Chp 1: She Eats Like She’s Making Love

“Hello, darling. You look fabulous, as usual,” Romeo, the bartender and my only new friend in five years, exclaims as I beeline to the stool tucked into a semi-secluded corner of the bar. A drink station divides it from the rest of the barstools, making it the perfect spot to avoid the other patrons. One corner of my mouth tilts up, a brief glimpse of kindness flashing out from my perpetual resting bitch face.

In a strapless, iridescent purple dress, I shimmer like the reflection of the twilight sky on a clear pond. The dress hugs my curves, rippling down my body to where it sits at mid-thigh. A sweetheart neckline accentuating my toned arms. My auburn-streaked, dark brown hair is pulled back into a sleek bun and pearls adorn my ears and neck.

A man sipping a glass of red wine occupies the nearest stool on the opposite side of the drink station. I groan internally and roll my eyes. I really should come in at three on Tuesday afternoons when it is likely far less busy. I yank the stool out from under the lip of the bar top, making it screech. As I move to sit, the wine-drinking stranger slips gracefully off his stool and places his hands on the back of mine. Sometimes, or more accurately, all the time, I wish chivalry was dead.

Or at least didn't come with a huge dose of expectation.

“Can I help you,” I challenge, emphasizing the last two words of the sentence.

“My apologies,” he concedes in a thick British accent, nodding slightly and returning to his stool.

As I ungraciously plop onto my stool, I catch his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, surprised to see nothing but genuine kindness on his handsome face.

Since when do you notice that kind of shit, V?

I have no interest in men, or women for that matter. Not in relationships of any kind, romantic or platonic, not anymore, not after. I’ve come to think of my life that way, simply before the worst day of my life and after the worst day of my life. It’s the only way I can manage without having a complete mental breakdown. It’s been five years and I still can't get over it. Ff I’m honest with myself, I have not, until recently, even considered allowing myself to get over it. Now I come here every Friday night intending to socialize and interact with other humans, but I just can’t make myself do it any more than is absolutely necessary.

Romeo saunters over and places a wine glass in front of me. It contains sparkling water mixed with cranberry juice because I very rarely consume alcohol—not since the event that divided my life into before and after. Romeo is kind enough to help me hide that fact from the other patrons, who generally refuse to let a woman drink her non-alcoholic beverage in peace.

“Don’t worry,” he says to the stranger, jerking his chin at me. “Her bark is worse than her bite.”

“My bite is sufficiently vicious when necessary,” I deadpan. Like last week when some rich, entitled, prick wouldn’t take a fucking hint and leave me the hell alone.

“Ronnie,” Romeo warns, but I’ve tuned out and don’t register him speaking to me. “Veronica,” he demands. I still can’t believe he carded me, an 80s baby, that first night, nor that he actually paid attention to the name on my I.D. The one summer I worked as a server I never cared about anything except their birth date. I really should just get a legal name change.

“How many times do I gotta tell you, Romero? Don’t. Fucking . . . call me that.” He narrows his eyes at me but chuckles, unperturbed. He knows exactly how I feel about my given name. Yeah, it gets my attention quickly, but I hate it. My mother used to lace it with such venom, that just hearing it sends a shudder down my spine. I glare at him over the rim of my glass. Still unperturbed, he jokes, “Reign it in, Ronda," eyes wide and lips pursed.

“You look like a constipated lemur. Anyway, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply primly, lifting my chin. I can feel the stranger watching our exchange and I take a deep, steadying breath. Romeo notices and warns,

“The bar has a two-strike policy, Ron, and I can’t do anything to stop them from banning you."

“Fine. You have my word. Scouts honor,” I reply, holding up my right hand with the pointer and middle finger raised. “However, If I remember correctly, which I do, management was happy to see him go. They banned him instead of me, remember?”

“We were all happy to see him go. He was a pompous ass.” I nod and raise my eyebrows, giving him a ‘you're welcome’ look.

“Do I dare ask,” ventures the stranger, his deep, honey-smooth voice grating on my nerves. I would not be able to describe any other stranger’s voice that I’ve heard in the past five years, but, for some reason, I can’t begin to fathom; this random British man’s voice draws my notice. I place the back of my hand on my forehead, furrowing my eyebrows.

You’re not sick, V, but something is definitely wrong with you.

That’s the understatement of the century. Nothing in my life has been right since the event shattered my world five years ago. I flick Mr. British a sideways glare, warning him to mind his own business, then send Romeo a warning glare of his own. He smirks, ignoring me, and launches into the story with unveiled glee. I wouldn’t be surprised if Romeo’s middle name is 'The Suriel.'

“The pompous ass was a long-time regular and we all hated dealing with him. Last week he kept hitting on Ron here even after she shut him down multiple times. As she walked past him in her tight little dress on her way out, he grabbed her arm and told her, ‘If you dress like a slut, don’t be surprised when you get treated like a slut’.”

“Bloody prick and his fucking audacity,” the man exclaims, shooting me an incredulous stare, green eyes intense on mine.

My thoughts exactly. God that guy was such an entitled douche canoe.

“And the size of his balls,” Romeo agrees, eyes gleaming. “Well our delicate, timid little rose petal here,” he continues, jerking his chin at me while he polishes a beer mug. I snort loudly.

“Let me guess,” Mr. British interjects, “she kindly explained to him that a woman can dress however she so chooses and still expect to be treated with decency and respect?” I roll my eyes and huff out a breath even though I do appreciate the sentiment.

Romeo guffaws. “Oh no. She took a much more subtle approach. She smiled, which was the first warning the buffoon ignored, wrapped his tie around one fist, and snatched his glass of red wine off the bar–the second warning he stupidly ignored. She threw it in his face and all over his white suit. God, the look of horror on his face.” Romeo chuckles, flashing me a knowing glance.

“A lovely sight, to be sure,” the British hunk muses.

“For some, that would have been enough. But not for our dear Ron Ron,” Romeo continues. I stifle a shit-eating grin and glare at him from under my lashes. “She ripped him off the stool by his tie and threw him to the floor. It was fabulous.” Romeo finishes, singsong-ing 'fabulous', eyes glazed like he’s reliving the memory.

“Would’ve stomped his ass too if I had been wearing panties,” I murmur under my breath. Out loud, I ask Romeo if he’s ordered my food yet. He winks, then works his way down the bar, calmly and efficiently waiting on the other patrons.

I take a sip of my drink, then fish a pen and a worn book of sudoku puzzles out of my purse.

“Sudoku huh,” the determined stranger inquires. I nod without looking up. “I thought you could only find sudoku in the newspaper or on an app," he continues. I inhale deeply through my nose and rub my fingers between my eyes.

“I prefer the print copy because it’s a better deterrent,” I reply, waving the book at him.

“Deterrent for what?”

“Unwanted conversation,” I reply, tone snarky. I know I’m supposed to try, but forcing myself to engage in meaningless small talk with strangers makes me want to vomit. I want to have a normal life again, but people are unpredictable. Most mean well, but simple questions and common phrases randomly trigger a flood of painful memories that I don't want to deal with.

“Hint taken,” he replies.

See other men; it’s not that hard. When she says no, you respect it and move on. Easy peasy.

I return my attention to the half-completed puzzle. I don’t particularly enjoy Sudoku, but I can't read or mindlessly scroll social media anymore. Seeing people gush about their families, or worse, complain about them, makes me want to throw hands. If only they knew how lucky they are to have a family to complain about.

I can feel the stranger watching me in the reflection of the mirror behind the bar. I try to concentrate on the numbers in front of me, but the weight of his eyes on me makes my heart race and my leg bounce. Exasperated with myself, I sigh and flick my eyes up. They’re met with a piercing jade stare. I study him for a minute, taken aback by the intensity of his gaze.

That's enough of that.

I roll my eyes, tilt my head, and pin him with a wide, hard gaze, nostrils flared in silent warning. He drops his eyes from mine and attempts to hide a smirk by rubbing his close-cropped beard. My hand balls into a fist and the urge to reach over and wipe that smirk right off his handsome face washes over me. I stretch my fingers, forcing them to relax and return my focus to the numbers in their neat little boxes. After a few blessed minutes of peace, Romeo clears his throat before setting a delicious-smelling cheeseburger and mouth-watering fries on the bar before me.

“Ah,” I say, “the Polynesian tonight. Exactly what I needed.” Every time I’m here Romeo orders one of three items for me: a regular cheeseburger, The Black n’ Blue which is a burger topped with blue cheese, bacon, and hot sauce, or The Polynesian, also a cheeseburger, this one wrapped in lettuce and topped with grilled pineapple, cream cheese, and teriyaki. It’s the perfect system because I’m frequently too indecisive to make my own choice, and he hasn’t chosen wrong yet.

“This looks amazing. Thank you.”

I drizzle mustard and ketchup over my fries and take a huge bite of the burger, moaning a little when the flavors explode on my tongue. Good food. It is one of the few luxuries in life I can still enjoy in peace. There are too many voices in my head constantly vying for attention. Tiny Mildred loves to remind me that I'll never be good enough. Angry and bitter, past me loves to rile up guilt, despair, and grief, stirring the pot randomly so I live with a painful ball of emotions constantly roiling in my gut.

I shove a handful of fries in my mouth.

Fuck, I love this place.

If only I could have the whole restaurant to myself every Friday night. I know I’m supposed to interact and converse and all that bullshit, but I’m terrified of what I’ll have to face if I let down my guard. I did promise I’d try though, and constantly breaking that promise to myself is starting to wear on me too. Maybe I can try tonight. See how it goes. I hear Mr. British ask Romeo a question and decide he’s safe enough. He’s been kind and respectful; if things go terribly wrong, I’ll never see him again. It’s settled. then. I will attempt to have a conversation with the British stranger, if the opportunity arises.

You can do this, V.

“Ronnie,” Romeo’s voice cuts through my mental ruminations.

“What,” I snap a little too harshly. He has always been kind and patient with me. “I’m sorry,” I say and smile apologetically.

He smirks, that goddamned smirk, then drawls, “you know.” Mr. Green Eyes finds my gaze in the mirror, eyebrows raised, head tilted.

“It’s really nothing. He’s just being facetious,” I answer his unspoken question, then shoot a warning glare at Romeo.

See, that wasn’t so hard.

“Oh, come on, darling,” Romeo drawls. The 'Suriel' is in him a stronger temptation than my scowl is a deterrent. Plus, he’s right at least where he’s concerned: My bark is worse than my bite. “She eats like she’s making love,” Romeo says, leaning a forearm on the bar. “The only time you will ever see her real smile is when she is staring at that cheeseburger.”

“I don’t think Evan, you know, your boyfriend. Remember?” He smirks. “I don’t think he’d like to know that you think he looks like a woman when you two sword fight.”

“Really? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“Oh, I can come up with better,” I reply, leaning in conspiratorially, “but delicate ears are listening,” I confide in a mock whisper, inclining my head toward the stranger who places his hands over his ears and whistles.

“Anyway.” Romeo continues. “It’s always, ‘Oh my god, this looks amazing,’ followed by her moaning after every bite.”

Well fuck, V. He’s got you pegged.

However, I’m pretty sure I’ve never uttered the words ‘This looks amazing’ while having a hot beef injection. I mean, could you imagine? The man gets naked and your reaction is ‘Oh my god, this looks amazing.’ I chuckle to myself and take another bite.

“See what I mean,” Romeo says to Mr. Jade Intensity. I sigh. It’s time to end this.

With grease still dripping down my chin, I mock, “Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo?” He grins and I drop the annoyed smile from my face, pinning him with a ‘shut the fuck up’ look. Romeo’s grin stays plastered across his face as he saunters away to pour a drink.

I vaguely hear the stranger ask someone to recommend what to order. The young woman his other side replies in a nasally, overly flirtatious voice, recommending the Ahi tuna Salad. I make a pretend puking noise under my breath and roll my eyes. She’s young and trying way too hard to attract attention to herself. I want to assure her that it’s okay to eat whatever it is that she truly enjoys because, let’s be real, salad is rarely any woman’s favorite food. And the guys that she’s probably trying to impress don’t care. But I bite my tongue and focus on my own meal.

The man thanks her, then says, “You don’t agree?” It takes a few seconds to realize who he’s talking to.

“What,” I ask. “How do you figure?”

“It’s written all over your face.” I glance at my reflection.

Fucking traitor.

My first instinct is to deny his observation, but that opens up the door for further conversation, so I simply reply, “No, I don’t. Agree.”

“Then, what is your recommendation?”

“Do you like spicy Roquefor,” I inquire, voice dripping with sarcasm, and shove a handful of fries into my mouth. He wets his lips with just the tip of his tongue and runs a hand through his dark, wavy hair.

“She means blue cheese and hot sauce,” Romeo chimes in from down the bar.

“Ah. I am still not sure that I follow,” Mr. British says, looking back and forth between us. I’ve officially reached my limit for small talk. My head pounds with each beat of my heart.

I rub my temples and bark out a demand. “Just order him the damn ‘Black n’ Blue, Rome.”

Mr. Jade Intensity fires a question at Romeo who assures him my choice is infinitely better than the Ahi, and I finish off the last of my burger. I am about to signal Romeo for the check when I catch him mouthing to the handsome British man, ‘Here she goes,’ and give him an exaggerated wink.

You are so predictable, V.

I am. It’s true. It is the only way I can function anymore. I get up every morning at the exact same time. Go to bed at the exact same time and follow the exact same routine every day. When I stray from this consistency, I quickly spiral back downward. I wish Romeo a good night and turn toward the door. I feel the handsome, British stranger’s intense green gaze follow me as I maneuver through the tables, but I don’t look back, and when I exit the building, all thoughts of him flee my mind completely.

Chp 2: Not My Home

The air outside is still warm, almost too warm for this time of night, but the walk back to my apartment is pleasant and, by the time I get there, I am thankful for the warmth of the long California evenings. Back in Idaho, where I grew up and lived until five years ago, the sun would have long since dropped behind the mountains, making it too cool to be outside in this dress. Fuck, I miss those mountains.

Not too long ago, I stood on the edge of a cliff in my beloved mountains, my tumultuous thoughts a raging storm inside my skull. A part of me was determined to die; to throw myself off the precipice and let the mercy of the Rockies decide my fate.

It wasn't the first time I had fought that battle, either. I have stared at a handful of pills, down the barrel of a loaded gun, and at the lights of an approaching train, begging myself to be strong enough to do it. The pain I’ve endured since that unseasonably hot and humid May afternoon five years ago is so unbearable; I'm not sure how I’ve endured it this long. It’s been five years since my perfectly wonderful life was shattered. Five years since I was thrown head-first into a downward spiral. I've only recently managed to slow my descent.

The part of me that somehow always finds a way to keep going and keep living won on that mountainside. Although it wasn't the first time I raged inside, wishing, yearning to die. It was the first time I decided to live, to truly live. I decided I could not continue to exist in this state of in-between, wanting to die but unable to end it. If I was not able to take that step, and clearly, I wasn’t, then I would find a way to heal, let go, and move on. A few weeks later I ate the best cheeseburger ever, and my Friday night tradition with Romeo began.

My biggest struggle right now is social interaction. Other people are too unpredictable, saying or doing things that unknowingly trigger feelings of guilt, despair, shame, rage, and anguish or cause a flood of memories so painful it cuts me down at the knees and makes it impossible to breathe. Living near my family and close friends, who know the cause of my emotional turmoil, is even more triggering.

So, a few months after my world imploded, I sold everything except a suitcase of clothes and a box of keepsakes and set out. I’ve been a modern-day gypsy ever since, wandering around the country from here to there on a whim, staying in one place for only a few days, and in another a few months, doing my damndest to leave my ghosts behind. Whenever I can muster up the courage, I swing through Idaho to visit my friends and family, who are mostly supportive of my new lifestyle. Everyone, that is, except my younger sister, Victoria.

Podcasts and self-help audiobooks scored the soundtrack on the long drive to California after that fateful day in the mountains eight months ago, helping me develop a plan. Multiple options and scenarios twirled in and out of my brain like seeds in the wind. In order to thrive, I decided, I must figure out how to manage my reactions when interacting with other people. Which meant I had to actually start socializing and stop door-dashing meals and staying at Airbnbs.

I forced myself to stay at a hotel and have an actual conversation with the front desk clerk. It was frustrating but safe, a short, simple interaction that didn’t require a lot of thought or provide much of an opportunity to dive too deep. After a few, mostly successful rounds of this, I added dining out to my self-inflicted ‘get better’ plan. It was still safe, but with longer, more in-depth interactions.

I started sitting at the bar when I felt pretty confident in my ability to interact with the staff, figuring it was time to branch out and open up the opportunity to have more peer-to-peer interactions. A solid plan in theory, but it just led to either getting hit on or getting asked super personal questions (thanks alcohol for loose tongues and no filter) and pulling back, further and further into my shell. In hindsight, I probably should have gone to the library or the park instead of the bar, but those places are triggering even without the social aspect.

Maybe it’s time, V. Take a leap of faith.

I’ve been contemplating taking my wanderings overseas. Maybe interacting with foreigners will be less triggering.

As I turn the corner onto my block, I dodge a group of loud, tipsy young women. The sight of my sister, Victoria, standing on the bottom step of my building makes me stop short and joy pulses through me, followed quickly by a jolt of trepidation.

“Hey Ron,” she says, bounding onto the sidewalk to wrap me in a quick hug. When she pulls back, I see trepidation lurking in the corners of her eyes, and a shiver of apprehension slithers down my spine.

Better not be another fucking intervention, Vic.

Before I can form a reply, she confirms my suspicion.

“I’m here to take you home, where you belong,” she declares. No prelude. No, ‘How are you,’ or ‘It’s good to see you,’ or ‘Let’s get dinner and catch up.’ Just a straight sucker punch to the gut. We’ve been down this road before. She knows damn well that I’m not going back there. My stomach churns, and my heart pounds in my chest just at the thought of living in Idaho again.

“Victoria,” I chide. “It’s not my home anymore. Did you seriously come all this way just so we can have the same argument,” I ask, nostrils flaring. “Would it be so difficult,” I continue, without giving her the chance to answer, “to come simply to spend time together? Is it really such an issue for you to accept that this is my life now,” I ask, raising my hands, then dropping them to my sides with a forceful sigh.

“This is not your home, sis. Just like all the other cities you’ve called home these past few years were not your home. Your home is in Idaho with your friends and family.”

Moving closer to the building, I take a wide step around her, arms up, fingers splayed in warning “Vic, you do not get to decide that for me. It will never be my home again,” I say, enunciating the words sharply as if I can drive acceptance into her thick skull.

“Why,” she challenges, hands on her hips, tone just as sharp as mine.

“You really have to ask me that. You know why,” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air. “Since you can’t get it through your thick fucking skull, I’ll go ahead and reach into my chest and rip my fucking heart out, piece by piece–again–until you finally understand how hard it is. Without him–,” I choke back a sob. “No, actually. No, I won’t try to explain it to you anymore. I have asked you multiple times to stop pulling this shit and deliberately ignoring my boundaries. I am not going to tell you where I am anymore–,"

“--Ron,”

“--No,” I raise a shaking hand, palm in her face, “Stop. This stops now. I love you, Vic, but I can’t live there, and you know why. You need to leave.” I turn all the way around and stop dead in my tracks, and for one heartbeat I forget how to breathe. My painstakingly and carefully mended heart shatters. After a long beat, I find my breath, and with it, my voice.

“What the fuck,” I seethe, spinning on Victoria, jabbing a finger into her chest. “If you ever pull this shit again. Bring him to my home. You will never see me, ever again,” I finish, voice low and hard, chest heaving. I spin on my heels and try to sprint past the man sitting on the stairs, driven by the need to get away, but the despair I see in his eyes mirrors my own, and it pins me on the top step.

Victoria continues berating me while I stare into those sad blue eyes that tear apart, bit by bit, the few pieces of myself I’ve barely managed to piece back together.

“You have to come home, Ronnie. So long as you’re on American soil, I will find you and do whatever I can to bring you home,” my sister promises.

“Ronnie–” the man starts, but I don’t want to hear it.

“I’m sorry,” I say, tearing my eyes out of his cobalt gaze and sprinting up the stairs. My voice breaks as the tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over.

“Let her go,” he tells Vic. His deep tenor voice, thick with emotion, is barely audible over my pounding heart and the staccato click of my heels as I flee from the memories.

* * * * *

Several days later, I dig myself out of a mound of blankets, crawling on hands and knees out of the corner of the closet where I’ve been buried since I ran from Victoria and . . . and him.

A loud buzzing rings out behind me. I crawl toward my nightstand and slump against the bed, yanking my phone off the charger. Two faces light up the screen, and I almost decline the Facetime call but change my mind on the last ring.

“Do you two know what my darling little sister did,” I blurt, throat raw from crying out my despair and screaming out my torment. Catherine and Sophie, my two best friends, sigh and quirk their lips into annoyed but sympathetic smiles.

“She didn’t,” Catherine says, pursing her thin, delicately shaped lips.

“Not again,” Sophie agrees, shaking her head, platinum blonde bangs bobbing, hazel eyes narrowed with annoyance. I nod.

“How long,” Catherine asks, brushing her curly black hair out of her face. She doesn’t have to elaborate; they’ve been through this with me enough times before that I know exactly what she means. I calculate the time based on the day and date on my phone.

“Only a week.” A week since my sister pushed me overboard into a tumultuous sea of grief, guilt, and despair. A week lost, drifting through painful memories, weathering the tumultuous storm in a heap of blankets on my closet floor until it spit me back onto shore, battered and broken once again.

“Oh sweetie,” Catherine says.

“We’ll keep trying to convince her to stop,” Sophie continues.

“To help her understand and accept that you’re doing what you have to do to heal,” Catherine finishes.

I sigh, shoulders dropping wearily. “Thank you.”

“So, where to next,” Sophie asks, bouncing in her seat, completely accepting of my gypsy lifestyle.

“More than likely Europe,” I reply, voicing the thought that’s been growing inside my brain for a while now.

“That sounds fabulous,” Catherine says, voice tinged with longing and envy. She has three amazing kids, whom she loves dearly, but they make traveling a bit challenging.

“Which part of Europe? Turner and I thoroughly enjoyed Ireland and Scotland,” Sophie says. She and her husband have traveled extensively–one of the many reasons they chose to remain childless.

“Probably all of it, eventually. If I do go.”

“Will you come see us before you leave,” Catherine asks, voice carefully neutral. I know they wouldn’t hesitate to come to me, but Cat has the kids and Sophie’s super busy working on getting a promotion at work. Not to mention, I’ve already secretly promised Turner I’d make a dining set and some other items for the home he and Sophie are currently in the process of building. I have only made a few pieces since I sold the woodworking and epoxy business I co-owned with him five years ago. I just couldn’t keep doing it without him.

“If–if–I go. Either way, I’ll visit soon. Please don’t say anything to my sister, though, I don’t want to see her right now.”

“You’ll go,” Catherine says with a playful wink. I offer her a wry smile.

We talk for a while about other, less depressing topics, like Catherine’s kids and Sophie’s job, and when they hang up, I stand in the middle of the living room in the tiny rented apartment, contemplating my next move. Europe has been in the back of my mind for a while now. Maybe a different country, on a different continent, will provide the space and distance I’m desperately seeking. Maybe it’ll finally be enough to help me move on. Maybe.