Chapter Two

Fructus

Vanessa winced into the morning glare. The seal had busted on the growlers last night, and all the bartenders got to take a couple home. Vanessa drank half a growler in a moping fit way past closing time in her apartment. She would pay for it all morning.

As soon as Vanessa walked up the steps to the old tobacco office building turned bookstore turned community center, she heard the usual ruckus. The sound of an argument grew louder as a door opened onto the hall. A few Spanish cusses preceded the beautiful dark head that poked out of the door.

“Órale, Nessa! Hey, you look hungover!” The woman ducked back into the room and shouted, “Hey, cariños, Nessa is hungover!” Before Vanessa could finish wincing at the volume, the woman was standing in the hall, facing her with hands on hips. “Come here, mija.” She smooched Vanessa’s cheek, then squeezed her face for good measure before stepping back and ushering her into the room.

“Hi, Carla. Just half a growler, but you know me.”

“Ladies,” Carla gestured grandly toward Vanessa, “You are looking at the only bartender in the ciudad with no alcohol tolerance.”

“Hola, chica,” Gabriel got up and hugged Vanessa. “What happened this time? Did you suck on someone’s olives?”

The other women cracked up laughing.

“Dios mio, y’all. I mean the martini olives. God. But chica, seriously, did you suck on someone’s olives? I mean, you are a single lady now!” Gabriel patted Vanessa on the back, then handed her a coffee.

The women were seated in a room usually used for group therapy sessions for bipolar adolescents and tweens that cut. Sunday mornings, though, you would never suspect as much. Carla and Gabi always arrived an hour early and festooned every surface with beautiful cloths. Half an hour later, Squeak and Perla arrived with baked goods and a couple of carafes of Finnish coffee. Vanessa, who tended bar till three a.m. most Saturday nights, was almost always the last of the regulars to show up.

While Vanessa chose a pastry from a heavy laden tray, the other women bickered.

“Why won’t you just admit it was you already?” Gabi hollered, poking Squeak in the leg with a toe.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Squeak focused on a lurid flower blooming from her crochet hook.

“Ay, mija, let her be,” Carla chided. “It may not have been Squeak. She was on call this weekend. Probably she was catching babies while it happened.”

“Thank you, Carla,” Squeak replied, not looking up from her work.

Vanessa sipped her coffee and chewed a cheese Danish quietly for a minute. Then she realized that Perla was staring at her. A moment later, everyone fell silent, watching Perla watch Vanessa.

“Well, what do you see?” Squeak broke the silence. Her real name was Brigit, but she had made the mistake of calling herself mousey at her first meeting. Carla never passed up an opportunity to nickname.

Perla took several deep breaths, then leaned toward Vanessa. Vanessa was used to Perla’s gift, so she kept eating. The sooner her stomach was full, the sooner her hangover would pass. In theory.

“You are in love,” Perla pronounced with certainty.

The other women burst out talking at once. “I’m so happy for you,” and “When did this happen?,” and “Is he good in bed?” all competed for Vanessa’s attention. Before she could answer, the door opened. The group fell silent.

“Is this Fructus? I’m here for the women’s group meeting. It was in the Independent?” A red haired, tall woman with pale skin entered the room. She looked at each person in turn. They returned the favor. Carla thought this might be a good sort of niña. Gabi thought the new woman had great taste in red shoes. Squeak felt a flush come over her face. Perla was looking within and did not much notice the intruder.

Vanessa, who felt as though she had been saved by the new woman’s entrance from having to spill about the scrapbooks, answered first. “Yes, this is Fructus. We were just getting started. I’m Vanessa. Hi.” Vanessa stood up and half hugged the new woman.

“Persephone. But you can call me Percy.”

The other women spoke their names and shook Percy’s hands or hugged her.

“As I was saying,” Squeak piped up, setting aside a huge crocheted blossom, “It’s hard to find a lover who knows what to do with an elastic hymen. Most guys come immediately because of the squeeze, and most women manhandle me. I’m so sex starved, I could scream already.” Squeak spoke nonchalantly, looking at her crochet project all the while. The women of Fructus had a rule for testing newcomers. They took turns telling awkward stories whenever a stranger showed up to a meeting. Some graduate students stuck it out for two meetings in an effort to prove their sophistication, but most of them never returned.

There was a silence after Squeak spoke as all the women watched for Percy’s reaction. Percy watched the double crochets fly from Squeak’s hands, then sat down next to her. She leaned toward Squeak, close enough that Squeak blushed heavily and had to pause her crochet.

“You shouldn’t starve yourself,” Percy said, quietly and low, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Let me get you a pastry,” Gabi offered. Perla brought Percy a coffee, and the women sat back in their circle.

“So, did you wrap it and tap it last night, or what?” Gabi asked Vanessa, who choked on her coffee.

“What? No! I wish. No.”

“Then who’re you in love with, mija?” Carla asked.

“Costa Rican Javier,” Vanessa said into her coffee.

“Quién? Do we know him, mija?” Carla asked Gabi. Then to Percy, Carla explained, “Gabi here is my daughter. She’s a luchadora, a Mexican wrestler. But we know all the good Central American guys. They all want to screw my kid, so I make it my business to know them.”

“Ma, please. No, we don’t know him. Let Vanessa tell us. Look, you embarrassed the crap out of her.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Vanessa said. “I wish there was, but he’s just a guy I saw in a scrapbook.”

“Did you dig him?” Perla asked. To Percy, she said, “Vanessa here is a dumpster digger.”

“A freegan, Perla! Don’t be crass,” Squeak corrected. “For being so sensitive, you can be pretty insensitive.”

“Well, it’s not like I don’t support her one hundred percent.” Perla looked at Vanessa earnestly and said into her face, “One hundred and ten percent, Vanessa. I believe in you. And I believe in this Costa Rican Joaquin of yours, too.”

“Javier.”

“Yes, him. Which reminds me, I brought you a little something,” Perla handed across a paper bag filled nearly to the top. “Here, go through it. Make sure it’s the kind you like.”

Vanessa pulled the first item out of the bag. It was a new box of flannel menstrual pads for heavy days. The women “oohed” and “aahed”. There was ibuprofen, and three new bras, two vintage hankies in the style Vanessa liked, and four boxes of condoms. One box held regular sized, and the other three were sized large.

“Oooh! That’s awesome, mija! Your next man is going to be big, you know what I mean. Those big ones with the polyurethane are good for if he’s allergic to the regular ones or you want to avoid flavors.”

“Ma, like you know. You and Marian have been together since I was five.”

“But I had your father. And he had big feet, you know what I mean? That’s how I knew for sure I was a lesbian. If his thing wasn’t doing it for me, no one’s would.”

“Too much información, Ma. Silencio! Gah.”

“Well, she’s right,” Perla chimed in. “I see great sex in your future. It’s going to blow your horizons.”

Vanessa’s shoulders sagged, “Perla, thanks. But you know I’m a freegan, right? I’m really not supposed to buy new things.”

“That stupid Ally been talking at you again? Want me to mess her up a bit?”

“No, Gabi. I mean, yes. Ally has been on my case because of all the new stuff I have. But no, don’t mess her up.”

“Listen, mija, you don’t need to let her in your house. How’s she gonna know what stuff you have?”

“She’s my oldest freegan friend. And now that Bradley’s off with his new buddy Amber, I don’t have a lot of other options for foraging partners.”

“All’s I can say to that is, she doesn’t have to go through your stuff, hermana,” Gabi crossed her arms, flexing her tight biceps.

“Look, Vanessa, the stuff is free. A gift from me to you. Tell that Ally that you had to accept it. It’s a mitzvah. I want to do this for you. You are like my daughters, all three of you,” Perla gestured to include Gabi and Squeak. “How can she deny an old woman her little joys, eh?”

“Perhaps,” Percy spoke up, “you need a new partner.”

“What are you saying?” Squeak asked, looking up from her work. She had reddened at the word, “partner.”

“Well, if Vanessa will have me, I’m game. I’ve been saying all year that I want to go more green. Why not this way?”

“Um, okay. Where do you live?”

“Trinity Park. And I have a Prius, so you don’t have to feel guilty if you need to hitch a ride.”

“Meet me at the Whole Foods café on Tuesday at 6?”

“I’m there.”

“Great. So we’ve gotten Vanessa sorted. She’s got a new digging partner, or harvester or what have you. And she’s about to encounter a Costa Rican with, um, big feet. What’s our topic this week?” Squeak asked, having apparently crocheted away her earlier timidity in Percy’s presence.

“Let’s talk about how we can use our menstrual flow to fertilize the garden!” Perla spoke up. “I just read this article about it yesterday. Here, let me get it.”

Before Perla could retrieve her article, Carla interjected. “Ay, we always talk about our periods. Let’s talk about something else. Percy, have you got something to say?”

“Well,” Percy answered, looking at Squeak intently, “I’m curious. Have any of you noticed the bull statue?”

“Yeah, Squeak,” Gabi said significantly, “Have you noticed the bull statue?”

Vanessa squinted at Gabi in confusion. They had developed an unspoken language as college roommates years before, and employing it was the fastest way for Vanessa to get an explanation.

“Someone,” Gabi nodded toward Squeak, “covered the bull statue in a floral body suit.”

“Why do you think it was me? Probably just someone who took my patterns off Ravelry,” Squeak spoke around a crochet hook tucked in her lips as she held up two garish pink yarns in front of her. Percy pointed to one, and Squeak blushed, putting away the other ball.

“And by floral,” Gabi continued as if she had not been interrupted, “I mean covered in huge crocheted flowers just like those made by a certain someone in this room.”

“Anyone can make a crocheted flower, Gabi,” Vanessa said, smirking at Squeak. “They aren’t that difficult.”

“Thank you, Vanessa. Exactly. It’s like I said before, someone probably just copied my pattern off of Knitpicks.”

“You said Ravelry before,” Percy spoke quietly.

“Hmm?” Squeak focused her eyes intentionally downward toward the work in her lap. Another flower was already taking shape.

“I don’t know much about crochet, but I think,” Percy leaned toward Squeak and touched the soft yarn, “that your flower is rather extraordinary.” She watched as Squeak’s face colored. “Perhaps you haven’t told us everything you know about this bull.”

“I think she’s told us a lot of bull!” Gabi chortled.

Vanessa laughed in spite of her headache. This was going to be a great meeting.

***

Percy Lundquist was the best foraging partner Vanessa could have imagined. She was fit enough to move easily in and out of dumpsters, and she had a good eye. After only a week of gathering, Percy was better at dumpster diving than Bradley had ever been.

“Good haul today,” Percy said, loading a crate full of slightly out of date hard cheeses and peanuts into her trunk. Cycling was greener, but Vanessa had to admit that riding around in a hybrid was worth the larger carbon footprint when it was 98 degrees at night.

“Very good haul. How did you know they would have the parmaggiano reggiano in the bins?”

“A work colleague also happens to work part time at the cheese counter.”

“Where do you work if you don’t mind my asking? I tend bar over at Longleaf Brewers and Distillery.”

“I teach ethics.”

“Ethics? Where?”

“Let’s just say it’s a local university, and that I have a convenient commute from my home in Durham.”

“Gotcha. Well, I won’t complain about anyone’s job if her work colleagues give such awesome tips on food tosses. I’m going to email the listserv tonight. There’s enough stuff back there for everyone in the group.”

“How many freegans are in your group?”

“Well, counting you, seven. There’s Ally, Edward, and Bradley, who are all pretty strict. Then there’s Reagan and me; we still buy some stuff, like appliances and underpants and ice cream. And Amber, who gets free condoms from work. Plus you, seven. Wait. No, nine. But Jill and Elliot mostly keep to themselves unless you happen to fall into their sphere of opening a new business.”

“I suppose there are other people who sort of participate as well?”

“Freecycle is very active here, yes. But in terms of digging and foraging, there’s mostly us. We see occasional stoned college students or homeless people, but no one regular.”

“So a tight knit group, then?”

“If you overlook one or two sexual infidelities, yes.”

“Bradley and Amber, right? He cheated on you.”

“Indeed he did. But, as he keeps telling everyone, there was no vag, so he didn’t think it counted.”

“Cheaters are always unstable in themselves. He forgot it was still his body and someone else’s body touching sexually.”

“That’s one way to put it, yes.”

“We overlook the body so much in our culture.” Percy seemed thoughtful, as though she was going to wax on. Then she smiled and changed the subject. “That’s what I like about foraging. It’s so physical. Gets us back in touch with our hunting and gathering ancestors. Which reminds me—a… friend of mine says we can glean from her garden. Well, it’s a farm, really… an organic one. We can have the things that she can’t use in her CSA boxes or in her own family. If you don’t mind a little bug damage, that is.”

“Please. If it’s actually fresh, I don’t mind if a caterpillar or two has a nibble.”

Percy beamed. “I’m so glad. She said she’d bring a box of gleanings to the farmer’s market tomorrow. Do you want to meet there? Oh, wait. Actually, I’m meeting Brigit for lunch. I can pick up the box and bring half to Fructus on Sunday.”

“Sounds good. So, you asked Squeak out on a date?”

“She asked me, actually, but I would have done if she had hesitated,” Percy smiled reflectively.

“Then why did you hesitate before?”

“What do you mean?” Percy looked puzzled.

“You said your dot, dot, dot friend has a CSA,” Vanessa poked holes in the air to illustrate the pause in Percy’s speech. “That sounded a little coded to me. Mind you, I might be paranoid, after Bradley and all, but I don’t want you to think Squeak is just a plaything.”

“Ah,” Percy tilted her head, then looked right at Vanessa before continuing, “I hesitated because she’s a student, not a lover. I have to be careful not to think of most students as friends, since there is such a power differential. But in this case, the moniker applies.”

“Got it.”

“Perhaps,” Percy drew in a breath and held it. She sighed, “Vanessa, I’m not playing around with Brigit. I hope you don’t think that. In fact, there’s something I wanted to ask you about her.”

“Okay?”

“It’s just. Oy, I’m nervous. I want to bring her something, a token. But I can’t tell, after just two meetings and a few phone calls. Does she like flowers? Chocolate? I get the sense that she wants something to do with her hands, but I keep blanking out. Thinking of bread dough, all warm and —“ Percy blushed and fell silent.

“I see,” Vanessa grinned. “Yarn. She loves merino wool the best and in warm colors. I’ve seen her make teal and brown before, but mostly she loves oranges and reds.”

“Thank you!” Percy’s smile returned.

“There’s a yarn store over by the Chapel Hill Whole Foods that she likes. If I’m honest, I like it, too, but I mostly get my yarn from old ladies tossing it out to make room for more.”

“Thanks. Oh, that reminds me. Estate sales. I saw some in the paper today. I’m thinking we could go after they are over, ask the people in charge if we can haul off the leftovers. Same thing goes for posh garage sales. A lot of people just donate everything to a charity anyway. They might let us have stuff as a sort of finder’s fee if we offer to cart junk away.”

Vanessa gazed at Percy, impressed. “You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you? Wow. Yes! Let’s try it. But for tonight, I need to get home. I’m dying to see if this CD player you found works better than my old one.”

“See you at Fructus!” Percy called before driving away.

The new CD player worked perfectly. Vanessa dug out her Enya CDs from among the albums she had worried would be ruined by the old player and put on “Sail Away” while she cooked dinner. She did not like Enya as much as she had in college, but she made an exception for this song.

The smell of real, perfectly ripe cheese and tomatoes lavished flavors on the warm air in the kitchen while Vanessa cooked. She found herself thinking of water, then of travel, then of Costa Rican Javier. The scrapbooks were laid out across the coffee table where she could see them while she ate or relaxed. The initial charm of Javier’s perfect good looks had not worn off, but Vanessa was starting to like this guy for the glimpses of his personality she could see in Mary’s insipid texts and gorgeous photos.

He always seemed to arrange thoughtful little surprises for Mary, like leaving oranges and papayas on her desk. He flew her favorite canned soup in from the States when she had a cold. He made her a stack of flannel hankies when she developed allergies to the tropical plants. In one photo, Javier was dancing with what Vanessa at first took to be a child. But looking at it while not drunk showed her that he was dancing with a miniscule old lady whose eyes crinkled in a way that reminded Vanessa of Javier’s smile. He was green, he was generous, he was gorgeous, he was nice to old ladies, and he seemed faithful to this Mary chick, even if she did seem to feel poorly half the time.

Vanessa’s phone rang, interrupting her rehearsal of Javier’s apparent virtues. Gabi started talking straight away, not even allowing Vanessa to say “hello.”

“Ay, hermana. Are you working tonight? I have a match.”

“Yep. I’m going in at six. Just having dinner first.”

“Don’t tell me about it. I know you love the environment and all that, but thinking about eating out of a dumpster makes me sick.”

“Well, you don’t have to be sick this time. Percy scored us real food, from right over the counter, no dumpsters involved,” she lied. “It’s slightly past sell-by but totally good.”

“Tell her she can come eat with us!” Carla shouted in the background on Gabi’s line.

“Ma says you can come eat with us. We’re having flautas,” Gabi continued in a whisper, “Marian made them, so they are actually edible.”

“Thanks, but I’m seriously good. I have all this parmaggiano reggiano and fresh tomatoes, and I bought some pasta to go with it.”

“Well, it’s about damn time you just bought some food. That Bradley was giving you scurvy.” Without turning away, Gabi shouted, “She has something to eat, Ma! Real food. None of that bagel stuff.” To Vanessa she continued, “See you later, hermana. And, hey, it’s good to see you taking care of yourself.”

Vanessa turned off the phone and looked in the mirror over the sink. Had Bradley’s zeal really made her malnourished? She bared her teeth like a horse, looking at her gums. She seemed fine. She shook her head to clear it.

The pasta looked beautiful in a huge blue bowl Vanessa had found on one of her first outings as a freegan. The tiny chip in the clay glaze was on the underside, so it was practically like new. Vanessa ate the tangy and salty and chewy pasta at the table, a scrapbook opened next to her bowl. A bathing suit-clad Javier smiled up at her from the Pacific Ocean, backlit by a pink sunset. It was the wrong photo to stare at while eating pasta. Vanessa felt sauce all down her chin. She had been slurping her noodles lasciviously.

“You big hornball,” she admonished herself. “He’s probably still there. In Central America, not North Carolina. Let Gabi or even Perla set you up with someone available.” Vanessa nodded at her own sage advice, trying to ignore the fact that Perla thought she had a chance with Javier.

She really ought to just pull out the photos of jungles and beaches and lizards and monkeys and stop poring over this guy she had never met, would probably never meet. She tried to muster a feminist impulse, some connection between our mother earth and living the green life and not obsessing over body-thrilling Costa Rican men one has never seen outside scrapbooks pulled from the actual trash. Nada. All she could think of was an old Bible verse she had memorized back before church got boring and irrelevant, about creation groaning. Groaning for what? She couldn’t quite remember, but at least she was distracted enough from lusting after Javier to finish her noodles with a degree of dignity.

When Vanessa arrived at work, she was surprised to see Gabi already standing at the bar, drinking a fake martini. How her friend could stomach still mineral water and olives was beyond Vanessa, but she had to admire Gabi’s cleverness.

As usual, three or four guys were clustered around Gabi’s radiant dark beauty. Gabi did not like to be at a disadvantage among horny guys. She said being sober was a good defense, plus water never hid the taste if someone tried to slip something in her drink. Not that Vanessa would let that happen at her bar, but it was a nice precaution.

“Hey, Mojita!” Vanessa whispered as she passed, addressing Gabi by her luchadora name. Since Gabi was not wearing her mask, it was uncouth to call her lucha name out loud. “Let me freshen up your drink? Your usual before a match, yes?”

“Sí, mi hermana,” Gabi raised her glass and winked.

“When’s your match?” Vanessa asked, handing Gabi a new fake martini.

“It’s at nine, next door,” Gabi leaned across the bar, her movement followed by several pairs of lecherous eyes as her taut and curvy frame stretched over the granite. “There’s someone I want you to meet. One of my new friends,” she gestured toward either the door or the eager men clustered behind her, “él está de Costa Rica.”

Vanessa’s breath caught and she dribbled a draft beer over the side of the pint she was pulling. Righting her pour, she looked down, suddenly bashful as she asked, “Is he here now? Javier?”

Gabi laughed and ate an olive from her drink. “No, mi hermana. These guys are just admirers. Not my type for friends or ends. Jeans that tight, don’t work right.” She chanted the last line as though it were an accepted proverb. Of course, tight jeans had never stopped Bradley’s performance, but he was not exactly an exemplary partner. Vanessa decided not to correct her friend. She was right. None of the men had enough moxie for Gabi.

Gabi slithered closer to Vanessa, her face just to the left of the taps. “Help me out?” she smiled sexily.

Vanessa sat down her towel, handed a beer to a young hipster mom wearing dark-framed glasses, and stared straight at Gabi for a moment. Suddenly, she clutched Gabi’s face and kissed her full on the lips with apparent passion. The guys hoping to bed her friend did not need to know they had met at acting class or that Gabi was trying to make Vanessa laugh by blowing quiet raspberries on her mouth. She pulled away and went straight to setting up a whisky tasting tray for a group of local band members.

When she had served the band, she darted a glance toward Gabi, who was talking to the mom and another woman with a baby in one of those batik print wraps. The hornballs had wandered off to more likely prospects. Gabi left for her match after half an hour, but not before calling out that she would be back with a special someone if he happened around that night.

The busy evening passed quickly. Two food trucks supplied a fluctuating crowd of foodies, hipsters, locavores, and the otherwise cool segment of Durham. When Vanessa wasn’t describing the house brews and spirits, or making trendy cocktails, she watched out for her customers. There were two who worried her. A fifty-something man seemed gregarious enough unless you noticed that he only talked about alcohol. He had been alternating beers and whiskies since Vanessa came on shift at six, with no apparent inebriation. Vanessa knew his type. He would eventually reach his limit and either black out or try to drive home. He did not know it, but he only had one more beer before his keys were going in the safe.

Vanessa made sure his bowl of peanuts was refreshed, then wiped down the bar in front of the other worrying customer, the hipster mom. Her equally cool looking husband had taken their two small children home a couple of hours ago, and the baby wearer had left an hour later. The mom was still drinking, though. She had struck up a conversation about Square Foot Gardening with a youngish man and a lesbian couple. When the lesbians went out to the trucks to get burgers, the guy had convinced the mom to do Irish car bombs. Seeing the lesbians on their way back in, Vanessa relaxed a bit. She set a glass of water and a bowl of nuts in front of the mom and went to the far end of the bar to serve a smiling couple who were clearly going to get lucky that night.

Vanessa had just served them the house blueberry lambic when she heard a voice that made her neck hairs rise.

“Please,” the firm but quiet, deep male voice said, “the lady is not going with you.” There was a slight Central American clip, but more in the music of the sounds than any deviation from standard American English.

Vanessa ignored one of her regulars, a silver-haired professor emerita who always ordered the same run of pale ale drafts and bottled imports, and rushed to the source of the commotion. Rather, the not quite commotion. The mom was holding her head, looking spaced out. The car bomb guy was grabbing at her arm, but having a hard time getting around a dark-haired, muscular interloper with his back to Vanessa.

“Is there a problem here?” Vanessa asked in her no-nonsense tone.

“No. This gentleman was just leaving,” the dark-haired man said, not moving.

Vanessa joined the man in glaring at the young guy. The lesbian couple saw what was happening and got up from their table. They flanked the mom, one of them putting a protective arm around her while the other crossed her arms and joined Vanessa and the dark-haired man to stare down the car bomb guy.

After eight, nine, ten seconds of tense glares, the man’s face reddened. He looked down in shame and walked out, shoulders hunched. Vanessa released her breath and looked with concern at the hipster mom.

“You okay, Sara?” one of the lesbians asked.

“Allow me,” said the dark-haired man, turning toward the bar at last, “I’m a physician.”

Vanessa felt a rush of warmth through her torso as she studied the man, who was gently examining the mom.

“Javier,” she gasped.

The man looked up, confusion and amusement flashing across his eyes before they returned to an expression of professional concern. He did not answer her, but turned to the lesbians. “Is she a friend of yours?”

The women nodded.

“I saw that man put something in her water when I was coming in. Probably roofies. Do you know where she lives?”

The women nodded again, clearly stunned.

“She didn’t drink much, but there may have been other dosings. Did you notice anything suspicious?” Javier turned his glorious gaze on Vanessa.

“Um, no. She’s had a lot of beers. But that guy only bought her one car bomb, and he didn’t touch that. I only just gave her a fresh water, though.”

Javier nodded once, then spoke to the friends. “I would feel more comfortable if we take her in to screen her. There’s no knowing what someone like that low life slipped her.”

The group helped Sara to her feet unsteadily. They walked out, one of the lesbians filling in the mom’s husband on a cell.

A few minutes later, Gabi appeared at the door, followed by a smiling, but vomit-covered, Javier. He smiled apologetically toward Vanessa and gestured toward his clothes. She heard him say, “I’m looking forward to it,” before he smiled again at Gabi and disappeared. Gabi gestured eating a burger and walked off toward the food truck line.

By the time Paula came on shift at eleven, Vanessa was an emotional mess. Her mind bristled at the near miss with the mom and car bomb guy. The question—what if?—opened a window to a dark room in her memory. She knew what some men would try when presented with a vulnerable female. Vanessa tried to think brighter thoughts. She had met Javier! But he did not know about the nightmare rooms of her childhood. If he did, would he still have smiled at her? Fear coursed through her like a pungent odor in a kitchen. If only there were some immediate distraction, some proof that she was loveable. Maybe Javier would come back. Doctor Javier, she reminded herself.

“What are you smiling at, girl?” Paula asked when Vanessa gave a besotted, goofy grin at the sight of a group of surgeons coming off shift. “You need some medical attention?”

“Why? You know those guys?” Vanessa focused on the present, trying to push back the images that were making her pulse race. She could not help but notice that none of the men wore wedding rings, and all of them were nice looking. She tried a mind trick that had always worked for her before. If she pretended that her heart was pounding due to libido rather than panic, she would gradually calm down. She could not erase the past, but she could have a little fun in the near future. A sexy grin inched over her face.

“Um-hmm. Girl, you have an itch you want a man to scratch tonight. Asking me, Do I know a bunch of surgeons? You know I work in a nursing home all day,” Paula pushed her golden dreds back over her smooth caramel shoulders. On weekdays, she was a formally clad and mannered middle-aged head floor nurse at one of the most posh assisted-living facilities in the area. In her burgundy halter top, behind the bar, she was stunning and ageless with the sort of keen perception the patrons and Vanessa loved. Ever since Paula’s husband died two years ago, Paula had moonlighted on weekends as a bartender, ostensibly to help cover the extra music lessons for her opera singing daughter. Vanessa suspected that bartending appealed at least as much for the opportunities it afforded Paula to speak her mind freely and to matchmake.

“Well, there’s this doctor I’ve been reading about. I guess he has my ganglia all aflutter.”

Paula laughed music. “You start talking ganglia to me, and I know it’s time for me to step in and help you out,” Paula shook her head at Vanessa and sashayed to the group of surgeons.

By the second round, one of the doctors, who introduced himself as Brian, was smoldering at Vanessa nonstop. At closing, he lingered, clearly waiting for her.

“You go on, girl! I’ll help the guys finish up here. Ruben is still in the brewery, and he can walk me to my car,” Paula smiled as she checked the levels of the various supplies and waved Vanessa out.

Back at her apartment, Brian wasted no time. Vanessa was aroused and pushing into the hardness she could feel beneath his scrubs in ten minutes flat. She made a mental note that surgeons were very good with their hands, then tugged him free.

Their nudity was swift and eager. She imagined him in surgery; the efficiency of his movements working quickly toward a mutual goal. They did not waste energy with affection, but worked in concert to release one another, first on the couch, then the table.

When they had finished their encounter at the dining table, Brian whispered, “Mind if I use your shower?”

“Mind if I join you?”

Again his hands and body did not disappoint. Weak kneed after, Vanessa gave him a few minutes alone to clean up.

She was standing at the kitchen sink in an old blue cotton robe, drinking a cup of peppermint tea when he walked out of the bedroom wrapped only in a towel.

“Listen,” he said before she could get any ideas about further romping, “I have really enjoyed our time together, Veronica. But I have to get home to my wife.”

The smile slid off Vanessa’s face as the cup slid out of her hand. It crashed in the sink just as she yelped, “Your wife?!” she covered her face, ashamed.

“Yes, my wife. Whom I love very much. But she’s on pelvic rest with the pregnancy, and I—”
“Wait. No. You’re married?! But you weren’t wearing a ring!”

“You didn’t ask, Veronica.” He was dressing, quickly. Vanessa wondered how often he had played out this scenario with other unsuspecting women.

“Oh, my God. Get out,” Vanessa said, her face burning with disgust and shame. He obliged, leaving quietly with a brief nod as he closed the door behind him.

Vanessa was not okay. She was not the kind of woman to hone in on another woman’s trust. She was not a homewrecker.

“Why do all the men I screw, screw me over?” Vanessa locked the door and went to bed, hot tears stinging her eyes. She lay on her side and noted drowsily that her objective had been attained. She was doped up from her encounter and pulled out of the past. But her heart was a hot mess.

With a past like hers, would she be able to find a way forward with Javier? A memory tickled at the back of her mind. Granny used to say prayer was a way, a road we build for love to walk into our lives. Vanessa might as well try it because clearly the established methods were not working. For the first time in years, she prayed as she fell asleep.

“Okay, God, don’t let Javier be already married.” In place of an “Amen”, Vanessa snored into her pillow.