probably woken up by now. I’d planned on picking up his Preparation H as a peace offering and a pick-me-up, but instead here I was, empty-handed and bad-tempered.
“Yes,” I mumbled.
Alice, who was sitting behind me again, tapped my shoulder. “Here.” Her hand hovered near my cheek, holding two foil-wrapped butterscotches. Her sweet way of trying to defuse me before we got home.
“Oh, no, thank you, Alice. I’m not in the mood,” I said.
“Do you have dentures?”
“No, I have my teeth.”
“Diabetes?”
“No, I’m diabetes-free.”
“Valencia eats these, and they always pull her dentures out.”
“Well, maybe she shouldn’t eat them then.” I crossed my arms and looked out the window. Josie had spoiled this day beyond belief. Typically, I’d enjoy Alice’s company, invite her to sit next to me, relish in her perfume and our banal conversation, which, in a former life, might even have been considered flirting.
I closed my eyes tight to the blaring sun, trying to think of something more pleasant than all those days I’d spent commode-hugging, knee-walking drunk. I settled on an imagined scenario: me and Alice going on a date. An evening at an Italian restaurant with checkered tablecloths and mandolin music and waiters in white aprons, our table in the corner with a bread basket and a flickering candle in the middle that we’d have to talk over.
Wooing Alice at a joint too rich for my blood would be my final meal, if I had to pick one, and pretending this way lowered my heart rate, even though it was nothing but a wish to be out in the world again, living, doing all the little things I once took for granted—like asking a girl out, buying her dinner, holding her hand.
“Alice,” I said, my eyes still closed, “tell me something.”
“Anything.”
The tension in my shoulders let out even more. This is how so many of our conversations started, and I settled in for a welcome diversion. “Do you miss being able to go out for a night on the town?”
“Sure, I do,” she said. “But you know what’s funny? I miss staying in more.”
I smiled. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we do that in spades here.”
She snorted an adorable little laugh. “I mean, I miss ending my days by sitting on the swing of a covered porch with a good book.”
“Centennial has everything in that sentence but the swing.”
“And my nightly zinfandel.”
This comment made me want to bang my head against the window. Instead, I held it in my hands.
“I know it sounds silly,” she said.
“No . . . no, not at all.”
“But I do miss it. You know, that feeling. Your supper dishes are done, and your girls are tucked into bed, and you pour yourself a nice glass of wine and go outside where the cicadas are buzzing.”
“Sounds nice,” I agreed, if only to keep her from talking about it more.
Her presence drew a little closer to my back, as if she’d leaned forward. “It was, and you know what? My girls never bring me any zinfandel, because they think it’s bad for my blood pressure, but every once in a while, Anderson will pour me a glass.”
I opened my eyes. “Do what?”
“He’s a jewel, isn’t he? He’s done it every year for my birthday.”
“I didn’t know he could do that.”
Her voice fell away. “I thought he did it for everyone’s birthday.”
I wanted to turn and face her, because this conversation was falling apart and I thought seeing her might fix it. But my hips and my back and my general lack of flexibility made this impossible.
I resorted to pitching my hurt up to the ceiling. “Not mine.”
Alice said nothing, and in her silence it dawned on me why Anderson had never offered me a celebratory drink when I’d braved another year. I’d told him during my first week that I didn’t touch the stuff, and though I didn’t elaborate, the proclamation was delivered in such a way