Page 11 of Deep Gap

From across the room, she shows me a tiny container with a black lid of something called royal jelly. Whatever it is piques her interest and her contained enthusiasm has me casually strolling over to check it out when she moves toward the supply bins for do-it-yourselfers. There’s a premium on handmade, organic items. Although, I nearly choke at the price tag on the jar of royal jelly. It makes the large gift set look affordable. I place the jar back down, cautious not to tumble the rest of the display that’s been set up in a wide triangular wall.

“This stuff is all so perfectly packaged,” she says, looking over her shoulder at the main room. “Their lip balms come in tins. I have enough wax to make some myself, but the plastic tubs they sell in this section to put them in aren’t as appealing now that I’ve seen them the other way.”

“Can you make a label for the top?”

“I suppose I could, but having the few I’d need printed would cost an arm and leg.”

I’m smart enough to stop my mouth from rattling off that she can print them at home. Greer doesn’t have a printer. Or a computer, for that matter.

I spy a bulk bag of empty snap-locking lid tins similar to the ones the store sells pre-filled. Geez, the cost of making things from bees seems to be about the same as buying the finished product. From the perspective of a guy who couldn’t tell you what brand of bathroom soap he drops into his cart at the supermarket, this shop has a great racket going. Especially since I’m in a buying mood.

“Do you have enough wax to make more lip balm than you need?”

Greer mumbles something about Mac telling her all she has to do is ask if she runs low. “I don’t want to take advantage.”

“What if I get the tins and you fill some for me as gifts? And if you’ll part with the soaps you were experimenting with, I’ll swap the rest of the bag for those as well.” Don’t ask me why I’m playing Santa. According to the store’s pamphlet, I’m going to have silky smooth skin and supple lips for quite a while if I don’t find anyone to give it all to. Just what a guy wants, right?

She grudgingly agrees. I place the bag of tins in a round peck wooden basket with a metal handle that’s nicer than any plastic grocery shopping basket I’ve ever used. Greer picks out a scented oil from the supply shelves and returns to choose a gift sampler from the main store. She’s conscientious about separating our purchases to either side. Obviously uncomfortable with charity, when Greer approaches the register I keep it friendly, but am quick to remove what’s mine and pay first.

Greer collects her change from the cashier and turns to where I’m waiting by the exit. A man focused on the display nearest the front of the store a few feet away from me bumps into her. He begins to apologize, but does a double take.

“Hey, I know you. You’re, you’re—” Tall and wide-shouldered, he snaps, pointing a finger at her. “Greer Rutherford. We graduated together.”

Greer’s face turns white as a ghost. She swallows and the action makes me aware of how fast her pulse is racing in her neck.

“Oh, my god. You’re the girl who… Didn’t you go to jail? Did you get out or something?”

Every set of eyes in the store is glued to where Greer stands in stunned silence, unable to move past the man. He’s actually waiting for her response and, in utter disbelief at the scene he’s causing, so are they.

I’m not the least bit considerate, slamming my shoulder into the guy’s, allowing Greer room for escape. “If you’ll excuse us.”

“Dude, man!” he calls after us. As if I was the rude one.

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Byron doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t say anything at all. He just escorts me to his car. The only sound I hear is the chip of the alarm disengaging. There’s a breeze, but I don’t let the door slam. We sit in deafening silence.

I’m chilled, yet sweating, unable to focus on anything but the laces of my boots that still had the original tags on when I bought them at the thrift shop. The oil and gift sets are by my left heel. The cashier had folded the bag with a gorgeous hand-stamped beehive on it before she slid it toward me. I’d meant to save it. However, where my fist clenched created wrinkles at the top, turning something beautiful into trash.

We shouldn’t have come here. Lunch and the two things I bought cost more than I had to spare. A normal person would’ve offered the ten I spent from my wallet for gas. I don’t drive, so the thought is belated.

He puts the key in the ignition and I reach for my seatbelt, snapping it over my body and into the buckle. But then Byron leans back in his seat and places his hands on his knees.

I’m about to offer for him to leave me here. He didn’t deserve the embarrassment I brought on either of us. My cheeks flame. This is why I don’t go places. I even learned to avoid churches on Sundays after a similar interaction with a mother who had a toddler on her hip. Though I didn’t remember her, Ellis and she were classmates. She was vehement in her unwillingness to forget what I did to him. It wasn’t the first time that “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone” was less scripture and more of a script the holy can ad-lib to suit their version of the facts.

I went to jail for killing Ellis. My best friend. A boy I loved before I knew what love was. And lost before understanding we’d both miss out on the chance to love the way we were truly meant to love another human being.

According to the State, I’ve paid for the crime I committed by serving my sentence.

But whenever I apply for a job or see someone from my past, I’m not Greer of “Greer and Ellis: two peas in a pod” anymore. I’m a felon. Everything I’m capable of doing doesn’t make a difference. It’s what I did. I am judged every second of every day of my life by a mistake I made when I was eighteen.

By now, I should be used to the stinging reminders like today’s that happen when I’m minding my own business. I’m still breathing when my best friend hasn’t drawn a breath for over eight years. I’m to blame for stealing the brightest spots in our futures. I choose to own that responsibility at the sake of my happiness because Ellis hasn’t laughed or cried or carried a diploma across any stage while Karen and Mac cheered him on. I did this to us and to our families.

I just wish…

“What do you wish?” Byron interrupts my thoughts.

I glance at him, startled that I’m not alone and stunned at how wet my face has become. He’s watched me cry as my emotions have spiraled unchecked.

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