Page 3 of Yield to Me

Bobby shrugged. “I’m just saying, I personally wouldn’t turn him down for a date, even though I’m a straight male.” As Bobby walked to the backroom, he said, “Good looking and rich! That’s the royal freaking hand.”

At four a.m., Clay walked me to my car, like usual. Even though he was a few years younger than me, he had taken over the role of a big brother protector as soon as I was hired, and though I thought he was silly at first, I was grateful for it now. I liked working at the café because of the flexible hours and the occasional big tipper, but I wasn’t a big fan of walking to and from my car by myself in that area. Sadly, BART, the Bay Area Rapid Transit, didn’t match my hours. I hugged him goodbye, then started the thirty-minute drive to my mother’s house, our home. As I turned onto the freeway, I smiled to myself, wondering why someone like Owen Lowell had even noticed me in the first place. I shook my head; I knew he’d forget about me in the morning anyway. And I’d forget him.

I parked on the street and opened the gate, walking up the steps to the front door. The porch light was still on even though it was nearly sunrise. I unlocked and opened the door slowly, careful to minimize any noise. Echoing laughter from a late night talk show filtered down the dark hallway, the screen lighting the walls in small bursts, like flickering candlelight. In the living room, my mother, Regina, was asleep on the recliner, her head tossed back, mouth open, an empty wine bottle next to her. At least I didn’t see any pill bottles this time. I took the bottle to the kitchen and rinsed it, placing it on the kitchen counter to dry. I had decided a few months ago to make lanterns with them for the backyard, trying to put a positive spin on the situation.

My shadow fell across my mother’s face, causing her to stir.

“Hi Mom,” I said. “How did you sleep?”

“Grayson used to love watching this show with me,” Regina said drowsily. Though the television program had changed every few months, she said the same line every time, holding onto that memory. The inconsistencies had bothered me at first, but I had learned to grin and bear it. There was no use in arguing with her when it came to Grayson. “He used to fall asleep on the couch quicker than in his own bed.”

“But he always slept soundest when you were there next to him,” I said, finishing her sentence. I wrapped my arm around her back. “Let’s get you to bed.”

I stood in the hallway, listening to Regina’s soft snoring, thinking of how even after all of these years, my mother still pined for Grayson, the man I refused to call my father. I wondered if it was bittersweet or sad to love someone that much. Watching my mother’s slow descent into heartbroken turmoil from the time I was eleven had changed me. I didn’t believe in love or soul mates. In my opinion, you could make all of the promises in the world, tell someone you love them, that you would die for them, and that wouldn’t stop the person from leaving you, not even birthing a child together. When my first boyfriend only confirmed my beliefs by dumping me and sleeping with my best friend, I made the decision never to give that much of myself to anyone. The only person I could trust was my mother, and even she had her iffy moments.

But it wasn’t like I didn’t like men, at least sexually. They were fun to look at and be with, and flirting never hurt anyone. As I laid in bed, my mind wandered over Michael Lauder from the advanced photography class. He was technically the teacher’s assistant, but the professor never bothered to show up, and Michael took full advantage of that, and I took full advantage of knowing that Michael liked me, being the only twenty-four-year-old in a class of undergrads. I knew if I wanted, I could have fun with Michael, but he was arrogant and too flighty. There was something off about him that put me on edge, something that made me uneasy, but I could never figure out what it was. Add that to the fact that he flirted with anyone with a vagina and used his good looks to trap the naive undergrads. He was striking—an angular jawline, and blond hair that he kept pushed back, a tick he had with his hands, plus blue eyes and dangerously thick lips. He didn’t look like he belonged in Hollywood, but he had a strange, unforgettable look, the kind of person I wanted to mold into a statue to capture that unsettling feeling.

But the real statue had been Owen Lowell. My mind wandered over his suit cuffs, the soft black hair that crept over his wrists, the smell of cedar and smoke as he took my hand, pulling me up. His green eyes that I could get lost inside of with the way he looked at me, like he would capture me and never let me go. I wanted to capture that primal urge in sculpture, his striking dominance, the way he commanded the room and everyone in it without so much as a gesture, his pure confidence. I wanted to create a sculpture that made people feel that way, to make the audience stop in their tracks, entrapped by his gaze. Like he had caught me.

I brought my hands to my nose, breathing in his scent. How did my skin still smell like him? I wondered. I thought of his taut muscles as he helped me up, the body underneath his suit, how his arms would feel around me, like protection and a cage.

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