The ocean breeze swept through the palms of Coconut Shore, my hometown, and I appreciated the picturesque timing while peering through the diner window. At the conclusion of my breakfast for one, the last of my lukewarm coffee was the ideal amount to swallow with my morning medication. Two for blood pressure, one for anxiety and one for allergies. I turned forty a few months ago and discovered it's the prime checkpoint in life to reflect on the ways we neglected our bodies since youth, yet will continue to do so until we’re too old for it to matter. The pill for anxiety prevents bouts of depression, but it doesn’t quell my innate pessimism. That’s what psychotherapy is for, and since I don’t gander people who expect payment for their ear actually want to listen to me, I channel the negative attribute into my pressurized bottle of well-earned, middle-aged rage where it awaits the greatest of all inopportune moments to explode.
Plates crashing three tables away jerked my curiosity around in time to see an infuriated brunette slap a manicured hand across a man’s face. “Fuck you. Lose my number.” In Oscar-worthy fashion, she spun on her stiletto and stormed out the diner door into single-hood. Presumed single-hood, that is. Women are stupid. I can say that.
The assaulted man chuckled, and although I only saw the back of his lightly silver-dusted brown head, the embarrassment in his tone rang clear. He peeked around before standing and pulled a wallet from his jean pocket. Fingering through bills, he plucked out enough to cover his check and placed it on the table before lifting his blue gaze to meet my brown-eyed stare. Caught up in the dramatic scene, I had my elbow on the table with my chin resting on my palm. Gawking like an idiot.
I blinked and cleared my throat. Straightening my spine, I engaged my usual, clumsy manner and hit my knee against the table as I stood, sending silverware clattering to the tile floor. “Oh hell,” I said, picking up the utensils and reaching for my purse. I paid the check already with my debit card and left an acceptable tip, so I was good to go. Quickly.
I groaned inward as the man closed in on my hapless fumbling. “Do I know you?” he asked.
The question was simple. Broken down, though, the preschool level words left me scrambling. Those ocean blues flooded my brain with cringe-inducing memories of a childhood I sought to forget. I did know him, and I hated myself for it. His name was Mario Rogello, and he was beautiful. “You look really familiar. Seymour High?”
I smiled, and for the first time ever, the gods granted me the ability to speak to the man who made a miserable journey of my high school career. “Yes, Seymour High. Opie. Ophelia, actually. Ophelia-”
“Camby,” he finished for me, and the rush of adrenaline soaring through me spun my psyche in circles. “Opie Camby, I remember. How’ve you been?”
As a marketing executive, I’m capable of speaking to conference rooms chock full of suited blowhards, commanding their attention, and earning their respect. Instead, I stammered my response in pieces, flushing my cheeks with the shame red color of humiliation. “I-I’ve been, uh, good. A-And, uh, you?”
Get me out of there.
Mario shrugged and grinned, the dimple in his right cheek as profound as it was on his smug, sixteen year-old face. "Evidently, you got a peek of my day to day.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Day to day?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” he held his hands up, “but don’t hold that against me.”
“I’ll try,” I said, side-stepping his muscular form. My belly fat jiggled beneath my over-sized t-shirt. Oh, how thankful I was that I opted not to wear the crop top stuffed in my suitcase as an afterthought. I’d lost weight over the last six months, but I was nowhere near that confident yet.
“You visiting, or do you still live here?” he asked.
I glanced at the sandy vista through the restaurant window that often drew me home. “Moving back, actually. You?”
“Here for a few weeks. Handling some family matters,” he said.
“Well, I hope everything is well. I have to get going.” I had no place to be. “It was nice seeing you.”
I reached to push open the diner door, but he stretched out one of his perfectly-sculpted-by-the-gods arms to push it open for me. In a weak moment of self-indulgence, I breathed in his intoxicating scent of cologne mixed with a sexual energy that had me clenching my inner thighs to stave off a rush of desire that hadn't snuck up on me like that since our 1998 graduation day. Goddamn him.
“Same here.” Mario smiled and gestured for me to exit first. As we emerged into the nearly blinding sunshine, he stopped short on the sidewalk. “Son of a bitch!” All four of his Beamer’s tires lay flat at the curb.
I suppressed a smirk and unfolded my sunglasses. “Wow. That’s an expensive break up.”
Mario rubbed his wavy locks and sighed, awakening his cell phone screen to scroll through his contacts. “Yup.”
“Good luck with that,” I said, sliding on my sunglasses. I strode to the Chevy four dour sedan I rented and hit the key fob unlock button. It was difficult not to skip the whole way. The satisfaction of Mario’s distress made me giddy.
As I merged into traffic and drove toward the house in which I was raised, I looked in the rear view mirror to catch an animated Mario talking on his phone. Aside from a few gray hairs and some wrinkles at the outside corners of his eyes, he was the same person I had a wild crush on in high school.
And he remembered my name.
