I nod. I’ll never forget that night.
“Like I said, I see myself in you. That and I’ve watched you working hard at the shelter this week; any task you’re given you do it without complaint, and you do it well. All with a smile on your face and a grateful heart. You show kindness toward others, never judging circumstance. That’s refreshing. As I said earlier, you have so much potential. You just need a little help.”
Claudette’s words spring to mind, something she told me on my recent visit about superheroes walking amongst us, and that they have the ability to make someone who felt unseen, unwanted, and unloved feel special. I’m convinced Benito is a Batman angel like Claudette, and that’s all it takes for me to accept his help and stop questioning myself. “I’ll take the room. Thank you.”
He writes down the address for the bakery and the home, they’re only blocks apart, and hands it to me. The paper feels heavy in my hand, heavy with hope and promise and new beginnings.
“Thank you,” I tell him again. I have a feeling I’ll tell him that a lot.
Nobody pisses on my rainbow
present
I’m a jealous person. I think most people are if they’re honest with themselves. I feel a small degree of jealousy most of the time. Whether it’s directed at the person in front of me in line at Starbucks who the handsome barista flirts with, or the twenty-year-old running on the beach with the perfect body who reminds me those days are gone, and it’s all about maintenance from here on out, or that goddamn Bobby Flay because he can cook his ass off. I’m jealous.
But, what I feel when I look at this woman is a raging variety, so rare that its presence is manic, and I’m unable to function normally when I’m bound by it.
It’s her. Faith. God, even her name makes my insides tighten up into a fist. An MMA fist. The kind of fist that can pummel another human being into unconsciousness. Seeing photos of Seamus’s hands on her, his mouth on her, are burned into my brain. And meeting her face to face was sickening: skin so flawless it glowed, eyes so blue they look Photoshopped, hair so edgy it only adds to her sex appeal, a body so perfectly youthful that any man would beg to give it a ride, and her goddamn sweet disposition. Beautiful and nice; fuck the creators of that little angel. She makes me feel like hell.
I pried her and Seamus apart with lies. She didn’t make it hard, she was a stripper for Christ’s sake. Not that I blame her, with a body like that I’d show my tits to the free world too. But she wasn’t a prostitute. I paid men to approach her with outrageous amounts of money, so I could get the proof I needed. She always denied them. In the end, I lied instead.
Why is she here at the shelter? Hope said she moved. I thought she was long gone. How am I supposed to get Seamus back if she starts poking around again?
Fuck.
The longer I stand here and look at her the more deranged I feel. It would be wrong as the director of this facility to punch her in the throat, right? But she’s ruining my mojo. I was having a good day. My lunch meeting with a key contributor resulted in a six-figure donation. We fed fifty additional people this morning. And it turns out my ass looks fantastic in utilitarian denim, who knew?
I march to my office and call in Benito.
“What’s Rainbow Bright up to?” I ask before his ass hits the chair.
“Excuse me?” I know political correctness has its place in the corporate world, but anyone who’s ever worked directly under me knows I leave that shit at the door. I guess Benito is about to get an introduction.
“The girl with the dreadlocks.” They’re fading from what they were months ago when I met her, muted pastels and blond now.
“Oh, Faith?” he questions.
I nod. “Faith.”
“She’s a resident. She’s been here for a few days now. She’s in transition between jobs and homes.” He always sounds so damn considerate when he talks, respectful and professional.
Which makes me sound like a miscreant when I ask, “You’re shitting me?”
His forehead pulls up in mild confusion. “No. Is there a problem?”
“She slept with my husband.” I’m talking to myself more than I’m talking to him, but he responds anyway.
“I didn’t know you were married?” he asks. He’s uncomfortable talking about all of this I can tell. Clearly political correctness is an adage he subscribes to.
“I’m not. He’s my ex-husband. She slept with him while I thought I was married to someone else.” I shake my head because that sounded ludicrous. “It’s a long story we don’t have time for.”
He nods slowly. He’s confused.