Chapter 9

 

Elsie

 

“I don’t know why I ordered this salad. I’m not even in the mood to eat,” I tell Priscilla as I hang my head in anguish. I feel like crap today, like I’m on the verge of getting my period. That certainly doesn’t help my mood.

“Eat, girl. It’ll help you feel better,” Priscilla says.

“I doubt it.” I sit up straight and hide the agony on my face with my hands. Priscilla’s hands lock around my wrists as she attempts to console me. “Oh, come on, Elsie. It’s not that bad. Stop torturing yourself.”

“But it was bad, Priscilla,” I say, remembering how I kept my coat on in the restaurant last night. “And the sad part is, if I had a chance for a do-over, which I know will never happen, I wouldn’t be any more relaxed. I’m horrible at this. I don’t know what came over me that made me think I could actually try. What was I thinking?” I take a sip of this syrupy-sweet pink lemonade and drift away with sugar.

“There will be other opportunities.”

“For me to make a fool of myself? Yes. There will be plenty of opportunities for me to do that.”

She laughs off my negativity. “I promise this is just a bump in the road that you can use as a wake up call, Elsie.”

“How?” I ask, raking through my salad, looking for cucumbers and egg pieces.

“It’s a lesson. We live and learn. For the longest, you’ve been telling me you didn’t talk to guys or wasn’t dating because you hadn’t met the man of your dreams. Well, you met him, and it wasn’t quite what you expected. Does that mean you give up on finding Mr. Right? No, baby doll. You just need to dust off your—”

She looks down at my feet and chuckles while asking, “When did you start wearing Reeboks with pantyhose?”

“Since they have me delivering packages on two floors now. When I get to work, I take off my heels and put these on.”

“And you forgot to switch back to the heels before you came to lunch apparently.”

“Priscilla, I don’t care about my shoes. Nobody’s looking at me besides you? Nobody.”

I angrily crunch down more salad and croutons, then glance around this familiar restaurant where I’ve met Priscilla for lunch many times. I see people I’ve seen before but don’t know laughing it up, talking business, going about their lives. And then there’s me…

“Hey, you wanna split a slice of strawberry cheesecake?”

“No. I can’t even finish this salad.” I drop my fork and massage my temples while Priscilla pants on and on about how I shouldn’t give up – sounds like she’s reading a bunch of inspirational memes and not really giving me honest hearted, girlfriend-to-girlfriend advice, or words of encouragement. The lack of empathy in her tone makes me feel like I’m doomed. If my best friend doesn’t believe in me enough to truly care about my plight, then who does?

I zone out by staring out the window watching the passersby. I have a direct line of sight to my building across the street. My eyes open wider when I see Trevor walk out of the rotating doors, putting on gloves. He walks to a black Range Rover that’s parked on the street with the hazard lights blinking, then drives off. I close my eyes and shake my head. I feel like I just witnessed a mirage. Was that really him and if so, what was he doing at my building?

I look at Priscilla and notice she’s murdering a piece of cheesecake. I didn’t even see the waitress bring it over.

“Gosh, I could use a drink,” I say.

Priscilla laughs like a hyena. Must be something she picked up from Billie. “It’s one o’clock, girl. Nobody gets throwed this early.”

“Who said anything about getting throwed? I just want one drink. One.” Since I’m already seeing things, I may as well add alcohol to the equation.

“This from the girl who gets tipsy off of dried raisins.”

“Funny,” I say. I don’t feel like it, but I laugh at her and myself. I can’t remember the last time I had a drink. I didn’t even touch the wine Trevor ordered for me last night.

“Hey, why don’t you come by the house tonight? You know Billie makes a good cocktail.”

“I appreciate the invite, but no, thank you. I’ve had one wacked-out night this week. I’m not trying for a second.”

“Then I’ll make it easy and come over to your place with the booze. We’re due for a girl’s night in.”

“No, I’m good. I appreciate it, though.” I dab my mouth with a napkin then take another sip of pink lemonade. “I gotta get back before they come looking for me.”

“I better go, too. I have more errands to run before Billie gets off work.”

“You got the check, right?” I ask her.

“Yeah, I got it,” Priscilla answers.

I lean down to give her a half hug then head out the restaurant.

 

* * *

 

I’m cautious as I cross the street. My eyes are peeled for a black Range Rover or any signs of Trevor. I’m almost certain that was him at my building, but why? I suppose he could’ve been there on business. After all, he’d told me he had a meeting there before. His visit to Uptown Place Business Pavilion probably had nothing to do with me. Why would it?

Ugh!

Get out of my head.

Get out of my head…

I walk into the office I share with one other mail clerk – Karsheeda. She’s one of those loud-mouthed people – means no harm – she’s just loud by nature. She’s a big girl with a larger than life personality who wears a burgundy and black, mushroomed-shaped wig and fake eyelashes that always look like they’re about to fall off. She made her own nicknames for all the mailroom clerks. I’m Young Izzle – sounds like the name of a wack rapper who didn’t make it (although some of her bubble-gum rapping counterparts probably did). If you ever want to know anything that’s going on in Uptown Place Business Pavilion, Karsheeda AKA ‘Sheeda Baby’ is your girl.

She’s on the phone when I sit at my desk, but she hangs it up and grumbles, “Ya darn fool. You got me messed up if you think I’m gon’ go through all those mail slots looking for one raggedy envelope. The nerve of some folk…”

I chuckle. She’s always getting into it with somebody.

“What up, Izzle?” she asks all loud and boisterous. “I tried to call you, then I realized you left your phone on your desk.”

“Oh, is something wrong?”

“No. I was just going to tell you to pick up your package. First floor reception called and said they have a package for you.”

“A package for me?”

“Yeah. Ain’t that a coinky-dink? Get it? You’re a mail handler and you got a package...”

I laugh absently and immediately get up from my desk to head downstairs. When I’m there, the receptionist asks to see my ID badge then she hands me a box about the size of wine bottle, only square. There is no return address on it – only my first and last name and job title.

“There was no note with it?” I ask the receptionist.

“No. The sender may have put a note on the inside, but I’m not certain.”

“Did you by any chance see who dropped this off?”

“No. My coworker signed for it and he’s out to lunch right now.”

“Okay,” I say holding the box like it’s a bomb. I don’t know if I should take the thing outside or upstairs to detonate – I mean – open it. Being that I have no enemies, and I never get mail, I decide to take it to my office. Karsheeda is already looking, trying to figure out what it is like she has the ability to see through the box.

“What’s that you got, Izzle?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, open it, girl.”

Here goes nothing...

I begin opening the box, anticipation building with each piece of tape I rip from it. When I pull off the last piece, I remove its contents: a bottle of A-1 sauce with a red ribbon tied around it. There’s a note that says, call me, followed by a number.

A smile comes to my face because even though the sender didn’t leave a name, I know this is from Trevor. This is from Trevor!

So, that’s why you were at my building...

“What in the world?” Karsheeda says. “Who done sent you some A-1 sauce, girl?”

“It’s nothing,” I tell her. “Just a joke.”

“A joke with a pretty red bow tied around it? You done pulled yourself a man, ain’t you, Izzle? A freaky deaky man.”

“No, Sheeda,” I say giggling. “It’s nothing like that.” My heart is beating fast again. Do I call him? I don’t know what to do. And this note card smells like his cologne. Just a whiff of it has me warm all over.

Call or text?

Call or text?

What’s an introvert to do?

I know – ignore the steak sauce and pretend I never got it. Or, I could stop being such a punk and call the man. A lil’ while ago, I was just telling Priscilla how I’d never have another chance with Trevor. Now, he sends me sauce and I’m back in the game. Well, maybe...

Call or text?

I go for the less nerve-racking option. Text.

My hands are shaking, palms sweaty as I punch in his number followed by a message:

 

Elsie: Hi, Trevor. I got your package. *erase*

 

I backspace to clear the message because I can’t tell the man I got his package. I have to be more careful with how I word my response. Um…okay, got it.

 

Elsie: Hi, Trevor, thanks for the sauce *erase*

 

I’m backspacing again. That sounds too corny. Maybe I should just call him. No, I should text. I try again.

 

Elsie: Hi, Trevor. I got the A-1. Thanks. *send*

 

I instantly feel like I said the wrong thing, but I can’t backspace this time since the message has already been sent.

 

Trevor: Didn’t my note say to call me? I could’ve sworn it said call me.

Elsie: It did, but I didn’t know what to say, so I sent a text.

 

I bite down on my lip, waiting to read his reply.

One minute passes.

Then two.

Then five…

When ten minutes go by, I’m certain he’s not going to respond. So, what do I do? Text him back? My goodness. I really need a guidebook – The Introvert’s Guide to Alpha Males or something similar to it. It would really come in handy right about now.

My phone vibrates. It’s him. Has to be. I pick it up quickly to read his message:

 

Trevor: Call me.

 

That’s all it says. Call me. I take a breath. I have to do it. I have to, so I bite the bullet and dial his number. He answers after a half ring.

“There. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” he asks.

“I guess not.”

“How’s your day so far?”

“It’s…um…it’s—”

“Elsie?”

“Yes?”

“There’s no need to be nervous on the phone with me. Okay?”

“I’ll try not to be,” I say, glancing over at Karsheeda who’s waggling her penciled-in brows at me.

“Let me ask again. How has your day been so far?”

“It was sucky all the way up until I got your bottle of A-1 sauce. I actually smiled.”

“Good. I’m glad I could brighten your day.”

I smile awkwardly, even over the phone. And since he’s quiet now, it must be my turn to say something. Hmm….what can I—oh, I got it. “How has your day been so far, Trevor?”

“My day was pretty laid back. I’m at the condo packing right now. It’s true what they say—you never know how much junk you have until you get ready to move.”

“I know. That’s why I haven’t moved since I’ve been here.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes…same one-bedroom apartment.”

“Well, if it works, why move?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Silence passes between us and I’m trying hard to think of something to say now that it seems like the conversation has come to a dead end.

“Um, well, I have to get back to work,” I say before I even realize it. I didn’t mean to be so blunt about it. It just came out.

“Oh. Right,” he says.

“And I really do appreciate the sauce.”

He chuckles. “You’re welcome, Elsie.” There’s a pause then he asks, “Hey, what are you doing Friday night?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“I would like to take you out to dinner.”

“You would?”

“Yes. I’ll pick you up around 6:30. Is that okay?”

“Um...” I hum, overthinking again.

“Say yes, Elsie,” he says.

I smile again. “Are we going as friends?”

“If that’s what’ll get you through it. Yes, we can go as friends. Text me your address when we hang up.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you Friday.”

“See you Friday,” I repeat. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“I will. Bye, Elsie.”

“Bye, Trevor.”

I hang up and immediately begin screaming with happiness while texting my address to Trevor before I lose the nerve, or consciousness which is a very real possibility. I can’t believe this is happening. Did the universe hear my silent cries for help?

“Don’t tell me you got yourself a manz, Izzle.”

I’m on a natural high, so I look at Karsheeda with blushed cheeks and the biggest grin on my face when I ask, “What’s a manz?”

“You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. When am I going to meet him?”

“Okay, slow down…I don’t have a man. He’s just a guy I met and we’re going on a date as friends. Friends, Karsheeda.”

She quirks up her big, glossy lips. “You let him run that game on you? They all holla friends in the beginning. Next thing you know, you pregnant and he’s ghost.”

I shake my head. I’ve heard the story so many times I know she’s referring to her baby’s father, who she met in a club by the way. They had a quick, three-month relationship – no, situation, she likes to call it – in which time she got pregnant and he left soon after hollering that the baby wasn’t his. Later, when he found out the baby was his, he tried to sweet talk her into not taking him to court for child support but in the words of Karsheeda, she took that dummy for everything she could get, which won’t much.

Should I take the advice of a scorned woman? Probably not. So, I don’t. I load up my mail cart and deliver the rest of my packages with a great-big smile on my face. I get to see Trevor on Friday and the prospect of having something to look forward to has me on top of the world.