It’s been just over two years now. Long enough for the old-fashioned Formica tables, red leather booths, and shiny chrome accents to seem cozy rather than corny, and for me to not be startled every time the bells over the entrance door cheerily announce a customer's coming or going.
The morning passes in a blur of friendly smiles and stacks of pancakes. Normally, I would consider it a successful start to the day. Still, the feeling that something isn't quite right is unshakable. Sort of like everything is ever so slightly out of focus or not quite the right color. Hoping it might just be a residual effect from last night's crappy sleep, I pull together a scrambled egg sandwich with some leftover bacon.
"Sal! I'm on break! Be back in fifteen!" I shout to be heard over silverware clattering against plates and the patchwork of conversation. Catching my eye from behind the counter, she gives me an understanding wink, knowing full well where I’m going.
Folding the sandwich into a square of paper towel, I leave out the back door. Mr. Ambrose, one of the older homeless men who rests his head back here in the alley each night, is waiting patiently for me. Bringing him something from the kitchen around the same time each day has become our routine. Leaning against the sun-warmed red bricks along the side of the building, he gratefully accepts his lunch and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully.
"Why you lookin’ so shook, girl?” he asks with his mouth full. I shrug one shoulder and smile ruefully.
"Didn't sleep well last night. A strange delivery had my mind working overtime." Lowering my eyes, I realize my brain is once again stewing over the questions raised by the beautiful wooden box and its unexpected contents. A few minutes of silence pass, and I can feel Mr. Ambrose staring at me. I lift my eyes to meet his piercing gaze.
"Girl, when somethin’ gets that stuck in your craw, only one way to stop the sting. You gotta pull it out quick. These things gotta be faced. Stared at, straight in the eye, in the full light of day." With that, he tips his ragged plaid cap to me in thanks for his lunch and sets off down the alley, leaving me staring after him shaking my head.
Somehow his words hit home with me. I can’t ignore that letter any more than I could an elephant on a trapeze. Something in me craves answers and connection more than it’s afraid of them. With a sigh and increasingly sweaty palms, I venture back inside to tell Sally I'm going to need some time off.
Chapter Two
"Fuckity, fuck fuck fuck." I know I must seem like a crazy person muttering profanity to myself, but right now, I couldn’t care less. My head is pounding, and my anxiety is threatening to choke me outright.
It took me a full day, and at least thirty-two failed attempts before I convinced myself to call the number on the card and ask the agency to book the flight across the country. It took another half a day to force my fingers to text my arrival information to the number on the back of The Damn Box Letter. That's what I've started referring to it as—The Damn Box Letter. The thing that turned my whole life upside down. Again. My phone pinged back at me less than a minute later.
I’M SO HAPPY. SAFE TRAVELS. SEE YOU SOON.
Let me tell you, those three short sentences carried more weight than any others I’d ever read. We're talking leaden, bloated, sink to the bottom of the ocean kind of weight.
I’m headed to a town called Folkestone, California. Just north of San Francisco and just west of What the Fuck Was I Thinking. Having never left the confines of New York State, even figuring out what to take with me became a chore of comedic proportions.
To add insult to injury, I have a fear of flying I knew nothing about until now. By fear, I mean terror, and by terror, I mean the pants-shitting kind. The flight attendant had to practically drag me to my seat. After blindly managing to strap myself in, I offered up hastily worded prayers to every deity I could think of. Almost immediately, my leg developed a nervous tick all on its own. About an hour into the flight, my three-drinks-in seatmate leaned his heavily bearded, man-bun self over to me.
"Hey there, little girl, maybe you should stop with the leg thing. Don't want the other passengers thinking you know something about the plane that they don't," he slurred at me, winking sloppily and making small explosion sounds under his breath like a giant, hairy, seven-year-old.
"Hey, maybe you should mind your own fucking business and eat a dick," I shot back at him, flashing the sweetest, most saccharine smile I could manage while continuing to grit my teeth in terror. That seemed to dissuade him from any further commentary, and my asinine leg continued its shaking unchecked for the rest of the flight.
Now, as we make our descent into San Francisco International Airport, along with my insane muttering and shaky leg, my stomach is clenching, threatening to empty its contents into the lap of the asshole sitting beside me. Once the plane rolls to a full stop, I’m thinking the same flight attendant who dragged me onto the plane is going to need to carry me off of it, since all my bones feel like they've just turned to goo.
Fuck you, fear. This girl’s got no time for you today.
Channeling my inner badass, I shove past my crushing anxiety and miraculously pull my shit together enough to exit the plane under my own steam.
Once in the terminal, I follow the rest of the herd to baggage claim to collect the hard-shell black suitcase Sally insisted I borrow. The screen above the carousel shows me I have some time to kill before the luggage from my flight is available. Scanning my surroundings for the nearest restroom, I spot one mostly hidden in a small alcove across the concourse. As I shift my weight from foot to foot, debating whether I should wait until I have my luggage or not, my frayed nerves really start to drive me nuts, and I know I need to find some chill fast.
Historically speaking, there are only two things that successfully relax me when I’m this wound up, and since I’m standing alone in the middle of a crowded airport, I opt for the less naked choice. Pulling out my phone, I shove my earbuds in, cranking up The Anix's 'Renegade’ and letting the music flow through me like a balm as I dash for the ladies' room. When I find it empty, my bladder quivers in thanks.
This song is one of my favorites. I half sing, half hum along as I do my business and wash my hands, stopping to run my cool, wet fingers across the back of my neck before drying them. Tossing the wadded up paper towel into the trash can on my way out, I yank open the restroom door and walk face-first into a solid male chest. Strong hands reach out to steady my shoulders, and I’m instantly enveloped by the enticing scent of soft sandalwood and warm sunshine.
Quickly yanking out my earbuds, my brain registers that I’m eye-level with the black Vans logo emblazoned across the front of a well-fitting, snug, dark gray T-shirt. I’m afraid to look up, suddenly hyper aware of how close we’re standing to each other. He must sense my reaction to his proximity because a small but profoundly sexy chuckle rumbles out of him. Slowly raking my gaze up his nicely defined chest, I stop to admire the gloriously intricate black and gray tattoo winding its way up his right arm, the way his shirt emphasizes his broad shoulders, and the faint throb of his pulse in the hollow of his throat.
Sighing softly, I lift my eyes further. A startlingly handsome face stares appreciatively down at me with cocky amusement. He’s young, probably eighteen or nineteen, but they sure don’t grow guys like this where I’m from. The corner of his lips tuck up in a little sideways grin, and his dark blue eyes gleam with mischief.