Purely Unconditional: A Romantic Tale of Snow Days and Second Chances (7 page)

I press my lips together. I nod. And because there’s
nothing more to say, I grab my purse from the floor and stand. As
casually and classily as I can, I adjust my skirt in back, so it’s
no longer sticking to my sweaty thighs.

****

My car is a ten-year-old Nissan Altima. It wasn’t
ten years old when I got it. It was a young and spritely seven
years old. When my best friend, Natalie, gave me the keys, I
instantly fell in love. I sat behind the wheel and named him Barry
Allen, and on days when he would go fast, I would call him the
Flash. I have yet to call him the Flash. In fact, there are days I
can barely call him anything but Damn It Stupid Car. The only nice
thing about him is the color: a deep ruby red. As for the rest…

The passenger door is so rusted that there are small
holes at the very bottom of it. There are several large dents on
the driver’s side and several smaller ones on the back. All
cosmetic, my mechanic (read: son of my next door neighbor who comes
by like, four times a year and he just so happened to look at my
car seven months ago) says, so I never bothered to fix them. The
car is such a weakling my friends and I joke that it doesn’t have
horse power, it has pony power. Goes from zero to fifteen in thirty
seconds

The car makes that all too familiar creak and groan
as I open the door and sit. I throw my purse on the passenger’s
seat. You know, now that I think about it, I’m somewhat glad I
didn’t get the loan. In fact, maybe me not getting the loan was
divine intervention or something. After all, I’d have hated to be
indebted to the bank where Patty It’s-In-The-Mail-Liar works, she
who can’t maintain eye contact.

The thought actually makes me feel a little bit
better.

I stick my key in the ignition, fully prepared to go
to the bank down the road, just to prove my theory, when
suddenly…

Click click click.

“Oh no.”

I turn the key again.

Click click click.

I lean my head against the steering wheel.

“Damn It Stupid Car.”

Chapter Two

“
Do you like pina coladas? Getting caught in the
rain?”

I grab my phone before it can finish the next
ringtone lyric and, with nary a glance at the screen (only one is
worthy enough for that song), I say, “My car broke down.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

Natalie sighs. “Jeez, what a piece of shit. Whoever
gave you that car sucks.”

“I know. We should beat her up.”

“Nah, I hear she likes that kind of stuff.”

I snort and shake my head.

“Where are you?” she asks.

“King’s Square, next to the bank.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“You’re a life saver.”

“I know. How’d the bank go?”

“Didn’t. I was denied.”

“Wow, a slap in the face and a kick in the balls.
It’s your lucky day.”

“I know. I should play the lottery. I bet I’d step
in dog crap on my way into the store and break my ankle on the way
out.”

“That would be pretty awesome. I mean, in terms of
unfortunate events.”

I grin, though it doesn’t make the ache in my chest
any less potent. I turn the key one more time, hoping against
hope.

Click click click.

“I’m so depressed.”

“You’re not depressed,” Natalie answers. “You’re
just disappointed in the loan. But you’ll get there. Just keep
doing what you’re doing.”

“You know that’s the definition of insanity,
right?”

“Hey, we’re all mad here.”

I smile weakly as a memory flashes in my head: Me:
Alice. Natalie: the Cheshire Cat. And yes, in answer to your
question, she is the only person on earth with a body that can pull
off a purple-striped cat suit.

I hang up and throw my phone in my purse and hoist
it on my shoulder. It’s too nice to stay in the car, so I brace
myself against my rusty door and shove my way out. Several people
look over at the noise it makes. I want to say something sarcastic
to them in that moment, but I’m not Natalie and I can’t think of
anything. Let’s face it, even if I could, I’d never have the guts
to actually do it. Now, if I were Natalie, sure, I’d stick out my
tongue or (let’s be real) my middle finger. But, as I step onto
King’s Square in my generic brand heels, and the autumn light
glints off my dollar store bracelet, I am reminded once again that
I am not Natalie. Forget the physical attributes—she’s tall and
half-Syrian I’m short and blonde—my fashion sense alone would count
me out. I don’t even come close to having her nerve.

But don’t think I’m too down on myself. I’ve got
clear skin and small feet, which is nice when I want to go out
bowling with friends. No shame in my shoe size. (Hey, I take wins
where I can get them.) Plus, believe it or not, my size six feet
can seriously fit in the largest kid shoe size, so if I ever wanted
to rock some Disney princess kicks, I could. (Like I said, wins
where I can get them.)

I pass Mario’s Pizza and the smell is like a siren
song. I’m so close to going in, but then I remember: no money.
Fabulous. With a sigh, I keep walking.

The most striking thing about King’s Square is not
only the size of it—one mile to the north, one mile to the south,
one mile to the east, and one mile to the west—and it’s perfect
square shape, but the absolute eclecticness of the place. (Is
eclecticness a word? It doesn’t sound like it should be a word, but
there’s really no other word that’s appropriate.) In one building
is a men’s shoe shop, in the next, a tattoo parlor, and in the
next, a high-end dog supplies boutique. There’s a handful of coffee
shops, one seemingly every sixth storefront, but they’re as
different as eggs and oranges. There’s the Cat Café which, as you
can guess, houses about fifteen cats that can crawl, jump and sit
on you during your stay, as well as knock an entire scone down your
bra, and when you try to remove it (the scone, not the bra) the
damn thing is so dry it crumbles and gets in the most inconvenient
cracks…not that I’m speaking from experience or anything. There’s
Books and Bagels, a personal favorite; Elmo’s is at the corner
across from the Chinese massage parlor Lucky Hands which, during
high school, Natalie had a field day with…actually, she
still
has field days with; and The Coffee Tree, Foxy’s,
Beans and Whey and a host of similarly clever-named places finish
out the coffee vendors. Don’t even get me started on the fine-china
stores…or the motorcycle seat covers store…or the year-round
Christmas lights store…or the pet shop that only sells spiders.
Really, I’m telling you: eclecticness.

But damn, it all looks so good in the glow of fall
time. The fire-bright leaves, whether on the trees or dotting the
sidewalk, adds a vibrancy and richness that the rest of the seasons
just can’t compete with. There’s a lightness in the air, as if the
October breeze swept out all the smog and heaviness of summer, and
now there’s only fresh air and cool promises.

Well, at least for everyone but me. I can’t believe
I was denied for a loan, and on such a nice day. It’s like when I
see some poor critter dead on the side of the road. It seems to
make it doubly cruel when it’s gorgeous out. One minute, they’re
enjoying the sunshine. The next, bam! And all they were trying to
do was get to the other side of the street. That’s me. I feel like
I got hit by a semi.

I adjust my purse on my shoulder and keep walking.
As I pass the Cat Café—a large black cat stares at me, his glinting
eyes knowing, as if he remembers—my phone beeps. Natalie. I read
her text and head into the corner market. She says she’s five
minutes away, which really means she’s just leaving now.

The corner market, or, as the sign says, Korner
MarKet, is run by Mr. and Mrs. Giffin, two of the nicest people
you’ll ever meet. Mr. Giffin is a retired NBA all-star with Hershey
Kiss-colored eyes and hands so big they can easily palm a
watermelon and still have room to hold a grapefruit. His wife is
mortal-sized with a head of curly brown hair that is always,
without fail, held back by a Star of David barrette. A gift from
her mother, she tells everyone who makes eye contact with the
thing. It’s easy to do; the jewelry is gorgeous.

“Hi, Mrs. G,” I say as I come in. She’s behind the
register tapping away on her phone. A huge pumpkin on the counter
nearly eclipses her completely. The store smells like produce and
cinnamon.

“Layla!” She comes around the counter and throws her
arms around me, swaying side to side.

“Where’ve you been?” she asks, relinquishing her
tight hold. “The fair trade sugar came in weeks ago for you. Do you
know how hard it’s been keeping Frank from that stuff?”

Frank is her husband, aka, Mr. Big Hands. (Hmmm…I
wonder if there’s any way of saying that without it sounding
sexual…kind of like when you say the word willy. Or
balls.
I
juggle balls. I love meatballs. Balls are fun to play with. Mr. Big
Balls—I mean, hands. Mr. Big Hands. Big Fingers. Mr. Big—nope. No,
there isn’t.)

The door opens and Mrs. G. waves at the people
coming in, just as friendly and warm as usual. Then she turns back
to me, an expectant look on her face.

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s been crazy
lately.” Reality: I’ve been broke. “I’ve been meaning to stop by
and just…one thing after another kept coming up.” Reality: I’ve
been really broke.

“Well, you can pick up the stuff now. I’ll have
Frank get it.” She inhales and opens her mouth, about to shout down
the store, when I say her name.

“Thank you, but I didn’t bring my wallet with
me.”

“Oh, just bring me the check later. It’s no big
deal. I trust you.”

I appreciate her faith, I do. But there’s no way I
can take that sugar. I mean, I don’t think she understands how
later that later would truly be. Much later. And just like my
Tell-Tale Turtle, I’d simply feel too guilty.

Kowabunga…

I shake my head and smile. “Really, thank you, but I
couldn’t. Besides, my oven needs repaired so I’m not even doing
much baking. Let Frank have it.”

Mrs. G., after several more minutes of trying to
convince me to take the sugar, finally relents. That’s the thing
about Silver Lake. Even though it’s a pretty big city, it somehow
feels very small-town, and I say that in the best way possible.
People know each other. They seriously do trust each other.
Generations of families have lived here and continue to. People may
move, but they always seem to come back. Remember that whole “birth
to earth” quote from West Side Story? Yeah, that’s applicable
here.

My phone beeps and I take it from my purse.

Get in, loser. We’re going shopping.

Natalie.

I say my goodbyes to Mrs. G. and head back outside.
I make the trek to my car as quick as I can, huffing (how pathetic)
a bit when I finally get there. I make a mental note to cut back on
the potato chips…just as soon as I finish the bag I have opened at
home.

I stand on the curb and await Natalie’s entrance. I
do not wait long.

A gleaming yellow and black Camaro turns onto King’s
Square. The roof is down, the radio is up. John Lennon is growling
the growliest invitation to twist and shout that ever was growled.
And Natalie is behind the wheel, her dark chestnut hair perfectly
highlighted, expertly styled and enviably shiny, moving in the
breeze as if she were Beyoncé. Her aviator sunglasses only make her
cheekbones look that much more pronounced, her jawline that much
more sharp. Her lips are the color of candy apples.

She stops the car in front of me.

“Shake it up baby now! Twist and shout.”

I give her a look. “I left my sports bra at home. I
can’t.”

“Come on and work it on out.”

I roll my eyes and slide in her car. “Do you want a
black eye? My boobs will hit you.”

“You know you twist so fine.”

“I hate you.”

She grins and hits the gas. I jerk back a bit at the
sudden motion.

“Where are we going? My car is still—”

“Don’t worry,” she says, practically shouting over
the combined noise of the radio and wind now that we’re moving
fast. “I called my friend, Jin. He’ll stop by and take a look.”

“Yeah? And will he tow the thing or grant me three
wishes?”

She smiles. “Rub his lamp the right way and he might
do both.”

I chuckle and shake my head. But then: “Do you
seriously want to shop? I’m broker than a joke right now.”

Natalie doesn’t answer. Instead, she keeps singing
as we turn out of King’s Square and hit Carnahan. She travels down
the serpentine road so fast I feel like we’re either going to fly
right off it or rupture the space-time continuum. Maybe both. It’s
all par for the course with her, but I still strap in and start
praying to St. Anthony.
Find a way to make sure I get back home
in one piece.

“So where are we going?” I ask.

Natalie flashes her teeth like a shark widening its
maw. “Do you even have to ask?”

I sit back and push my hair from my face as
understanding dawns. (Also, remind me never to wear lip-gloss if
I’m riding with the top down. Also, remind to bring force Natalie
to put the top up on the way home; the cool breeze is now a
freezing tornado.) As I think of our destination, and as Natalie
hits the parkway and really puts her car in gear, a boom goes off.
It’s either us passing the sound barrier, or my head exploding as I
try to mentally balance my bank account, hoping I can actually
afford where we’re heading.