03
1375 Words
Pain and Stain
EVA
My phone buzzed at seven in the morning. Jessica's name lit up the screen.
"Hello?"
"Eva! Hi, sweetie." Her voice was sugar-sweet, the kind that made my teeth ache. "I know things have been... difficult between us."
I sat up in the hotel bed I'd paid for with my last fifty dollars. My back ached from the cheap mattress. "What do you want, Jessica?"
"I want to make things right. What do you say to brunch? Just us girls. We need to talk this through like adults."
"I don't think.."
"Please, Eva. I feel terrible about how everything happened. Let me buy you a nice meal. We can clear the air."
I stared at the ceiling. The water stain looked like a skull. "Why would you want to do that?"
"Because despite everything, I don't want to be enemies. Oliver cares about you. He will also want us to get along."
Lies. All lies. But I was so tired of being alone, so desperate for any human contact that wasn't dripping with hatred.
"Okay," I whispered. "Where?"
"The Garden Café on Maple Street. You know, the fancy one with the outdoor seating? Eleven o'clock."
+++++++
I only had one clean dress left. Navy blue with tiny flowers. It used to be my favorite, back when I had favorites. Now it just reminded me of the person I used to be.
The Garden Café was exactly the kind of place Jessica would choose. Expensive. Full of people who took pictures of their food. I felt like a stray dog that had wandered into a dog show.
Jessica waved from a corner table. She looked perfect, as always. White sundress, pearl earrings, hair like she'd just stepped out of a magazine.
"Eva! You look..." She paused, her eyes scanning my wrinkled dress, my unwashed hair. "Well, you're here. That's what matters."
I sat down across from her. The table was set with real china and cloth napkins. Fresh flowers in a crystal vase.
"I ordered for both of us," Jessica said. "Eggs Benedict. You still like those, right?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Good. And I got us a bottle of wine. It's never too early for wine, right?" She laughed, but it sounded wrong. Like broken glass trying to be music.
The waiter brought our food and filled our glasses with red wine. My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning.
"So," Jessica said, cutting into her eggs. "I want you to know that none of this was personal."
"Not personal?" I nearly choked on my first bite. "You slept with my boyfriend for two years."
"Your ex-boyfriend," she corrected. "And yes, I know how it looks. But Eva, you have to understand, Oliver was miserable with you."
I set down my fork. "He told you that?"
"He didn't have to. I could see it. The way he looked when he talked about going home. Like he was walking to his own execution."
Each word was a small knife, finding its mark. I reached for my wine glass to wash down the taste of bile.
Jessica leaned forward. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm trying to help you see that this is better for everyone. You deserve someone who actually wants to be with you."
"And you deserve Oliver?"
"We're good together. We make sense." She gestured between us. "Look at us, Eva. Really look. Do you honestly think you and Oliver were ever a good match?"
I looked. At her perfect skin and designer dress. At my chipped nails and discount store outfit. At the way other diners glanced our way, probably wondering what someone like her was doing with someone like me.
"I loved him," I said quietly.
"I know you did. And that's exactly why you should want him to be happy."
She reached across the table like she was going to take my hand. Instead, she knocked over her wine glass. Red wine splashed across the white tablecloth and soaked straight through my dress, right across my chest.
"Oh no!" Jessica gasped, jumping up. "I'm so clumsy! Stand up, Eva. Let's get you cleaned up."
"It's fine," I said, trying to stay seated. "I'll just.."
"Stand up," she insisted, grabbing my arm. "Everyone's looking."
She was right. The entire restaurant had turned to stare at the girl with wine all over her chest. I stood slowly, feeling the fabric stick to my skin.
"Excuse me," Jessica called to a passing waiter. "Could you help us? My friend had an accident."
The waiter hurried over with a towel. But as he reached for me, his foot seemed to catch on nothing. He stumbled forward, and the pitcher of maple syrup he was carrying flew through the air.
It hit me square on the head. Thick, sticky syrup ran down my face, into my hair, onto my shoulders. The smell was overwhelming. Sweet and cloying.
The restaurant fell silent. Then someone laughed. Then another person. Soon the whole place was buzzing with whispers and poorly hidden giggles.
"Oh my God," someone said. "Are you getting this?"
Phones appeared. Camera flashes went off. I stood there dripping syrup and wine while strangers took pictures of my humiliation.
"I'm so sorry," the waiter said, but he was trying not to smile. "These things happen."
"Fat loser covered in syrup," someone laughed. "This is going straight to Instagram."
Jessica handed me a napkin. One single napkin for the disaster covering my entire body.
"Well," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I guess this is as good a time as any for my announcement."
She held up her left hand. My engagement ring sparkled on her finger. The one Oliver had given me six months ago. The one with the tiny diamond I'd stared at for hours, imagining our future together.
"Oliver proposed last night," Jessica announced to the restaurant. "We're getting married in the spring."
Applause broke out. People who didn't even know her were clapping and cheering. And I stood there looking like I'd been dunked in a vat of pancake syrup, watching my replacement get congratulated for stealing my life.
I ran. Out of the restaurant, down the sidewalk, not caring who saw me or what they thought. Syrup dripped behind me like breadcrumbs marking my trail of shame.
"Eva Williams?"
Two men in suits stepped out of a black car parked at the curb. Official-looking badges. Serious faces.
"Yes?"
"We're here about the defaulted loans. Mr. Chen put you down as co-signer on several accounts. You owe forty-three thousand dollars."
The world tilted. "What loans? I never signed anything."
"According to our records, you did. We'll need payment in full or we'll be forced to take legal action."
They handed me a stack of papers. My signature was on every page. My signature, but I'd never seen these documents before in my life.
"This is impossible. I don't have forty-three thousand dollars. I don't have forty-three dollars."
"That's not our problem, ma'am. You have thirty days."
They got back in their car and drove away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk covered in syrup and holding papers that would destroy what was left of my life.
I walked home. The hotel was eight miles away, but I walked the whole way. My shoes fell apart after the first mile, so I went barefoot. I fell twice on the cracked sidewalk, scraping my knees until they bled.
People stared. Some took pictures. By the time I reached the hotel, "Syrup Girl" was trending online.
I climbed the stairs to my room and fumbled for my key. Something was wrong. The door was slightly open.
"Buddy?" I called. "Buddy, are you okay?"
My dog should have come running. He always came running when he heard my voice.
I pushed the door open. Buddy lay on the carpet by the window. Still. Too still.
"No," I whispered, dropping to my knees beside him. "No, no, no."
His eyes were closed. His little chest wasn't moving. I touched his fur, still warm, but lifeless. A piece of paper was tied to his collar with pink ribbon. Jessica's favorite color.
I unfolded it with shaking hands.
"You're next, bitch.”
- Writer
