The Gift Shop (Part 2)

Waking up is painful this morning. It feels like the alcohol scooped out all the good parts of me and flushed them down the drain. I wash my face with cold water, dabbing some on my neck and letting drops slide down my skin to feel some relief. Calling in sick sounds ideal, but I can’t afford to miss a day, so I slide my feet through my leggings, dressing for the day, trying not to wobble with dizziness.

I get to the gift shop at 930 AM and prepare the cash register, an extra large coffee is my companion, and I take careful sips, trying not to upset my stomach more than it is. Why… why do I do this to myself? I groan and make a mental note to stop self-destructing whenever there’s a slight emotional hiccup in my life. Easier said than done.

I hear Tracy enter through the back door, a cold burst of air following her in.

“Good morning Kita!” she calls as she tears her winter garments off, stuffing them into her locker in the back storage room.

“Mornin’ Tracy,” I try to sound fine, like I’m not a hungover mess, but just speaking makes my stomach heave.

Tracy comes around the corner in her usual cheerful state. “You look tired!” she exclaims. She reminds me of a grandma, warm, smiling, caring, always trying to shove cookies in your face and make sure you’re well-fed. But she can also be a bit blunt in her words, usually innocently ignorant of how it comes across to others.

I shrug, “Yeah, I guess I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“It’s not menopause, is it?”

“Tracy! I’m 38!” I laugh. Do I look that bad? I decide hiding in the back and organizing stock might be my best bet today. Hide my hungover face from the public.

“Oh yeah, I guess you got a few years left then, don’t you.”

I smirk, “Alright Tracy, I’m going to sequester myself to the dreaded storage room today, get it organized before all the Christmas stock get’s here.”

//

It’s afternoon, and I’m starting to feel a little more human again. Tracy hollers from the register counter, “Kita, go on and take an hour lunch, I got it here, been quiet.”

My goose-down winter jacket glides over my arms and I wrap a scarf around my neck, preparing for the blustery cold outside. I start feeling flush and exit the back door swiftly, welcoming the cold air on my cheeks, feeling a relief I’d been craving all morning. I need something greasy; I don’t care about the cost right now. My boots dredge through the snow in the back alley and I hit the end of the street, turning left towards Moose Lodge, a pub with just the right menu for my condition.

I take a table by a window so I can look out, watch the cars drive by, their exhaust rising like smoke from a chimney along the streets.

A server walks up to the table, “Hey Kita, how are you? I haven't seen you in forever!”

“Rebecca? I didn’t know you worked here?”

“Yeah, Rob got laid off a month ago. He was workin’ at the mine. Whole bunch of ‘em were let go. So, I gotta’ be the breadwinner now.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry Rebecca. That can’t be easy on you,” I say. Here I am worried about just myself and making rent. I can’t imagine how awful it would be to have a whole family to worry about. I wince, feeling a pang of empathy.

“Well, you gotta’ do what you gotta’ do, right? Anyways, we got a nooner special on, cheeseburger, fries, and a big mug a’beer for fifteen bucks.”
I hesitate for half a second, but the beer would be a good hair-of-the-dog. “Yeah sure, fuck it, that’s a good deal.”

The window next to me starts filling with condensation, obscuring my outdoor watching. I turn my attention to the T.V.’s at the bar, filling time with needless distractions. Rebecca drops the mug off at my table. I pick it up, it’s nice and cold in my hand, I take a sip, feeling a washing relief over my body. I finish it before the food comes.

“Do you want another one?” Rebecca comes by, picking up the empty mug.

I hesitate again. But only briefly. It’s helping me feel much, much better. “Yeah sure, why not.”

The food finally comes and I ravenously bite into my burger. I can feel ketchup get on the corner of my mouth. I’ll wipe that later. I pick up the beer and wash it down, my fingers greasy with ketchup and beef juice.

“Hey, Nakita, right?” I hear a deep male voice from my side and look over. It’s him! Oh God. The bearded mountain man from yesterday.

I swiftly grab a napkin, wiping my face, mortified. “Oh, hey, yeah, hi.” Fuck, I must look horrible. I continue wiping my face, terrified I missed a spot. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name yesterday,” I clutch the dirty napkin in my right hand for dear life, in case he mentions I have something still lingering.
“I’m Nathan Sedgewick,” he offers his hand to shake, I drop the napkin to the side of my plate, giving my hand a wipe on my pants, then shake his hand back, burning with embarrassment. Why is he here now? This is the worst timing.

“Actually, I’m glad I’m running into you again. I was thinking about it last night, and you’re right. Two weeks just isn’t enough time to knit a masterpiece, on top of the job you already have. I’m sure my mother can wait an extra little bit. And, I’ll pay you good so it’s worth your time. How’s, say, I dunno, $800 sound?”

I almost choke on my own spit. “Oh God, that’s too much,” I stammer, looking to the ground. He can’t be serious. Although, $800 would fix a lot of problems for me, between rent and the rising cost of groceries and gas.

“No really, I appreciate good work and I know you’ll pull through,” he looks at the sweater I’m wearing. Its intricate pattern weaves fine-gauged wool with purls and knits and various greys, beiges, whites. “You made that one, didn’t you?”

I nod.

“See?” he says, smiling.

“Okay,” it’s all I can muster. I am still dying inside with the reality that the man from yesterday is seeing me at, nearly my worst.

“Perfect, can I get your number then?” he asks, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.  

I’m starting to feel stupid for having a crush on him. This is entirely business. It’s got to be. There’s no spark, is there? I bet Nathan is just another charming man that knows how to talk to women, making them bend over backwards and make idiots of themselves.
I tell him my number hoping he leaves soon so I can look at a mirror from my purse and check my face.

“Okay, I’ll text you the photo reference,” he tucks his phone back in his pocket and then glances behind him, throwing up a hand towards a man at the bar in a wave. “I’ll let you get back to your lunch. Thanks again, Nakita.” He smiles, then leaves me sitting there at the booth.

Conflicting emotions flutter in my heart. At least I’m getting paid $800. It’s the money that settles me. I’m getting what I need out of this. So what if I read into it a bit too much? That’s life, isn’t it? Communicating, miscommunicating, living in your head too long in the wild cold of Alaska? We all do it.

Rebecca comes to bring the bill, “So, how do you know Nathan?”

I pull out my credit card, giving her a hefty tip. I’ll have money soon. “Just met the guy, came into the shop the other day. Says he wants me to knit a sweater for his mom.”

“Oh,” she raises her eyebrows playfully. “You know he’s loaded, right?”

I shrug. It’s not any of my business. And I gathered he could be, the way he was using money to get his way. “Maybe you should dump Rob,” I joke, raising my brows back.

“Oh honey, believe me, I’ve thought about it,” she laughs picking up the debit machine, “have a good one, Kita.”

Back at work, I pull out my phone and zoom in on the photo of Nathan’s mother. She was really a beauty, her long brown hair parted meticulously down the middle, the soft waves cradling her face. She has green cat eyes and a devious smile. I’m sure Nathan’s standards of women are entirely based on his mother. I could never measure up. But why am I still even thinking about that? Mentally, I berate myself and turn my focus back on the money and start picking out yarn, eye-matching it to the photo.

Suddenly, I realize I forgot to ask Nathan what his mother’s current size is. I’ve been so wrapped up on the mental gymnastics it took to shut down my attraction to him that I was forgetting basic things. I pull up our messages and begin typing, but before I can hit send, I receive a message from him: “It was really nice seeing you today.”

“Oh, no,” I say.

“What is it?” Tracy asks from behind me.

I didn’t really intend on saying that out loud, but now I have to account for it. That isn’t a phrase one can leave hanging. “I’m in trouble,” I say and sigh heavily, putting my phone away. I let it burn in my pocket, percolate, you're never supposed to text back right away.