She nodded slowly, still glaring at me through narrowed eyes. “Why no second date?”
I glanced at the vinyl of the booth behind her, trying to figure out how to best explain the situation and be sensitive to the fact we were talking about her ex-boyfriend, an ex-boyfriend for which she might still have feelings.
“We decided that our priorities weren’t compatible.”
She huffed and it sounded impatient. “In English, please. This ain’t a parent teacher conference.”
“Um, I guess he wanted one thing out of a relationship, and I wanted something else.”
Tina pursed her lips, her eyes losing focus as she considered my words. While I waited for her to finish thinking her thoughts, I sipped my tea and glanced at the specials board; Daisy’s pie of the day was apple.
“I’m not jealous.”
I shifted my attention from the list of pies to Tina. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not jealous, of you and Duane. I don’t care who he sees. You’re welcome to him, if I’m the reason you decided to call things off.”
I lifted my chin in acknowledgement, but said nothing. Because I wasn’t sure what to say. Tina hadn’t been a consideration in my decision to date or not date Duane. I wondered if that made me unfeeling. But then I reminded myself that Tina and I hadn’t really spoken in over eight years, the first four of which she’d snubbed me for more popular kids at our school.
Yeah…I wasn’t going to factor Tina into my dating decisions. That would be silliness.
“I just wanted to let you know that,” she said, as though she were being generous. “Duane and I were together for a long time and what we felt for each other, well I just think first love is really special. He’ll always mean something to me. But it’s over now and I’ve moved on. I hate to think of him pining for me.”
Again, I lifted my chin in acknowledgement—higher this time—and found myself without words. Thankfully Beverly interrupted by bringing our salads.
I changed the topic to one I hoped would be much more benign and asked her what she’d been up to recently. This turned into her giving me the oral history of Green Valley gossip for the last four years—who was sleeping with whom, who had divorced, had illegitimate babies, had a drug problem, was in debt. She made Green Valley sound like a sordid train wreck.
Strangely, while she spoke I found myself distracted by how incredibly hot she was. I mean, she was sex personified. Her movements were sensual, including how she chewed her food. Her smile was coy, alluring, captivating. She’d say something like, That little fucker got what he deserved and I hardly heard the venom in her voice because she somehow made it sound erotic.
I was thankful when dinner was over and her biker fella arrived to fetch her, because I was…exhausted. Maybe it was a by-product of my long work week paired with the Duane-funk, or maybe it was just the tidal wave of sexual energy that was my cousin Tina.
Either way, as I pedaled home, I felt bereft and depressed and wished I’d thought to grab a slice of Daisy’s pecan pie before leaving.
***
“What’s wrong, baby sister?”
I sighed, hugged the pillow I was holding a bit closer. I hadn’t been able to go to sleep. The depression followed me home and, though I was tired and tried lying in bed, in the dark, with my eyes shut for over an hour, sleep would not come.
So I took a shower, hoping it would help me relax, and it worked. I felt a bit better when I shut off the water. But then Sir Edmund Hilary—my psychotic cat—tried to murder me with his litter box. He’d pushed it directly in front of the shower door and I’d stepped on it, stumbled, and fallen to the floor with a squawk and a thud.
It occurred to me that, had I been living alone and Sir Hillary knew how to wield a knife, I’d be dead and no one would find me for days, maybe months.
This thought reignited my depression. So I cleaned up, dried off, and went to the kitchen. I made hot cocoa with a liberal amount of Baileys, and channel surfed in the family room, hoping I’d pass out eventually on the couch absent thoughts of my inevitable and lonely death by psycho-cat.
Instead, I was still up at 2:21 a.m., which signified the end of Jackson’s shift. I was never up this late, so I guessed it made sense he’d assume something was amiss.
“Sir Edmund tried to murder me,” I said.
“Again?”
I nodded. “His attempts grow bolder. I think it might be time to confront him, or at the very least move his litter box to the basement.”
“Jess, the cat tries to take your life at least once a week. It’s not the cat. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I sighed again, not sure I wanted to discuss my depression with Jackson. “I had dinner with Tina tonight.”
“Our cousin Tina?”
“Yeah.”
Jackson crossed the room and sat next to me on the couch; he was still in his uniform, though his belt was gone. “She’s still dancing at the Pink Pony,” he said.
“Yes. I know.”