Pt. 3 Looking for Merci: Assignment
Join our first narrator 20 years after the kiss behind the sanctuary
Catch up on part 1 and part 2 before you dive in.
Our part 1 narrator, Whitney, 20 years after the kiss behind the sanctuary…
The door tugged. I desperately held up a battery-powered mini-fan to my armpits to dry them. I’d prepared for everything and anything on these long assignments.
“Just a minute!” I yelled. The light blue button-up was probably a terrible choice in the heat, but I couldn’t risk not wearing my lucky color for this assignment. I took another look in the mirror. The ancestral force of Eco-Styler gel and prayer held my low ponytail in place against the summer humidity. You’d think by now I’d learn not to wear a press in the summertime, but Mama drilled into my head that the only way to be presentable was with a fresh press. At least I’d been sensible enough to wear a ponytail instead of loose curls.
I wouldn’t see my Mama again for a few weeks, but I promised to keep up our traditional Sunday phone call once she got home from cooking at the church. I missed being in person to watch my mama make magic from a few herbs and spices, but I had to admit it was better since I moved. When the conversation inevitably shifted to Mama’s favorite topic—marriage and grandchildren—I could feign bad reception until we moved on.
The door tugged again. With the drying mission mostly successful, I tucked my fan into my work bag. I still had 15 minutes, and every nerve buzzed as the clock ticked.
The shop was relatively empty except for a table with a few blondes in athleisure and a scruff man hacking away at a computer with a baseball cap. The barista had bold features that should be on a magazine cover and perked up when I roamed around the store. Her skin was the color of burnt red clay. Her lips were full and supple, permanently puckered as if swollen from a kiss. Damnit. I didn’t turn away fast enough. Maybe she didn’t notice. I buried myself in the bagged ground coffee options until it was safe.
The feeling stirred. That’s what I called it now. The feeling I’d ignored for years until it burned my stomach like an ulcer. My doctor had warned me about the impact of stress on the body while I half-listened and counted the specks of purple on the multi-color floor tile. But we made a plan I followed completely - fewer sugars, more exercise, and mindfulness. Despite my doctor’s concerns, I knew the feeling wasn’t stress. If I dared to call it what it was out loud, my whole world might get snatched away again. So, it killed me inside out instead. It churned and turned into a familiar blistering burn as I browsed the ground coffee bags aimlessly.
“Need help with anything?” the barista called out. I had inadvertently stared off into space again with a bag of dark roast in my hands.
“Thank you, I’m okay. Oh, that looks good. What’s that?” I asked, putting down the ground coffee and pointing to the baked goods display case. A thick pink rectangular cake was on a crisp white display stand under glass without a sign. It was stuck right between double fudge brownies and coffee cakes.
“That’s new; it’s a pink lemon loaf cake. Would you like some?” the barista answered.
I scrunched my nose. “Loaf cake?”
“Our loaf cake is basically a spin on pound cake. Not sure how long it’ll last in this neighborhood since we use,” she leaned in, motioning for me to step closer. I obliged.
“Real butter,” she whispered.
Our giggles were almost as warm as the barista’s hand now gingerly placed on my arm. I stared at the pound cake. My heart pounded in my ears. There it was, this thing I hadn’t touched in twenty years, in a pink disguise.
“I don’t know how long you’re in town, but if you love cake, I know another cute little bakery we could try,” the barista smiled with a different sparkle in her eyes. Cold sweat dripped from my temple down the curve of my neck.
“I leave today, but thank you,” I lied, fleeing the scene.
I doubled over at the corner of the block, my breath ragged. The feeling burned again. I’d tried everything to snuff it out over the years. The first was Ricky, the one who clumsily fumbled my bra hooks for five minutes in the back of his mama’s Altima back in high school. All the girls were doing it now, so I figured something would click for me when I did it—like when you had to bang an old TV back in the day to get it to work. It didn’t get that far. Instead, I went home that night, pisssssed, with breasts sticky from his spit.
Then, more recently, was my ex-boyfriend Luther. Two years, three months, and twenty-two days of watching paint dry. Luther was everything he was supposed to be—kind, patient, loving, and attentive. When I broke things off after finding an engagement ring in his sock drawer, he promised to change into whatever I needed. It was hopeless; I let him go and be a good husband to someone else and buried myself in work. It was better for everyone that way. As an expert in high-stress situations, my job demanded my full attention. I could get lost in my work like a detective uncovering clues. It also gave Mama something to be proud of while she prayed for grandbabies.
I regained my composure and made it to the office with five minutes to spare. Some of the city was visible from the reception area. The sound of taxis and hoards of people felt far enough away that maybe they were all a fever dream. The receptionist greeted me and shared adorable stories about his kid's track meets on the walk to the opposite end of the office. I was glad it was fitted with plenty of monitors, whiteboards, and table space for me to do my best work. Even a tiny window let some light in. A lot of folks tried to stick me in some back closet even though I was the one saving their ass.
A quick rapt at the door startled me.
“Ms. Robinson? Welcome. Glad you could make it,” a woman in a tailored grey suit, darkening the doorway. “I’m Robin, Founder and CEO.”
“Ms. Green, actually,” I said, extending my hand. “Michelle Robinson got sick late last night, so they flew me in as her replacement. But please, call me Whitney. I thought they emailed you.”
“I’ve been on calls all morning—I apologize for the oversight. Well, Whitney, I’m glad you’re here. We’d like to get started right away. My Chief of Staff should have sent the documentation you’ll need.”
“Yes, I read everything on the plane. We are in a good place to have your organization audit ready in time.”
Robin tapped the desk. “Great. Conference room in 10. It’s just down this hallway.”
Hours later, they were up to their eyeballs in files but took a breather for a very late lunch. It was the first of many long days, but it had been smooth so far.
“So Whitney, I like getting to know people I work with. I’ve found it makes the environment better. I keep good people around,” Robin didn’t break eye contact with me but gestured towards her Chief of Staff at the end of the table; her wedding ring sent a flicker of light over the table. I could see the Chief of Staff try to hide a bashful smile in my peripheral vision. My upbringing in a small church had benefits—my radar tuned to pick up on skinning and grinning. I could not wait to talk to Mama on Sunday.
“Tell me something,” Robin continued. “Where are you from?”
I paused; a hefty serving of chicken and Caesar salad dangled from my fork. “I live in Atlanta now, but I’m from a little town just outside of Macon, Georgia.”
“Oh really? I’m familiar,” Robin leaned forward. “My wife grew up in that area for part of her childhood and adolescence.”
I nodded, surprised. People typically knew nothing outside of Atlanta and Savannah; the rest of Georgia was often a mystery.
“Maybe we went to school together,” I shrugged. “Church. It was one of those ‘everybody knows everybody’ places.”
Robin took a sip of her cold brew. “I’ll introduce you if you’re still here when she comes by later. I’m sure Merci would love to meet you.”
To be continued…
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*insert high pitched screaming*
NOT ME BREATHING HARD AND PANICKING.