your head, then look up and nod outside. My eyes follow your gaze as you look into the Horn of Plenty. I see the townspeople all celebrating—eating, singing, having seizures that must pass as dancing around here—and wonder how this might indicate time. Then I spot an exceptionally tall head moving away from the festivities.
Turning back, I see that you've resumed your former position of staring at your shoes. I check my watch; ten minutes to closing. I lock the door and shut off the front lights to deter any hungry passerby, then start to wipe the counter down. You slowly start to stand. "I'll leave," you say.
My eyes flick up. "Why?"
With a spasmodic gesture, you say, "You're closing."
"I've gotta get rid of this coffee." I tilt my head invitingly toward the pot, and you bite your lip.
"No trouble?"
"Please. You'd be doing me a favor. Especially if you want to lick it when you're done."
A smile threatens to crawl over your face, and you sit again, holding the cup out. I obligingly fill it, set the pot next to you, then start doing diner duties again. For a good fifteen minutes, you just observe, watching as I clean and arrange. You've gone through two-and-a-half cups so far.
"I knew it would happen," you finally tell me. "I mean, everybody knew." You laugh with no mirth. You swallow loudly. "But in the middle of everything?" With a soft, gasping inhalation, you say, "It was just so humiliating."
Pivoting, I look at you. Your eyes are watery again, and you're staring awfully hard at that cup. A sudden surge of rage shoots through me. Pursing my lips, I suppress it. "I can brew more," I offer, indicating the pot with a nod of my head.
"No." You stand. "I should get home."
"Right." I want to ask you to stay and confide in me, but you would refuse. Ever since the night on the bridge, you haven't exactly avoided me, but I see the embarrassment in your eyes. And, I reflect bitterly, it didn't seem to expedite your eminent split with Big McLargeTall.
But you just stand there uncertainly. "Jess?"
"Hmm?"
You take a deep breath. "I'm sorry."
"Oh." Great. Just great. Now you're going to apologize about the bridge, and how you realized that you shouldn't have betrayed Dean like that, and it's just not right.
"I didn't mean to avoid you." Really? 'Cause it seems like that takes some pretty deliberate forethought. "It just…it took me a long time to tell Dean. I mean, Dean and I haven't been getting along lately, but he's still my first love, and he never deserved to be treated like that. And it really hurt me to tell him." You twist your foot, your heel the fulcrum, and stare at the ground, oddly shimmery in the dim florescent light. "But I don't regret it."
Blinking, I let that last statement wash over me. "No?" I muster, walking around the counter towards you.
Mute, you shake your head, then look downward. All of a sudden, you're crying in earnest, shoulders shaking, and you turn to leave, hiding your face. Desperate for some reason to comfort you, I encircle your wrist with my fingers, urging you to stay. Pausing, you turn, not looking at me, and I draw you into me. I feel you sinking, quaking, giving into me and you slowly accept my embrace. Wetness seeps into my shirt as you cry, your fingers curling around my shoulder. I don't say anything and neither do you; we just cling together in the warmth of the diner, swaying slightly, you crying and me staring at the top of your head.
After a good long cry, you look up, your eyes swollen, then back away a bit. "I'm sorry," you say.
"Why?"
"For…" You gesture, as though this makes the sentence complete. "It was…just a bad day. My dad and I had a big fight, and then this Dean thing…" Again, you just let the sentence stay suspended in the air, floating away. "I need to go home."
"All right," I agree. You turn and leave, slipping through the door, walking close to the building to avoid being noticed by one of the local lunatics. I watch you go, feeling the damp spot on my shirt acutely. I'm still standing there when Luke comes in, disgruntled per usual.
"Jess!"
"What?" I mutter, looking at him.
"Why didn't you let me in?" Huh? I think. He got in. "I was standin' there, poundin' on the door…coulda sworn you were starin' right at me."
"Sorry," I mumble.
"Somethin' wrong?" Luke asks, shedding his coat and heading towards the stairs. I don't reply, so he comes up next to me. "Jess?"
Snapping out of it I say, "No. Nothing's wrong." I move around Luke and go upstairs, shutting myself in my room, flipping the stereo on. I have no idea what's playing. All I can remember is your scent: light perfume, shampoo and tears, the way you leaned into me, exhausted, the trust that finally radiated off of you. I roll onto my side, staring out the window at the stars.
*
The Horn of Plenty is utterly silent. Dean's voice has stopped ringing through the square, but it resonates in my head, ringing like a bad recording. My mouth opens, trying to say…something, but nothing will come out. The townspeople look on, amazed, wishing that no one else was here so that they could have the privilege of being first with this news. Dean shakes his head and turns away; I just stand and stare, agape. Slowly, the town resumes its activities. Miss Patty comes over and tries to comfort me, but I know who I need.
It's strange, this feeling of needing you. Before, it was always my mother, but now, as I grow and change and whatnot, I'm growing into my own person in need of someone who's never been related to me. I jog across the street to the diner, the townspeople undoubtedly looking on in astonishment. The familiar bell, which sparks a Pavlovian response in me, chimes when I walk in. I've slowed down now, enough to notice that I'm freezing cold in my skirt.
I let my hair fall down, across my face, which must look atrocious: teary eyes, chapped lips, pale from the cold. The barstool calls to me, and I sit on it, as a soldier might after battle. You silently hand me a cup of coffee, and I'm grateful for the lack of prying. Forgetting about the state of my face, I look up and thank you with my expression. I see something like empathy flash across your face, and you hand me a napkin. I recall what my face looks like, and halfheartedly wipe my eyes. "Thanks," I murmur, my voice unsteady.
You finally break the gaze, looking away to wipe tables. "What happened?" you ask.
Oh, if only I could tell you the whole convoluted tale of my day. I long to take this cup of coffee and go upstairs with you, curl up on the couch and talk it through, from my dad—jerk extraordinaire—to Dean. I sip my coffee and do my best to sniffle quietly as I ponder. "Dean and I broke up." This is such a pathetic summary that I can't stop the loud, gasping sob that slips through my lips. You set your rag down and turn to me, but my face is obscured by the hair drooping down. I feel the peculiar need to justify myself. "I just didn't expect it."
"When?"
I want to say, "Three minutes ago," but instead, I just shake my head, then nod outside. Confused, you look out there too, obviously trying to piece together my breaking up with Dean, the time, and the wacky festival. You see something, and your head starts to turn back. Quickly, my eyes flicker back to my shoes.
You don't look for long. Then, you start locking up and shutting off lights; I take this as my cue to go. I wouldn't want to talk to me either. Still, you say nothing, so I volunteer, "I'll leave."
Your eyes come up to pin me with your gaze. "Why?"
It's obvious: you're closing. I wave my hand around, trying to encompass the diner in a weak gesture, and say, "You're closing."
"I've gotta get rid of this coffee." You cock you head in the direction of the pot.
I want to kiss you, but I know that I can't. To keep myself in check, I bite my lip. More than anything, I want to stay here with you, talk to you. "No trouble?"
"Please. You'd be doing me a favor. Especially if you want to lick it when you're done."
My mouth instantly curves into a tiny smile. Around me, you become warmer than with anyone else; people would be shocked to find that you have a sense of humor. For a long while, I sit on a barstool while you move about the diner. I watch you as your clothes slump and fold against you, as your shirt strains when you lift, as your mouth contorts imperceptibly with exertion. Sipping my coffee, I organize my thoughts. "I knew it would happen," I say, out of nowhere. "I mean, everybody knew." A cold, bitter laugh escapes me. Everyone but me, as usual. "But in the middle of everything?" The memories hit me again, hard. "It was just so humiliating," I say, after a pathetic gasp of suppressed tears.
You spin, but I stare at my cup, determined not to cry. The tears well up in my eyes like puddles but I manage to keep them in. "I can brew more," you say. I think the offer means more, but now I'm not ready. I have to go, now.
"No." I stand without ceremony, needing to leave quickly. "I should get home."
"Right," you answer. There's something in the edge of your voice that says multitudes, but if I let myself believe it, I'll fall. And after that, there's no going back.
Something in me won't let me go. I feel torn, half of me wanting to run to the door, the other half needing to tell you something. The latter half wins. "Jess?" My voice sounds silly and childish to my ears.
"Hmm?" you say, rather dryly.
"I'm sorry." I know. I know that I said on the bridge that I wasn't sorry, but I am. Sorrier than you'll ever know. I don't know what I want. I don't know if I want the security of a small-town boyfriend or the excitement of you. I don't know if I'm winding up like my mom, always scared of getting in too deep. And I'm dragging you with me. Although you've probably been hurt worse, it hurts me to be the one causing you pain. Am I?
"Oh." You sound disappointed, heavily embittered. I guess that's my answer.
"I didn't mean to avoid you," I blurt out. And it's true. I fully intended to seek you out, talk about the situation rationally. But then I saw you, your ever-calm face and defensive stance, and I couldn't do it. "It just…it took me a long time to tell Dean. I mean, Dean and I haven't been getting along lately, but he's still my first love, and he never deserved to be treated like that. And it really hurt me to tell him." This is true as well. I've been riddled with guilt for weeks, hating myself for hurting not only you, but Dean, who, despite your low opinion, is still a wonderful guy, who deserves to be with someone who can love him like he loves me. Nervous, I fiddle with my foot, trying to gain the bravado to say the next thing I have to say. "But I don't regret it."
You're silent for a second. "No?"
I'm captivated by something in your eyes, rendered unable to speak. I simply wag my head back and forth, then look at the ground. Without warning, the day comes crashing over me, breaking me like a piñata in the sea. Guilt and hurt fall on me in waves, hurtling me against the rocks, and I'm sobbing, crying harder than I have in a long time. I think it was the hope in your eyes that pushed me over the edge. I turn to leave, ashamed, but your fingers grasp my wrist urgently.
I stop for a moment. Then, frantic for someone to comfort me, I let you pull me in. You hold me tight, let me soak your shirt with the suffering of a naïve schoolgirl. Grateful for your strength, I wrap my fingers around your shoulder and hold on. Gently, you rock back and forth, clutching me as I gasp and cry and shake. After a long, long time, I glance up and disentangle myself from the comforting embrace. "I'm sorry," is the only thing I can think to say.
Perplexed, you ask, "Why?"
I don't really have an answer, so I just say, "For…" and shuffle my hand a little. Then I start making excuses. "It was…just a bad day. My dad and I had a big fight, and then this Dean thing…" I can't think of a thing to add to this miserable little monologue, so I just let it drift off into nowhere. "I need to go home," I conclude.
"All right," you say neutrally. For some reason, this makes me sadder, and I slip through a small opening in the diner door. Wanting to stay as close to you as possible, I cling to the wall of the diner. I can see my mother as I walk home, sitting in front of the television with a cup of coffee and some junk food, laughing and mocking programs. I see myself in sixteen years, doing the same thing, and it scares me. Am I going to turn out just like my mother? Afraid to commit, lonely, trying to fill voids with television and movies and junk food? Suddenly, I'm scared. I see your face, softly hopeful, the shape of your lips, the texture of your shirt. I fight the impulse to turn around and tell you everything. Everything being that I can see myself in sixteen years, miserable and frightened to live my life. Everything being that I didn't want to leave tonight, not in my heart. Everything being that I think I might legitimately be in love with you and too scared to do anything about it.