Without noticing me, she hands him the twenty-dollar bill and stalks to a table. The cashier winks at me as he shoves the cash in his pocket and grabs a dirty mug stacked by the sink. He rinses it out briefly, the contents still foamy with dishwater as he pours hot water inside the mug and balances it on a plate. There’s a stack of sliced lemons by the drink station, but he doesn’t grab one. Then he dumps the it all on her table.
Evelyn’s sunglasses look like they’re on the verge of swallowing her face. I laugh as she removes the glasses and drops them into her leopard print bag.
Timmy reappears at the register and pushes a plate laden with coffee and a blueberry scone. “It’s free of charge if you eat it in front of her.
I consider how petty that would be. “Deal. And thanks.”
He smirks as I take the plate from him. The disapproving glare she sends Timmy seems entirely lost on the teenager. I used to think he was a sullen little shit, but that was before I started coming in here every day and he’d refill my coffee without asking.
The chair scrapes loudly against the tiles as I pull it back to sit down. “Hello. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Evelyn wears a blue bandage dresses that wraps around her body so tightly, I’m not sure how she manages to breathe. Or see through those squinted eyes, for that matter. Bone-dry hair hangs on either side of her flawless face. She’s not capable of frowning from the extensive plastic surgery, but her lips purse slightly as I take a huge bite of the blueberry scone.
“Very mature.”
Mouth full, I chew and swallow before answering. “I’d rather be immature than a corrupt psychopath.”
“You got my son arrested for a thirty-dollar mailbox.”
“He should have been in jail for drunk driving, but Mark’s blood alcohol test mysteriously vanished from the evidence room. Yeah, I don’t feel bad for putting his ass there.”
“I hope it was worth it.” There’s a ripping sound that makes the little hairs on my arm stand on their end. Evelyn dunks her tea bag into her mug of lukewarm water. “Now that you’re both jobless, I mean. What are you plans for work, by the way? Don’t tell me you’re going to live off the land.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Mark told me you wanted to write, you know.” She looks up from her tea to give a simpering laugh. “Do you have any idea how many years it takes for some to get a book deal?”
My voice tightens. “I know it’s not easy.”
“Easy? People write their whole lives and never accomplish it. First you’d have to write query letters to agents after your whole manuscript is finished, of course. Then you’ll have to wade through dozens of rejections until, if you’re lucky, one manages to bite.
“And finding an agent is no guarantee that your book will actually get picked up by one of the Big Five. Suppose you did, and suppose they made you an offer. At the most, you’d get a couple thousand dollars for an advance and maybe a 6 percent royalty rate if they’re feeling generous. You’d be a single mom unless Gage takes you in, probably living on minimum wage so that you could pin all your hopes on something that probably won’t even happen anyway.”
True. All of it’s true.
I clutch the burning coffee mug, staring into its dark depths as though to find something to refute what she said. We all need dreams. Don’t we?
But dreams wouldn’t feed my baby. They wouldn’t keep the electricity on, either. I picture myself stuck at another soul-sucking job, or worse, writing on scraps of paper in a dilapidated one-bedroom while a baby cries in its bassinet.
“Oh, Charlie Brown. You’re hopeless.”
All the fight drains out of me as I look into those cold eyes. I hate her more than I’ve hated anyone in my entire life, and it’s not because of who she is. She’s right.
Stupid, worthless dreams.
I stand without finishing the scone, my appetite gone.
A loud hammering sound announces Gage’s presence in the garage. He sits in a plastic chair, pounding a sheet of metal into a curved shape. His discarded shirt lays in a dirty pile next to a toolbox. A pearly sheen of sweat covers his chest, making the ripples in his muscles more pronounced.
There’s a clang as he casually tosses the hammer and fiddles with something