“Because my life is complicated and we already established that the first time we met.”
“And you know I like to get my way, we’ve already established that. So, instead of being so complicated, why don’t you compromise and let me pick you up? I’ll tell you what, let’s make a deal. Let’s say . . . I won’t even get out of the car. I will honk three times, keep the motor running and wait for you to get in. I won’t even open the car door for you. Now, if that isn’t compromising I don’t know what is.”
“It’s you being persistent, that’s what it is.”
“So, is that a yes?” he asked lowering his head to meet my eyes. I glanced at him, popped him in the chest before I nodded my head.
Damn, I knew agreeing to this would open a whole different can of worms. Before this moment, Shane and I really just kept all the life drama outside of the laundromat pretty much on the down low. Minimal information about our childhood, work and where we lived was the best way to manage my lie. An unspoken rule I enforced that seemed to work for both of us . . . well, for me at least, up until now.
A couple of Thursdays ago Shane asked me what I did for a living. I guess the cloudy, unclear, broad answers I brushed across the piece of shit canvas just weren’t cutting it for him anymore. I knew it was a matter of time before he’d push back at me to know why I couldn’t ever hang out with him after five o’clock at night. My whole life, I had to lie. My. Whole. Life . . . I had to do what I had to do to make it in the world. Who I was, what I was doing and how I liked to be treated were all made up scenarios. Lying had become second nature to me; I did it so much that I started to believe it wasn’t a lie if they ate the shit up. So, when the subject of what I did for a living came up between Shane and me, I lied. I told him that I took online classes two nights a week and the other five nights I took care of people in their homes. It was the perfect excuse to justify my crazy hours. What person in their right mind who met me outside of paying me for a fuck would accept what I did for a living? Was it fair? Not really, but what part of life was fair? Honestly, it ate away at the back of my mind, lying to Shane; but I had to keep my reality in that place where I didn’t let anyone see, the one place that held my deepest secrets. No matter how much I prepared myself for his reaction I had no doubt in my mind that he’d never want to see me again. When I thought of him finding out that I was a prostitute . . . well, I just had to prepare myself, so when it did happen, it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Unfortunately, even the deepest sting of abandonment still didn’t stop me from wanting to be near him and if I had to lie to have a sliver of him, so be it.
Forty-five minutes, the time it took to dry my clothes, that was how long he babbled about Joaquin Miller Park. He was like a teenage boy who finally kissed the girl of his dreams. His eyes had a spark, a gleam that ignited his whole demeanor. His arms and hands, spastically flew as he talked about the beautiful trails with their bay views. The more he talked about it the more my stomach twisted into knots. I wanted to be excited about hanging out with him tomorrow, but there was dread brewing in my gut.
“What time are you planning on picking me up?” I asked when I could get a word in edgewise.
“I was thinking about nine thirty?”
“A.M.? Like, in the morning?” I spat.
“If we get over there in about forty-five minutes, that will give us most of the day. I’d like to take you to a couple of different places that have great views and I have this little dive of a place where we can have the best Mexican food before I have to bring you back to the rat race. Damn, I wanted to surprise you.”
“Oh, yeah, don’t worry, I think this whole adventure is going to be very surprising,” I teased as I pulled a cart next to the dryer and emptied my clothes.
“You know you’re like the master wrecker of surprises,” he said as he leaned into my shoulder and bumped me.
“Yeah, well, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”
“But I’m the first to do something about it,” he retorted as he pulled a couple of Blow Pops from the bowl next to him and held them up between us. “Purple or red?” he asked.
“Purple . . . I hate red . . . cherry sucks,” I moped.
“What? Cherry’s my favorite.”
“No it’s not, you told me last week that grape was your favorite, and the week before that it was lemon, then it was orange the Thursday before that.”
“So, maybe they all are my favorite,” he teased as he pulled off the wrapper and shoved the Blow Pop in his mouth.
“Maybe it’s the fact that you don’t complain about what you’re left with,” I whispered.