“If this is how you always end your act on stage, I think you’re a little hard on yourself,” Luke finally begins. “You weren’t that bad. Kind of good actually. Although your guitar picking needs work.”
I can’t help but smile, lopsided though it is. “I know. You’re a big guitar expert, huh?”
“The world’s leading air guitar expert,” he corrects me. His tone changes from silly to gentle. “Want to talk? Or do you need more sandpaper to blow your nose with?”
“I just thought I saw someone I used to know,” my response is very lame and I know it. But how do I explain that this someone I used to know I last saw over two hundred years ago? I look down, embarrassed, and see my horses on my shirt galloping across my chest; they would look so mighty and strong if they weren’t soaked with my tears.
“And that someone owes you a million dollars? That’s why you’re so upset, because you lost them again?” Although his words are light and teasing, his eyes are piercing and I am uncomfortable under their scrutiny. I make a show of wiping my own eyes with the soggy napkin again, if only to collect myself.
I smile widely, sanely, I hope. I fear it comes across as desperate and crazy though. I am surprised when he doesn’t back away and develop a sudden recollection of what he should be doing, where he should be going, and leave, never to see this tear stained wreck of a girl again. Instead he stands and offers me his hand.
“Well, let’s get some caffeine and strategize, shall we? This isn’t a big city and we can find your special someone. It’s not the end of the world, kid. Chin up.” I am standing now, awkwardly at his side, and he uses his knuckle to rub my chin and lift my head.
I feel very conspicuous when I walk back into the shop. I am hesitant and worry that every head will turn and stare at me - the deranged, clumsy woman who made a spectacle of herself and now has the job of refilling their mugs and bringing them their peanut butter scones. They’re probably terrified I’ll spill a pot of hot coffee on them, or drop a butter knife on their toes. But aside from a couple of sympathetic looks, I seem to be mostly ignored. Ignored is home to me. Ignored is where I dwell quite comfortably, thank you very much. I’ll take it.
At the bar I take off my black apron and tell Micki I’m taking a break. I pour Luke and me two coffees in matching white cups that are ridiculously large. We sit at the only table available; a cozy spot for no more than three people back in the corner of the shop. I watch him sip his coffee for a moment as I stir sugar into mine. Finally, if only to break the quiet, I speak.
“That girl that you photographed, the pretty one with the blonde hair? She’s my sister. I saw her here tonight. It,” I stumble over the inadequacy of my words. “It surprised me.” No, it rocked me. It paralyzed me. It undid me.
“How long has it been since you’ve seen your sister?” His question is so innocent, so appropriate, yet I want to laugh like a loon. How can I tell him I last saw her in 1741? He’d pat me on my crazy head, pay for his coffee, and leave into the night. And I wouldn’t blame him a bit.
“I haven’t seen her since we were children. I thought she was dead, actually.” How to explain this? “It’s only been my dad and I since I was four.” Let him think we are a broken family. Let him think my mother was there for Rose and we have simply been separated since a divorce.
“Must have been quite a shock. I’m sorry.” His words are kind, but his eyes remain unconvinced and skeptical.
I wrap my hands around my hot mug of coffee.
“I asked Prue to let you photograph her,” I blurt out suddenly, hungry for a change of topic. Something safe and ordinary. Something away from this mess of emotions that is eating me up inside. “I don’t think I convinced her though. You might have to take one when she’s not looking or something.”
“And risk death and maiming?” His wooly eyebrows shoot up into his too-long hair. I fight an urge to smooth them