At the Stars(7)
Before I can answer, one of the guys—Hardy—comes out to drop a ticket by the register. “Hey. Muffins.” He sinks a grimy thumb and forefinger into one of the oversized treats and walks off with crumbs trailing behind him.
I look over my shoulder to stop him, but I guess there’s no turning them down now. I turn back to thank Cassie, but she’s already heading toward the door.
“Great,” she calls. “I won’t be able to eat them all myself. Someone should.”
Glad we could help? “I’ll uh, let you know when I hear back about the parts estimate for your car.”
She flashes another smile my way and heads out through the jingling exit door. I catch myself looking, not so much at the shape of her legs as the rhythm of her step. The way she marches so briskly and keeps her shoulders high and pinned back. Aside from a tiny lip bite as she looks both ways to cross the street, everything down to the way she holds her keys with one of those metal mini-batons pointing out broadcasts “fuck off.”
Friendly one minute, a mile-high wall around her the next. Huh. Maybe I’ve got her pegged wrong. Maybe it’s my ego or my libido giving me bad ideas. Just because nearly every college girl who comes through here tends to be looking for a good time doesn’t mean she is, right?
And if she is? Well, I’ve already decided that I’m not interested. I’m glad I could help her, but that’s as far as it goes. Anyway, she’s too damn young.
I don’t know exactly how old. I’d guess freshman, except those eyes of hers had a little too much cynical “been there, done that.” Whatever “that” was, hopefully she’s not doing it anymore.
Across the street, Cassie smiles at a passing teenager and turns to open the bakery door. I can’t hold back my laugh when I see the flour handprint on her ass.
Next thing I know I’m laughing while munching one of those damned muffins, and I’ve forgotten I wasn’t all that interested. I’ve almost forgotten that this is the same girl who danced with a semi a few days ago, and whatever issues she’s got, I have too many of my own to handle hers.
Never mind the fact that I already have the estimate done on her car. I can’t bring myself to give it to her, which is my own stupid, softhearted bullshit. It’ll wipe that smile of hers right off her face.
Fuck, it’s a really nice smile.
4. CHANGE IS GOOD
Cassie
When I return to my motel room that afternoon I’m sweaty, covered in flour, and ready to throw in the towel. Baking pies with my mom at Thanksgiving had nothing on making batch after batch of breads and muffins and cookies from the wee hours until midafternoon.
I’m drained. Physically exhausted and emotionally raw. All the things I’ve been trying not to think about threaten to push their way out of my eyes and mouth as I stumble to the dresser and drop more of those damned muffins on top.
With a quick inhale to assure myself I won’t lose it, I untuck my shirt and let my hair down. The thick, kinked-up strands tumble around my shoulders and my scalp aches like crazy.
As I run my hands through the knots, I realize I’m so done. I can’t stand what I see in the mirror. I’ve been wanting to change my look for months now. I want to cut it all off. Mom always told me not to.
It’ll break my heart if you cut that gorgeous hair.
Well, something broke her heart anyway.
I wander into the overly bright bathroom and study a reflection I barely recognize while I weave my fingers through long, tangled strands. I pull it a little too hard, trying to get some feeling going in my skin. Some blood flow in my face.
Suddenly I’m antsy, and this tiny motel room is feeling even smaller. I pick up my guitar case and pull out Sisco (I named my guitar after a high school physics teacher I once had a crush on, because I’m a dork like that). After plucking out only a few measures of a ballad I used to love, I give up and put him away.
I swallow a painful lump when my eyes land on one of the many band stickers covering the side of the case, the ones that came from Round and Around Music.
I don’t know why I keep something with painful memories attached, but it’s my guitar case. I can’t just throw it in the trash. Seems like an unnecessary waste when it’s still in good condition.
It’s still pretty early. I throw on a clean shirt and open the door to my room, wondering if maybe I’ve got the energy to schlep back downtown. I recall seeing a couple of shops down the block from Delia’s bakery. A restaurant and maybe a barber shop? I don’t want to spend a lot of money, but I’m hungry and tired of eating muffins. I’m tired of this hair. I’m tired of feeling stuck.