I'll Be Damned (Anna Wolfe Series) (4 page)

"Yes," she says with strong eyes. "Listen, Anna, I know you have your doubts and concerns…" she trails off, shifting her weight. “Life isn't a fairytale anymore," she exhales. 

Clearly it isn’t, but the amount of time I wasted inside my head, creating my ideal grown-up life saddens me. Growing up, I stockpiled stories, dreams and wishes of what my life could become, drawing up my own blueprint by the age of eleven. I constructed it, shaped it and reinforced it with stupid aspirations of something great. I guess it's in our nature to always build. Never fix, just build. If you don't like it, simply demolish your old dreams and build new ones. Not happy in a marriage? Get rid of it, forget it, but whatever you do, don't fix it. I don't blame Janie for not fixing Nick and hers, but I do blame society for encouraging demolition rather than improvement.

“I know it’s hard to comprehend. There are a few unexplainable things too,” she mutters. “Important other things,” she finishes vaguely.

I’m still unable to wrap my mind around her reasoning so I don’t acknowledge her “other things” comment. She's not in the mood to share, so I won't push her.

“Janie, I don’t know what to say,” I respond.  

She looks pitiful, watching me through eyes filled with tears. There is definitely something more to this, but she’s reluctant to say. I scoot next to her and throw her into a tight, sister hug. Janie cries as her world crumbles and lies flat, right next to mine.

At the end our conversation, I call it a night. I set Janie up in the spare bedroom on the first floor and climb the stairs. My room is stuffy and I’m not sure if it’s from the remnants of our chat or just stale air. I walk to the window, gently coaxing it open after a few light tugs. Chilly, night air creeps in quietly, cooling my arm as it passes by. After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I practically leap into bed. The aftershocks of today’s events rumble through my head, refusing to settle down. Restless, I take a stab at the marketing concept I’ve been avoiding. In place of creativity, a blank sheet of paper stares at me accusingly. My pencil is ready, waiting patiently in my clammy fingers. I don’t remember it ever being this complicated. My brain seems to have erected a brick wall between my artistic power and achievement, severing all contact. I sigh, frustrated nothing will come to me.

When I first opened the shop, my intentions were to have a coffeehouse that reflected the city time forgot. I wanted to maintain a prominent Southern feel in addition to appealing to the different age groups. Ultimately speaking, my shop is graced more by the younger generation than any other. Maybe my décor is too modern or artsy. The mural of a live oak tree that frames the entranceway of my shop comes to mind. Perhaps it’s too large and ostentatious with its long limbs stretching the length of the ceiling and down the caramel-colored walls. Okay, maybe it's too much, but I’m not painting over it; that’s for sure. The more I think about it, the less convinced I am that my décor is keeping older customers away. I know it’s hip, but it’s not too funky. I have ample seating, like the oversized, amethyst plush couches and four sets of spacious tables and chairs. I even carved out a special area in the back of the shop, specifically designated for those who prefer less chatter. I mentally walk through my place, hoping to pinpoint a deterrence. The wraparound porch bends in an L-shape, stretching from the front of the store and around the side. Blond wooden tables, with matching chairs, dressed in deep red cushions, sit vacant on the patio. A three-foot-high, wrought iron fence hugs the perimeter and separates the patrons from the general public. Victorian-style oil lamps illuminate each corner, staunch sentries of another time period. Several rows of globe lights zigzag through the air above, casting their soft glow below. The Savannah Tribune once featured my terrace for the best innovative design, calling it,
“…one of those places that is reminiscent of the past with a flair for the future.”

Maybe I should incorporate more workshops or events that cater to an older population. If I knew running a coffeehouse would be so tough, I might have thought twice before signing my life away. I chuck the empty notebook and pencil on my nightstand, finally resting my head on my pillow. Although Janie’s news has mentally exhausted me, her company is nice. Some nights emphasize the loneliness in my life, more than the crickets and occasional toads I have as companions. I gaze through the open window, watching the stars twinkle against the blackened night sky. The country has an unrivaled backdrop, especially at night, when the world comes alive in its unguarded beauty and sounds. Another cool draft floats over me, announcing the day’s heat has fully retired for the night. Like many old Southern homes, mine was designed to capture the occasional breeze by having an elevated foundation and open floor plan. Summer nights would be unbearable without it. Just as sleep begins to tempt me, the sound of my phone message startles me back to consciousness. I refuse to move. What if there’s an emergency? I wouldn’t forgive myself if something happened and I was too lazy to look at my phone. I blindly reach for it, flipping it open.
New Message
illuminates the screen in bright green letters. I click on the button to view it, immediately regretting it.

I’m coming for you…

This small sentence seems so much larger on my tiny screen. No name or number is visible, just a disturbing threat. How weird. Is that possible? I am creeped out, to say the least. Given the late hour, I chalk it up to a drunken text sent to the wrong number, and place my phone back on the nightstand. A few seconds later, another beep echoes through the silence. Fanfriggintastic! It’s impossible to sleep with my buzzing curiosity. Annoyed, I grab my phone, smacking the
Wake
button with my forefinger.
New message
is blinking again. I click the
Open
button.

Anna, I’m coming for you…

Now they’re using my name. Chills roll over my body as I attempt to swallow the golf ball-sized lump in my throat. I can't contact the police since there’s no number. What could they do anyway? I don’t want to bother them over a few stupid messages. That also prevents me from waking Janie. I hit the
End
button, deciding sleep is more important than anxiety. Throwing the phone back on the nightstand, I cover my head with my comforter, and attempt to build a wall between the outside world and me. 

***

Beep Beep Beep Beep…
My alarm clock screams, trampling my restful sleep with its annoying jangle. It blatantly ignores how little sleep I got last night. It couldn’t careless how worn out my eyes will look, surrounded by dark circles and pillow-top puffiness. I weasel out of bed towards the bathroom, trying to gain momentum. After brushing my teeth, I take a shower and slap on every bit of makeup I own, hoping to appear human. Despite the abundance of concealer I cake under my eyes, the puffiness won’t retract. Damn you, puffy eyes! I throw my towel on the floor, frustrated I can’t afford a professional makeup artist or expensive miracle cream. From my dresser, I pull pieces of my work outfit from their appropriate drawers. A pair of khaki shorts and a dark brown Déjà Brew polo with white flip-flops will do. I pull my hair into a loose ponytail, one that I’ll adjust ten times today, and step back on the tile floor of my bathroom. I take one last look at myself in the mirror and flinch. It’s amazing how one night’s lack of sleep can age you five years. I walk downstairs, opting not to make myself breakfast this morning. I check in on Janie and Rutey to find both still asleep. Lucky dogs. I quietly click her door shut. In the entryway, I gather my freshly blank notes off the table and stuff them into my oversized purse. I lock the front door, determined to have a good day. Forty minutes later, I’m parked and entering the back door of Déjà Brew. I make myself a hot French vanilla espresso, while stuffing a cheese Danish in my mouth. There’s nothing like the combination of caffeine and sugar to combat fatigue.

I walk to one of my couches, and plop myself in it. I eat my pastry and sip my espresso in peace, struggling to gather the motivation I desperately need. After a relaxing ten minutes, I unlock the front door, pulling it towards me. The humidity caresses my cheek, promising a sweltering day. I stride outside, inspecting the porch for any vandalism or mysterious musical chairs, but everything looks in order. The streets are gradually becoming animated with the sound of cell phones and footsteps. I rearrange a few tables, placing them beneath the shadowy overhang of the neighboring magnolia tree. It’s the end of May and the temperature sometimes climbs over eighty degrees with double digit humidity. Sweat beads drip from my forehead, evaporating before they have a chance to hit the ground. I survey my arrangement and after a few more furniture manipulations, I’m satisfied. I steal a quick glimpse down the street, watching a crimpled figure walk towards me.  

“Hey Anna!” the wavy figure yells.  

“Hey Kristy," I reply with a smile and a wave.

My best friend stops by, showing off her bright, white teeth in a genuine smile. Several strands of her honey-blond hair fall perfectly from her tight ponytail as if she did it on purpose. Her gentle blue eyes dance in the reflection of the sun. She’s one of the kindest people I know. I can’t remember a time when she threw anyone a sideways glance. We met a few months after I moved here at the restaurant, Alligator Soul, a place known for their authentic Southern meals. We became well-acquainted after I started showing up once a week. She was their top waitress until I offered her a management position at my place. Shortly after that, we occupied ourselves with sleepovers, mud masks and in-depth discussions. During my difficult time with Stephen, Kristy supported me and my dwindling self confidence. She was even kind enough to help me unpack my emotional baggage.

Kristy places her hands on her tiny waist. “Jesus, you look like hell, girlfriend,” she says in a comforting tone.

She wraps everything in kindness, softening the hard truth. It’s because of this wonderful trait I don’t feel offended, but instead find it amusing. She’s not an
in your face
type, spouting off her opinions whenever she feels like. She politely tells people where to shove it, or gracefully slides the pedestal out from underneath me if I ever dare to climb up on one. She has a magnetic personality that attracts people from all walks of life. When I introduce her to a customer or an acquaintance, they’re instantly drawn to her. I don't know what it is, but I wish some of her mojo would rub off on me.

“Thanks a lot!” I chuckle. “As you can see, I’m blessed with the horrible puffy-eye genes,” I say with a half smile.

“That's why they make special creams," she retorts playfully.

“They do nothing for me,” I counter with a little whine in my voice.

We walk inside, folding ourselves on the plush couch, and taking advantage of the quiet before the storm of customers. I decide to share the text messages from last night just in case I magically disappear. "Last night I received some bizarre text messages," I start off shyly.

Kristy shrugs. “What do you mean?”

I give her a little background, starting with the dinner from hell, minus the cramping. “I finally fall asleep when my phone beeps. I check it just in case and it reads, ‘I’m coming for you,’” I pause to gauge her reaction before I continue. “I assumed someone was drunk and playing around until the second one. They used my name,” I say wearily.

“Your name?” Kristy asks, astounded.

“Yes, my name. Anna… me,” I say, pointing to myself to clear any confusion. Shock can be a funny thing sometimes.

“Did you call the police?”

“No, for what?” I pause. “What would I say? A weirdo texted me with threats? They would probably laugh and hang up.”

Kristy tilts her head, thinking about this tidbit with common sense. “Yeah, I can see your point,” she agrees.

“Besides, that’s why I’m telling you,” I grin. “I didn’t tell Janie. In fact, I wasn’t going to share this with anyone, but then I thought, what if I disappear or something?” I add playfully.

“Anna, that’s not remotely funny,” Kristy laughs, jabbing her elbow into my side.

“Ouch!” I yelp, rubbing my ribs.

Surprisingly, a sharp pain shoots through my stomach, radiating into my chest like a bullet. I keel over immediately, grasping the arm of the couch with my hand. My eyelids press together as my breath gets violently sucked out of me.

“Oh my God! Anna, are you okay?” Kristy stammers.

I hear her shuffle to the floor directly in front of me. I inhale deeply a few times, focusing on reducing the pain. “I’m fine, Kristy,” I say, shooing the air dismissively with a quick flick of my wrist.