Unconscious Intentions: Intentions, #1

KAT

It’s twenty minutes past one, and it’s becoming more and more obvious that my client has stood me up. I grab my purse and throw a wrinkled five-dollar bill onto the table to cover the tea I ordered while waiting before exiting the bistro, stepping out into the sticky July heat with dashed spirits and a slight headache.

Instead of hailing a cab, I stomp straight into foot-traffic, not paying attention to direction or destination. This is my seventh no show with a client, so I feel justified in a sullen walk around the city.

Two months ago, Clarice Clark, New York socialite and rich bitch extraordinaire, commissioned me to buy her entire summer wardrobe so she could rock the scene at the Hamptons. She was my favorite type of client: very hands off, she just gave me some guidelines and set me free to do my thing. I had so much fun at first—buying up all the latest trends, going to sample sales, and scouting out shoes and accessories—that it was almost criminal.

I actually didn’t cross that line until a fabulous pair of gold pumps crossed my path and I knew they had to be mine. Unfortunately, the $480 price tag was a bit much.

I charged them to Clarice’s account, thinking she’d never notice. After all, I had bought her so much clothing at that point; it wasn’t like one pair of shoes was going to stand out. I had done it before from time to time, never getting caught, and I really didn’t think this time would be any different.

It was different, though, because not only did Clarice catch me, but she also told everyone she knew.

As it turns out, she knows most of Manhattan.

I tried to convince Clarice that it was a mistake; I meant to charge the shoes to my account and not hers. I even wrote her a check for the shoes and apologized personally. She just turned her nose up at me as she explained that it was much too late for excuses while giving me a little grin to let me know she didn’t believe me at all.

The worst part was that she took my best friend Tiffany’s recommendation to hire me. Clarice didn’t just run my name through the mud; she made sure she took Tiffany down, too. So now Tiff’s salon is doing terribly, all because I had to have those damn gold pumps.  

I cancelled the check I wrote to Clarice, not that it would have cleared anyway. I’ve had to fall back on my ever-dwindling trust fund to keep myself up, and I really don’t have a plan for what comes next.

My cell phone rings as I walk and brood. I pause mid-stride to grab it from my bag. Hello?

This message is for Kathryn Collier. This is an attempt to collect a debt. Any info— 

I disconnect quickly, throwing the phone back into the depths of my purse. I pick up my pace, as if I could physically outrun the embarrassment of a call from a debt collector.

I might as well face it. I was never meant to be the independent woman type. I’ve tried making it on my own, being successful in my own right, but it just hasn’t worked out. Once upon a time, I was a wealthy child with a big trust fund with my name on it. My dad had been the moneymaker, the supporter. When he left us I still had the trust fund, but not much else.

I stop, looking around me to see where I am. I haven’t been paying attention, because my thoughts are all snarled up. I see an entrance leading down to the subway, and I head in that direction, quickly descending the stairs.

As I wait on the platform for the next train, I see a man in a suit holding a map, forehead creased in concentration, a deep vee shape between his heavy, dark brows. I’m instantly reminded of my dad, which is strange because I was just thinking of him. This guy has the same expensive shine my dad always had, a CEO type. He also has the same look of confusion on his face that my dad would get if you asked him to do something simple, like preheat the oven. He could talk to you all day about a company’s financials but lacked the common-sense know-how to do much else.

I don’t want to seem as though I’m staring, so I reach into my bag for my planner and mark my client’s appointment out with a strong black swipe from my pen. I keep tabs on the handsome man as he finally looks up and tries to approach another waiting passenger on the platform.

Excuse me, can you tell me if this train will take me . . . he starts, but is cut off abruptly by the stranger.

What the fuck are you staring at?! The stranger, an older lady with a purse as big as a duffel bag, screams at him. I have to look down to smother my chuckle. That’s New York for you. It’s a roll of the dice approaching someone for help in the city: sometimes you strike gold, and other times you wish you hadn’t said a word.

Handsome looks chagrined, stepping back and away from the woman who yelled at him. He returns to looking at his map, which I assume is a guide to the trains and where they stop.

I put my planner away in my bag, returning to my disturbing thoughts about how I’m going to get out of this mess. I flick another glance in Handsome’s direction. I imagine what it would be like to be here as a pair, holding Handsome’s hand and helping him read the map. I’d gently explain how to get to our next destination, and he’d drop me off on Fifth Avenue with a kiss and his credit card, so I could shop while he handled business. In the evening, we’d go out on the town. I wouldn’t have to worry about making it on my own. I’d be a kept woman, much like my mother.

I sigh. That sure would be nice.

I feel a light tap on my shoulder, and look up to see Handsome smiling at me tentatively. Excuse me. Can you tell me how to get to 7th Avenue from here? And also not yell at me? He flashes a megawatt grin at his little joke, and I feel a goofy grin growing on my face as the word serendipity comes to mind. As it happens, my schedule is wide open. So why not see where this leads?

Sure, sweetheart. Are you lost? I ask sweetly and I watch as his eyes widen.

Completely, he admits, sheepishly running his hand through his dark hair. It’s my first time traveling here for work. John Messer, by the way. He extends his hand as he introduces himself, and I take it.

Kathryn Collier. I shake his hand, liking the way his palm is warm and smooth against mine.

Nice to meet you. You’re the first new friend I’ve made in New York. He smiles at the admission, like he’s well aware of the fact he’s adorable.

Nice to meet you too, John. I like the way his name sounds. It’s so simple, classic. Masculine. I’ll help you find your way.

Thanks, Kathryn.

I look up into his eyes, a warm brown to my cool blue. Please, I say over the noise of the approaching train. Call me Kat.

TIFFANY

Y ou are my sunshine , my only sunshine . . . I sing, idly clicking through the accounting program where I can see our sales compared to last quarter. The results are terrible. Tresses Hair Salon has seen better days, that is for sure.

Tiffany?

I look up to see Cassidy, my lead stylist, in the doorway. Yes?

Were you singing?

I close my mouth with a snap. I didn’t realize it had been loud enough to hear. Worse still, the significance of the song didn’t hit me until Cassidy said she had heard me. I guess I was. What’s up, Cass?

We’re done cleaning our stations. I was just going to tell you we were leaving so you could lock up.

I glance down at my watch. Sure enough, it’s well after six. I came in here to do payroll but ended up focused on our dwindling sales since Kat’s little fiasco with the shoes. Damn. Time flies.

Cassidy gives me a weak smile and turns to exit the little office. I follow her out, say goodnight to my crew, and lock up the salon doors after they leave. I watch them go, spreading out in separate directions as they head home. Their good-byes were half-hearted. They’re angry with me, and I can’t blame them. From an outside perspective, it seems silly that I’d maintain a relationship with a person who destroyed my business and put my employees’ jobs in danger.

What they don’t know is that I can’t simply cut Kat out of my life. We’ve been best friends since we were young. We grew up together in South Carolina, and she’s seen the best and the worst of me. There are too many secrets between us, too much past, to simply bury it.

The swollen gray clouds in the sky outside give way to a rolling thunder. Fat drops of rain start to fall, spattering the door of the salon and streaking down, like so many tears.

You make me happy, when skies are gray. I sing another line, remembering how my husband, Blake, used to sing it to me. There’d be flowers, or a candle, or once even a purse, as he would sing this little tune and apologize over and over for losing his temper. He was always so sincerely contrite when he saw the bruises. His head would hang with shame, and he’d sing, and beg my forgiveness.

There’s a loud boom as another wave of thunder hits, and the rain picks up its pace, falling down faster, hitting the sidewalk outside with a type of violence. I move away from the door, grabbing the shade and pulling it down to cover the glass.

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Blake would always say that. That I didn’t know how much he loved me. That’s why he couldn’t control himself when it came to me. That’s why he didn’t like me cutting men’s hair. That’s why I couldn’t have any male friends, save for my brother, Theo. If I could just understand how much he loved me, then I’d understand why he couldn’t stand the thought of me living without him.

Please don’t take my sunshine away. I sing the last bar a little off-tune, remembering the worst night of my life, when Blake really decided he couldn’t live without me. The awful snap my arm made when he twisted it behind my back so tight that my bones cracked. The icy cool of the gun barrel against my temple, the hot temperature of the tears on my face as I begged him to let me go. The loud pop of another pistol, the sound of Kat’s and Theo’s voices as they saved me from my living nightmare.

I make my way to my little apartment in the back of the salon, turning off lights as I go. I know my employees see it as simply black and white. It’s not their fault that they don’t know about all the shades of gray. It’s not something I talk about; in fact, it’s something I avoid thinking about most of the time.

Sometimes it pops up though, when I’m in a black mood. Like a reminder of how bad things can get. A reminder of what I’ve lived through, survived. Always, I think of how it could have gone, had Kat and Theo not shown up when they did.

I stare at my empty ring finger as I shut myself in for the night, wine and leftover Chinese food waiting for me.

I wouldn’t just be a widow.

I’d be dead.

JOANNA

J oanna!

I automatically turn, as I suspect all children do at the sound of their mother’s voice. Hey, Mama! I get up to give her a hug, and she envelops me into her arms. Being hugged by my mother is not an experience you can forget. She has this way of making you feel cradled, even if you are long past babyhood.

She releases me, taking a step back, eyes twinkling with love. Oh, I have missed you, baby girl.

I’m so glad you came! I say, gesturing for her to sit down at the table. She sits, setting her massive purse in the empty chair next to her. Her nails are a perfectly polished mauve, I notice. She has her dark hair tied back in a long braid. There is more gray mixed in with her darker strands now than there was the last time I saw her at Christmas.

Of course I came! I haven’t seen you in months, she admonishes gently, still smiling. Our waitress comes by and takes our drink orders. We both say sweet tea at the same time, and end up grinning like fools at each other as the waitress disappears.

Was it a bad drive? I ask, knowing she will downplay it. The traffic heading into Atlanta can be tough, even coming from the northern part of Georgia, like my mom did.

Not too bad, she says, meeting my expectations while flipping through her menu. So, how have you been? Seeing anyone new?

This line of questioning is the exact reason she hasn’t seen me in months.

Pretty good, actually. Things have been going really great at the gallery, lots of new artists are coming in, and we have some interesting exhibitions coming up.

Our waitress comes back with our teas, and we unsurprisingly order the same exact salad for our lunch. Our waitress leaves us again and my mom reaches for her tea, taking a sip before her rebuttal.

So, no one new then?

No one can push harder than a worried mom. No one new, I admit grudgingly.

Have you seen John?

I don’t want to talk about John, Mama.

She scowls, digging through her purse and coming up with a battered tube of lip balm. I don’t see why not, she says, slicking the waxy substance across her lips a couple of times. He is the reason there is no one new, right?

We’re just friends, I say, hearing the statement fall flat between us. Our salads are brought out and we both busy ourselves with dressing and cutlery for a moment, not looking at one another.

You cannot be just friends with John, she finally responds after a few bites. The place he holds in your heart is different, baby girl. You were together a very long time.

Seven years, I fill in passively, focusing on stabbing a cherry tomato with my fork.

Exactly. Too long to return to friendship, she says smugly, like she’s made a point.

Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s impossible, I argue. I don’t know who I think I’m fooling, because it certainly isn’t her.

I’m just glad I could sell that line to John. When he broke off our engagement after New Years, it had felt like the world was ending. Or at the very least, it was almost as if he had died. He had been there for every part of my adult life, it seemed, until he just wasn’t.

My choices, as I had seen them, were to let John go and descend fully into depression while waiting on the cliché of time passing to heal my heart, or to make my best attempt at friendship with John to keep him in my life in some form.

I had chosen option B.

It was the better choice, I mutter, and I watch as my mom tilts her head slightly in question.

What?

I said it’s the mature choice. Being friends. Moving forward.

Ah. Except you are not moving at all, Joanna. You are stuck in place. She eyes me meaningfully as she chews.

Okay, Mama. Okay. I hear you. Sometimes you just have to give in when it comes to my mom, or she’ll keep at you until you’ve rolled over in defeat.

I know you hear me. Are you really listening? She sets her fork down on her plate. This is a serious gesture, a call to halt all other activities and pay attention. You need to get out, make some new friends. Take action, Joanna. You know what I always say. Don’t get caught up in someone else’s plan for your life.

I nod, because I can’t get past the lump stuck in my throat to speak. She means well, but she’s pushing buttons that I have long ignored. I clear my throat, give her the best fake grin I can bring to life, and try to lie as convincingly as I can. I’ll try, Mama. I really will.

Satisfied, she picks up her fork. Good. Now let’s finish up. I don’t want to be late for the movie. She returns to her meal, the matter settled.

I take another bite and chew dutifully, forever the good girl, the obedient daughter.

I will suck it up and have this time with my mother, and then she will go back home and I can go back to playing friends with John, letting him fly free, while I hold on tightly to the dream that he’ll return to me one day, like the saying goes.

I imagine that a bird that flies away from his nest and returns to find the tree gone one day will simply build another nest. So just like a tree, I dig my roots deep and determine to stay still, never giving up hope.

KAT

I’m in