Linus asks to me to find a new box of order pads for the waitstaff in Julie’s office. It’s a busy evening; we’ve been packed with a different, older crowd since we made changes. The art kids still come, but we’ve lost some of the rockers. I miss them, but Julie needs this thing to run, so Grit needs people who buy food and drinks, not throw up on the floor.
As I’m puttering behind Julie’s desk, searching through boxes, it appears before me, tucked plain as day underneath the corner of her office phone.
A piece of paper, a phone number, his name, scribbled doodles and circles and stars.
One moment I’m looking at the paper and the next I’m saying, “May I please speak to Riley West?”, feeling myself high above, floating near the ceiling, watching my hands shake as I press the phone to my ear. On the other end, there’s the sound of slow feet, a heavy sigh.
“Yeah?”
Can he hear my thudding heart through my body? Does he know it’s me by my silence? The words clog in my throat. Is that why I hear him sigh again, why he says, “Sweetheart”?
“Riley.”
“You can’t call me here, okay? Listen, you can’t—” His voice is measured, careful, soft. He’s trying not to attract attention, I bet. I feel a flush of anger and try to bat it down, but before I can, it’s up and swinging. It’s out before I can stop it.
“Do you even remember being with me, Riley? Did you even care, at all, like, ever?”
Adrenaline forces me along. “I mean, was I just a freak show for you? Was I?” I feel scared, I feel loose and lost, but each word that comes out feels powerful.
A sterile, automated voice cuts into the line. This phone call will reach its limit in four minutes. That’s right. I remember that; at Creeley, the community phone shut out after ten minutes.
“Charlie.” He’s crying, a childish whine, like something a person does when they don’t want other people to hear. The sound of his crying sneaks into me, scratches at my heart. He says my name again. I scrape at my wet face with the back of my hand.
“I loved you, Riley.” It hurts, saying it out loud, letting it balloon up and away from me.
“Please,” he cries, “baby—”
The line goes dead.
I open the drawer in Julie’s desk: a stapler; heavy, gleaming scissors; thumbtacks. Roll call of easy elixirs.
On the drive back from Santa Fe, Linus said to me, “My life is like a series of ten-minute intervals sometimes. Sometimes I want to give myself a fucking medal for making it through an hour without a drink, but that’s the way it has to be. Waiting it out.”
I slam the drawer shut. I have to make myself wait it out, this thundering inside me, wait it out in ten-minute intervals, five-minute intervals, whatever it takes, always, now, and forever.
I gather the order pads in my arms and walk out the door, shutting it firmly behind me.
