The Opportunist

Oh and he hates basketball, just like me. Fabulous right?

I met him the day I took the Bar. He asked to borrow a pencil. What type of idiot comes to take the bar without a pencil? I think.  When I handed it to him he just sat there and looked at me.

“What?” I said, not even trying to hide my impatience.

“I need your number, too.” He said it so ‘matter-of-factly’ that I gave it to him. I respected the gall.

I am happy.

After the movers leave, we order sushi, or I do, because Turner doesn’t eat ‘raw fish.’ I walk around my new condo in one of his t-shirts because I haven’t unpacked my things yet. We have sex. He takes me to the BMW dealership the next morning and buys me a car as a house warming present. Wowzer, right?  At six o’ clock that evening, I drive him to the Ft. Lauderdale airport in my new, red sports car, and we kiss before he gets on the plane.

“This will work,” he tells me.

“How do you know?” I say, smoothing the lapels on his jacket.

“Because we’re going to get married.”

“We are?” I reply with mock surprise. He always says this, and I always say that.

“We are,” he affirms and then he gets on his knee and pulls a box out of his pocket.

I drive home, engaged. I look at the ring all the way there, as if it’s going to bite me.  It’s a Tiffany’s iceberg—big and gaudy. It reminds me of something but I can’t remember what since I have soooo completely moved on.

In three months I have taken the Florida Bar Exam and passed. I start my new job as a Defense Attorney for Spi

When I settle behind my desk for the first time, I feel accomplished. My things are unpacked at the condo, my drivers’ license has been changed back to Florida, I have groceries, and yesterday I visited my mother’s grave to fill her in on my engagement. This is my new life, I realize with mild surprise, and then I lower my head to my desk and cry because it is really my old life with hollow upgrades. I call Cammie to tell her this and to tell her that I made a big mistake moving back here. Big. Huge. She listens to me cry and then tells me that I’m stupid and she’ll be here in three weeks, to hold on and hold down, things will get better.

“Okay,” I say, but I don’t believe it—not even for a second.

But things do get better. At first, I adjust to my new routine anxiously.  When I fled to Texas four years ago, I arrived practically empty-handed. I built a brand new life there, filling my cabinets with plates and glasses and a new Thomas Barbey print for the hall.  There was nothing left to remind me of my adventures in Florida. Now, when I walk through my new home, I am putting on the same lamps and making tea in the same kettle that was part of my Texas life. It is confusing. But with all things new, there is a stage of uncomfortable acclamation. After a few weeks, Su

He visits me every two weeks or sooner if his schedule permits. He always brings Pickles a pair of his old socks to play with, which she rips apart in about two hours. I find his sock gifts slightly disturbing, especially when I start finding remnants of the soggy wool stuck in-between the couch cushions. I wish he would just buy rawhide instead. I make this suggestion one night as we are driving to a new restaurant on the south side. The humidity has mellowed and the air that is blowing in the open windows of the car is whipped and cool. It reminds me of a warm winter so long ago.

“They are chewy bones,” I hear myself say in a slightly bored and detached voice. “She likes them.”

“Okay, babe.” Turner places his hand on my knee and starts bopping his head to the music on the radio. He has such square taste in music. Square, square. I hum the Sponge Bob Square Pants theme song and look out the window. My body freezes up almost instantly, Turner looks at me in concern.

“What’s wrong babe?” he asks and slows down the car. Babe.

“Nothing, nothing,” I smile to hide the salt water in my eyes. “I just got a cramp in my leg—that’s all.” I pretend to rub it.

But that wasn’t all. While staring out of the window, the spastic blinking of colorful lights has caught my eyes. When I focus in on them my stomach clenches painfully.

Jaxson’s Ice Cream Parlor

It was like a door opened and all the memories I had hidden away came tumbling out. Pe

“Why don’t we go there for di

“There?” he says. The disgust so obvious in his voice, I flinch.

“Sure. Don’t you ever get sick of all the frou-frou restaurants we go to? Let’s do something different. Come on…” I stick my bottom lip out a little because that usually works with getting my way.  He sighs dramatically and turns into the plaza. I wonder what the hell I am doing and why I am such a sucker for punishment. I want to prove to myself that this is just another food providing establishment. There is no magic, there is no escalated romance, and most of all, I want to be able to be in a place that holds old memories and not have a mental breakdown. Hellloooo Jaxson’s.

It was much the same as it was over seven years ago, the only thing missing from Jaxson’s is Harlow—whose absence is noteworthy. I see his picture on the wall by the register and beneath it are the dates August 10th 1937 to March 17th 2006. I smile at him sadly as we are led to our table by a gum snapping teen. She doesn’t have class. I think ruefully.

“Nice place.” Turner’s sarcasm is not lost on me as I gaze at the unlucky and lucky table.

“Shut up. Stop behaving like a snob.”

He immediately softens up.

“Sorry sweetheart,” he says taking my hands in his. “I’ll be open minded, okay?”

Sweetheart. I nod surly and turn to studying the menu.

So far so good. At least I wasn’t shaking or crying or anything. Maybe I really was okay. We eat our di

When we leave, I stop at the pe