- Text Size +
Chapter Three - Just Not Rosie

"They're on the house."

I had my wallet in hand, three plates of all-you-can eat pancakes in my stomach, and an insistant waitress standing her ground. I shook my head, pulling out a crisp twenty dollar bill.

"I insist on paying."

"I burned you."

"It's not a big deal. I've been burned before."

"Is that a metaphor?"

"I don't know what a metaphor is," I said.

"Well, I don't know if metaphor's the right word. All I know is your meal's on the house."

I worked my jaw from side to side. The best course of action was distraction. "How'd you break your arm?"

"Fishing."

"How do you break your arm fishing?"

The girl smiled. She pointed to the wall directly above the counter. I leaned back, my eyes rolling up. Mounted on the wall was the biggest swordfish I had ever seen.

"You caught that?"

She smiled proudly. "I did. I'm pretty sure it was his papa that snapped my wrist."

I couldn't imagine a little thing like her pulling in a catch like that. Skepticism must have been written all over my face. She placed her left hand on her hip.

"I get my cast off in a week. Come back and I'll show you how to fish."

My guard rose; I felt the walls rise all around, surrounding me. I put the twenty on the table and stepped back.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm just passing by," I said quietly.

She picked up the money and held it towards my chest. I continue to walk backwards.

"If you won't take it for the pancakes, consider it your tip," I said.

"I'm not accepting your money," she said, impatience rising in her voice. She walked quickly towards me. I was almost to the door when her flip-flop snagged on yet another stool. With good arm flailing, she began a dangerous arch towards the floor. My body reacted instinctively, I lunged forward, my arms outstretched. I caught her just before she hit the ground.

The last time I had held a woman in my arms was Lauren. We had been on the balcony of our condo, clad in white, fluffy bathrobes. She had nibbled my chin, teasing me about the goatee that she hated with a passion.

I would give anything to have never grown that amount of dark blonde peach fuzz.

I'll see you soon," she had whispered. Her mouth moved from my chin, her lips pressing lovingly against mine.

"Come with me tonight," I had pleaded as I pulled away. She shook her head. "It will only be a few days. Then we'll be together again. Until then..."

How was I to know that would be the last time we would make love? How were we to know that we'd never see each other again? That we'd never touch each other in all the intimate ways that only two people in love could learn?

"Are you okay?"

The restaurant blinked back into view. The waitress was clinging to my upper arms, her face swimming in front of me. It was only after I felt the wetness on my cheeks did I realize her face was swimming because I was crying. I ran a hand down my face, trying to mask the humilation I felt.

"Are you okay?" she repeated.

"I'm fine. I---I've just got to go."

I didn't wait for a response. I pressed my damp hand to my chest, sure that my aching heart would stop me dead in my tracks. It was almost a prayer. Dead I could be with her. It seemed so simple...

The thought of suicide had crossed my mind several times, but I had never followed through. Brian had prayed with me, God, I don't know how many times he prayed with me. I shared his belief that suicide wasn't the answer. Yet, the temptation was always there.

As I neared my boat, I sped up. A young kid with backwards hat and a bandana hanging out of his jeans pocket was knelt down by my boat.

"HEY!" I yelled.

The boy looked up. He didn't look older than thirteen or fourteen. His eyes widened. He held up a wrench. My feet slapped against the pavement.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" I screamed.

The boy glanced at me, fast approaching and then behind him. I was near enough to have him trapped. It wasn't until I stretched out my arm, ready to grab him, when he threw out his arms and backdived into the water.

I stood at the end of the pier, dumbfounded. The boy held up his middle finger as he treaded water.

The old Nick would have jumped in the water after the motherfucker. But that Nick was gone. I willed myself to unclench my fists as I turned around and knelt down to examine the boat. A few wires had been cut; some nuts and bolts were missing. I stifled a curse and stood up. I glanced back at the water. The boy had disappeared.

I scrambled aboard and headed towards the controls. After five tries I knew he had damaged the connection to the engine. The boat bobbed pathetically. I groaned, slamming the wheel with my palm. I began to reach for my phone when I realized I didn't know who to contact.

Five minutes later, I walked back into the restaurant. The place had gotten no busier. I was hoping to snag an old guy, ask my question, and get out.

The waitress had other ideas.

"You're back," she said in surprise.

"Someone cut some of the lines on my boat," I said. I couldn't look at her; instead, I stared down at those horrendous lime green flip-flops.

"You're on a boat?"

"I'm just passing through," I said.

The flip-flops moved towards the counter. My curiosity got the best of me and I lifted my head. She was leaning against the counter, snapping the fingers of her left hand.

"Tito, a guy needs your help out on the dock! Some punk cut his wires!"

"Joshua," the voice behind the window growled. The large cook I had spotted earlier walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on the bottom of his greasy apron.

"Your boat?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I said, my voice catching. The blonde was smiling at me.

"I don't want to take you away from your work," I said. "If you could just recommend someone--"

"Tito's the best," blondie piped up. Tito grinned, a dimple appearing in his cheek.

"Your opinion doesn't count Rosie. You're biased."

She beamed; I winced. More than anything, I hadn't wanted to know her name. Waitress. Blondie. Flip-flop girl.

Just not Rosie.