Sure, between the housing subsidy, the food stamps, and other government help I qualify for each month, I’d still get by, but just barely.
Gord drags the last of his Dr Pepper through his straw, making a slurping sound. “Not exactly a dream job, though.”
“Some of us don’t have the luxury of chasing after our dream job.” Our parents don’t hand us businesses and futures. Truth is, there aren’t a lot of career options in Balsam, Pennsylvania, to begin with. Sure, we’re the county seat, but we’re a tourist town of three thousand—a lot more during the summer and winter seasons—with one grocery store, one gas station, two schools, two churches, a few inns, a main street of tiny shops, cafés, and restaurants that operate on limited hours throughout the week. Oh, and a pool hall to give the locals something to do. Plus, I didn’t exactly win over Balsam-area employers enough early on in life with my “false accusations” to warrant much consideration from anyone who’s hiring. I still count myself lucky that Lou ever gave me a chance when she did.
He frowns, obviously picking up on the edge in my voice. “I just meant that you need something better for the future. You have that little girl to take care of.”
Despite his condescending tone, his words—just the mention of Brenna—make me smile. The one bright spot in my life, in the form of a rambunctious five-, soon to be six-year-old. “We’re doing fine.”
“I hear her daddy ain’t around.”
I force my smile to stay put. “Nope.”
He leans in, as if he’s got a secret. “So, he’s a drug dealer?”
This is the problem with where I live. Small towns, small lives.
Big mouths.
I clear the irritation from my throat, hoping he’ll take the hint that I don’t talk about Brenna’s father.
Sliding a toothpick between his front teeth, he works away at a piece of dinner. “You know, some people still think you and that teacher had somethin’ goin’ on after all, and it’s his kid.”
Gord has not taken the hint.
I glare at him until he averts his gaze to the ketchup label.
“Course, they also say it wouldn’t make much sense what with timing and all, now would it?”
“Not unless I had the reproductive system of an elephant.”
He scratches his chin in thought. “He moved out of state, didn’t he?”
“No idea.” Just after Christmas of that horrible year. To Memphis, Tennessee, with Linda—his ex-girlfriend, who he had reconciled with about two months after charges were dropped. The woman who is now his wife. They’ve since had two children together. A few of the more spiteful Philips family members still love to talk out loud about Scott every now and then, when I’m passing by them carrying plates to customers, or in line at the bank or grocery store. I think it’s their polite way of saying, “Look how happy he is despite you trying to ruin his life.”
I do my best to ignore them, because I’m not pining over a man who hurt me so deeply, who cared more about saving his own skin than protecting mine. It took a few years for me to understand how badly Scott used and manipulated me, to accept that I was a vulnerable and infatuated teenage girl that he took full advantage of.
Now I just count my blessings that he’s far enough away from me that I don’t have to see him. I heard he’s come around a few times at Christmas, but otherwise his visits seem rare. Shockingly—and -thankfully—I’ve never once run into him.
“So your daughter’s daddy . . . he don’t even want to see his little girl?”
“Nope.” If he’s somehow heard that she exists, he’s made no efforts to reach out, which is exactly how I want it to be.
“I’ll tell ya, you need to be gettin’ money out of him, is what you need to be doin’,” Gord says, poking at the air with a stubby index finger in a scolding manner.
“I don’t want his money and I don’t want him in our lives.” And I don’t need this guy—or anyone, for that matter—telling me I should want otherwise. We can do this on our own, Brenna and I.
Gord pauses to stare at me, and I feel him weighing my words. “Well . . . I guess you’re your own woman.”
“I’ve learned to be.”
“I do like that.” Gord winks at the waitress as she delivers his slice of pie. Scooping up a forkful, he shoves a large chunk in his mouth before continuing, bits of crust tumbling out. “You gettin’ on with your family now? Aunt Lou said you had a rocky go of things with them. Didn’t they boot you out or something?”
I don’t bother to hide the flat stare at him, though in truth I’m more annoyed at Lou. Sure, she’s the reason I’m standing on my own two feet right now, but that doesn’t give her the right to discuss my personal past at length with her nephew before sending him off on a date with me.
Gord’s hands go up to pat the air in a sign of surrender. “Okay . . . okay. No need to get your panties in a bunch. I didn’t mean no harm.” Gord waves his fork in the air between us, a smile filling his face. “You know . . . there just might be a job for someone like you at Mayberry’s. I’m thinking of hiring my own personal assistant. Play your cards right and you could find yourself with a bright future ahead of you. You know, benefits and stuff. You wouldn’t need no welfare.” He pauses, watching me, waiting for my reaction.
I think this is the part where I’m supposed to start gushing and thanking him profusely for saving me from my lackluster future.
I force a smile and remind myself that this is Lou’s beloved nephew that she speaks so highly of, and I have to bite my tongue.
He eats his pie and rambles on about his town of Belmont, twenty--five minutes south of Balsam. How it’s got a Target, a movie theater, and shopping mall, and four grocery stores instead of just the one Weiss; and it’s closer to route 33 South, which gets him to Philadelphia in an hour and twenty minutes; how there’s more opportunity and I should seriously consider leaving my stagnant little tourist town and move closer to him.
I smile and pretend to listen, happy not to be answering any more questions about my personal life. When the waitress drops off the check and he quickly collects it, I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s going to pick up the tab. This night has already cost me a dinner shift and a babysitter.
“Halfsies is twenty each,” he announces, leaning his bulky body to the left to pull his wallet from his pocket.
Right.
Except he had pie and a bottle of Bud to go along with his Dr Pepper and full rack of ribs, so it’s not really even. Not even close. I could argue, but instead I count out the bills because I want to be done with this guy as quickly and politely as possible, and get home to Brenna.
He grins as he collects the money and sets it next to him on the table. I know what he’s doing—making it look like he’s paying for the full check. “That was one heck of a meal.”
I should tell him about the purple chunk of blueberry skin sitting on his front tooth.
I really should.