It was too bright in the IHOP parking lot. Pole lights eclipsed stars, reflecting endless loops of haze and chrome off wet pavement. Neon letters did backstrokes in puddles at my feet. Even the inside of the building buzzed with light. But nothing was brighter than Sarah.
She stood in the doorway shaking an umbrella, hair falling down her shoulders in damp curls, smiling at nobody but me.
This was around the time I decided I was dying. The doctor said nothing was wrong. My therapist said I needed a sense of purpose: get my life goals in order, adjust my inner compass. I stopped seeing him after that. Sarah was a better listener.
“You see, the problem with me,” I explained over black coffee and bacon (I was almost sure this was a date), “is I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Not ‘here’ here with you,” I clarified. “But here in this kind of life. Still in this town, with my crap job at Lucky’s, going nowhere.”
Sarah met my eyes over double blueberry pancakes, all care and concern, grazing my hand as she passed the syrup. “Where would you rather be?”
“Anywhere,” I said, distracted. “But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
Sarah had this way of talking in generalities. Meaningful silences, knowing winks. I could never tell if she soul-level got me, or if I read too much into everything she said.
“Yes,” I agreed, thinking about the shared syrup. “What’s the point?”
I heard what I was saying. “I mean no! It’s not like I wantto be dead,” I explained frantically, feeling need for damage control.
Sarah blinked. She had this way of silently regarding me as my mind spun itself out. “What I’m saying is I have life plans. I want to do exciting things. It’s just, you know—”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she finished. “Sounds reasonable.” She met my eyes again, “Ruby, sweetie, what if I told you I could use some help…”
************
That’s how I ended up parked in Suzella on a Saturday evening. Suzella, Georgia, is three churches, a post office, a gas station/food mart, and Lucky’s Auto Repair, off Highway 80. No stoplights. It is exactly between nothing and nowhere. Sarah was next to me in the passenger seat. She’d insisted I drive.
I turned the engine off, and she shifted towards me. I could smell her perfume, like some kind of edible flower. “You have the keys?”
I shook the key ring in my hand.
“You have the combination?”
I showed her the crumpled post-it note where she’d written a series of numbers. “Yes.”
Sarah was a fantastic listener, not much of a talker. I knew next to nothing about her. But at IHOP, she’d opened up a little. She told me about her ex, Hank–the same Hank who owned Lucky’s where I worked. “It’s like fate,” she told me, eyes opening wide, “My connection with you.” My pulse quickened. I had to agree.
“Hank was a mistake,” she said. “He treated me bad, made me feel life wasn’t worth living. I knew I deserved more. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there,” Sarah looked at me carefully. “So, I left.”
“So, you left…” I repeated dumbly, amazed at our sameness.
That night under the IHOP parking lot lights, Sarah leaned toward me, and we kissed.
************
The plan: I’d go in through the back door. No problem with my key. The shop closed at 6:00. It was now 8:00, just after dark. I’d use my second work key to open Hank’s office and the numbers on the post-it to open the safe.
“Hank is an arrogant lazy bastard; there’s no way he’s changed the combination,” Sarah assured me, “Or fixed that broken security camera.” Of course, Sarah couldn’t be seen at all. “Small towns,” she said, blameless and resigned. It had to be me.
Sarah held my hand as I was getting out of the car. “Remember, I want that ring,” she told me. “It’s most important.” She kissed my fingers, my arm.
At the backdoor to Lucky’s, I fumbled my keys. The air, percolating a storm, was thick, on edge. I haven’t done anything wrong yet, I thought. Which tends to be the last thought one has before everything goes to hell.
Hank had not changed the combo. The safe held papers, a stack of bills, polaroids of a woman with curling hair (her face was not most prominent), and a small diamond ring.
I was putting the ring in my pocket when I heard the shot.
“Goddamn it, Sarah. What did I tell you about that gun?”
I peeked out to see Sarah, soaking in her sundress, pointing a gun at Hank.
“You told me not to carry it if I didn’t intend to use it,” Sarah said. “And I’m using it on you. You stole my grandmother’s ring–”
Hank lurched forward and pushed Sarah against the wall, pinning her arms and sliding the gun free. “Are you gonna use it on me, baby?” He lowered his voice, “Tell me how you’re gonna use it.” My body tensed to rush at Hank. But Sarah relaxed into him and laughed. She laughed!
“Hank, sweetie,” Sarah smiled like nobody else was in the room. “I missed you.”
Hank freed Sarah’s arms, wrapping his possessively around her waist. “If I give back the ring, will you say yes?”
Lightning–
–and everything went dark. Sarah looked up and saw me, holding the ring. “I’m not supposed to be here,” I said, and ran into the storm. I could hear screaming behind me, confused expletives from Hank. I stopped on top of an open-grate manhole, stormwater rushing, feeling like I was going under.
Standing in the downpour with Hank, Sarah was shouting, “Ruby, sweetie, you helped me.” And then, “Ruby, don’t!”
The diamond slipped through my fingers. I met Sarah’s eyes through the bright wall of water between us and said, “Yes.”
Words and photo © Jaime Greenberg, 2022
