Without a Net Read online

  “I feel like I passed a test,” Meg declared, breathing out a sigh. Betty seemed pleased by the assessment, which was a relief.

  “Nah. There’s no test. I know I put off the vibe. It’s part of the scene, you know? I actually am a “rock-chick” as you called it. My real job is guitar and lead vocals for a local band.”

  Meg smiled politely. How many aspiring singers and actors had she slung coffee with? Most didn’t wear their stage make-up to work, though.

  Betty shook her hair back as she tamped grounds into the filter cup. “It’s called Magenta Morning. You’ve probably heard of us.”

  “I just recently moved here, so…” Meg wiped down the counter by the espresso machine.

  Betty exhaled loudly and pointed to a flyer posted on the corkboard near the condiment counter. “There are probably a thousand of those posted all over Morningside Heights and a thousand more across the rest of Manhattan. You’d be blind not to see them. Our street crew is super active.”

  Meg squinted to see the poster across the room and recognized it. “Oh, yeah. There’s one taped above the mailboxes in my building.”

  “It’s me and four other girls. We’ve been playing together since seventh grade. Except Daphne, who plays cello and violin. She joined us a couple years ago. At first, she was one of our drummer Lydia’s many girlfriends, but it fizzled as fast as all the others. Daphne stuck around, though. We enjoyed her company. Then she wrote a song for us and we liked it, so we asked her to play with us as a trial thing. The additional strings turned out to be a cool sound for us, differentiating us from all the other bands out there, so we asked her to stay on.”

  “The band is successful, then?” Meg picked up an empty cup and began to prepare a mocha.

  Betty gave her another nod of approval. “We do okay. Gigging takes care of the rent. We’re lucky, since New York is notorious as a pay-to-play city.”

  “Pay-to-play?”

  “You gotta pay the venue to play there,” Betty explained.

  “That doesn’t sound fair.” Meg cleaned the wand on her machine.

  Betty shrugged. “It is what it is. The venues need to pay their rent, too. It can be brutal for new bands. We were lucky because Sketch knew some people, so we didn’t have to pay very often early on. Now, our reputation gets us into almost anywhere we want to play. Sketch is our base player. Sara plays keyboards. Sara is Noel’s sister.”

  They’d finished with all of the queued up orders while they talked and there was a break in customers, so Meg rested her hip against the counter and watched Betty clean up after the last order. “You’re telling me I’m working with a rock star?”

  Betty smiled and nodded her head. “That you are, my friend.”

  “So much talent and humble, too, as you can see,” Noel muttered as he walked past them to grab a new stack of large to-go cups.

  Betty pretended she was going to squirt him with the whipped cream canister. Noel laughed and dashed into the breakroom.

  “That’s right. Run away, little man,” Betty called after him. She put the whipped cream dispenser back and chuckled. “Things are looking good. We have gigs at least three times a week. We’re getting ready to expand our tour. We have to figure out the logistics and I’ll probably have to scale back working here, which I’m not excited about, but I guess I can’t stay forever.”

  Noel snuck back to his place at the register as a new customer walked up.

  Meg was intrigued. “Now, it’s my turn to ask why you work at a coffee shop.”

  Betty finished wiping down her machine. “Medical benefits and flexible hours. Well, they’re flexible when we’re running full staff, which we aren’t. I was happy when I heard you were coming to work here, until I found out it’s only temporary.”

  “If we’re being all honest with one another, it didn’t seem like you were happy at all when you first met me.”

  Betty scowled at her. “I had to make sure you didn’t get comfortable until I’d scoped you out a bit, made sure you were going to fit in. Good news. You pass.” Her scowl morphed into a smile.

  Meg couldn’t help but smile back. She felt like she’d been accepted into Betty’s inner circle.

  Betty pressed grounds into the filter basket. “Hopefully Taylor will hire a couple more people as soon as she gets back, or I’ll have to figure something out.”

  Noel handed them each an empty cup and they worked on their orders.

  Betty was finished first and put the mocha she’d prepared on the counter while she eyed a guy texting as he propped himself against one of the middle support beams crisscrossing the open layout of the coffee shop. “Harpo, your mocha with extra whip is ready.”

  “Thanks,” the guy said, dropping a dollar into the tip jar.

  Betty winked at him. “No, thank you. He’s such a cutie,” she whispered over her shoulder to Meg.

  Meg wondered if her gaydar was off. She would have sworn Betty batted for her team.

  Betty must have seen the confusion on her face. “I’m attracted to the inner person, not the gender.”

  “Yeah, she especially likes the lower intestines and gall bladder,” Noel quipped.

  Betty threw a rag at him. “Didn’t I already warn you to shut it, little man?”

  Noel caught the rag and laughed.

  Meg enjoyed the banter of her new workmates and laughed along, shaking her head. She began to switch out the bucket used to catch the processed coffee grounds. When she looked up, she saw a familiar face in line at the register. She couldn’t place where she knew her from, though. From her unobtrusive place behind the espresso machine she watched the woman give Noel her order and then go stand next to the guy Betty had been flirting with.

  Betty bumped her shoulder. “Are you done drooling over there.” She consulted the paper cup in her hand. “Fiona needs her high-maintenance decaf, non-fat, two pump, extra hot, vanilla latte and you’re standing in front of my machine.”

  Meg laughed and stepped aside to take the bucket to the composter in the back. The drinker of high-maintenance coffee had a beautiful smile.

  *****

  That smile was on her mind as Meg skipped up the three flights of stairs to Aunt Vi’s apartment after her first day at Helga’s. She knew she’d seen her smile before, but she couldn’t place it and it was driving her crazy. Then it hit her. The Artful Bean! She’d seen her at her Uncle Arthur’s coffee shop!

  With the mystery solved, Meg thought about her day. It had gone well, but she was tired. She’d drastically underestimated the amount of work it was going to be, even though Taylor had warned her how busy the coffee shop was. Her feet were killing her and the muscles between her shoulder blades were on fire from slinging espressos for most of the day. She’d taken the register after Noel’s shift was over, but Betty had switched positions with her because Meg was talking to the customers too much. How was she to know baristas in NYC didn’t make small talk? At Uncle Arthur’s café in Ithaca he’d encouraged the staff to be friendly. She got it, though. Helga’s did ten times the business and it was always busy. They’d never get through the line if they talked to everyone. It was get the order, ring it up, and move on. Quick, quick, quick.

  She keyed the lock on the door to the apartment and held the door with her foot as she pulled the key out. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement in the living room.

  “Hey, Aunt Vi.” She dropped her keys onto the table inside the door. When she looked up, her face grew warm. Aunt Vi was sitting in the large chair in the corner of the room. Straddling her lap was a woman Meg had never met. Her blouse was unbuttoned and had slid off her shoulders so it was pooled around her waist. The woman pulled the shirt back up over her lacy pink bra with a slightly embarrassed smile. Meg, not knowing where to look, turned around and faced the door. “Sorry! I should have knocked!” She plucked up her keys and turned in a ci
rcle wondering if she should leave. Her feet hurt so badly, though! Finally, she started down the hall to her bedroom.

  “Hey, you don’t have to run off, Megsie.” Aunt Vi sounded like her normal self, not like she’d just been caught having sex in the living room by her unsuspecting roommate. “This is your place, too. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  Meg saw movement in the corner of her eye as Aunt Vi laughed. Meg stopped and stared at her hands. “Um…”

  “Don’t worry. We’re decent.”

  Meg chanced a look. Both of them stood next to the chair. The woman’s blouse was now buttoned up over her very ample chest. Aunt Vi tucked her polo shirt into her shorts. “I guess I’m not used to having a roommate.”

  “I got off a little early. I’ll, uh…” She studied her shoes and glanced longingly down the hall to her room—anywhere but into the living room.

  Aunt Vi cleared her throat and the woman giggled.

  “Um, I’ll, er, go to my room.” She felt unable to string a coherent sentence together. “Uh, carry on.”

  Meg jangled the keys in her hand for no reason and fled to her room. She shut the door and leaned against it, totally embarrassed. Muffled laughs and steps across the hardwood floor preceded a door closing. They’d gone into Vi’s room. Meg took the few steps across her room to her bed and with a great sigh, she fell onto it, covering her head with a pillow. What had just happened? She tried not to think about what she’d seen and didn’t want to think about the two women in the room down the hall. Finally, she put the pillow aside and sat up.

  The apartment was silent. They may have taken their business into the room for privacy, but she knew what they were doing. Meg picked up the keys she’d dropped on the bed and left her room. It was a little early for dinner, but there was no way she was going to hang around in the apartment after that.

  As she passed the door to Aunt Vi’s room she wondered what had happened to Sherri.

  11

  Two months later

  Journal entry: Fiona MacGregor - June 26, my bed, my apartment, Morningside Heights, NYC

  Dear Mom,

  I was writing in my journal but the words weren’t flowing very well, so I decided to write to you instead. I hope you don’t mind me doing this after so many years. It feels weird, though. I don’t believe in a sentient afterlife, not like you did. But I can definitely understand why people in crisis turn to religion. The thing is, I need a little grounding right now. I wish you were here to tell me everything will be okay. I know you can’t, though. And there’s no way it’s going to be okay. My life has gone to shit, Mom.

  Sorry for the cursing.

  But it has and I don’t know what to do.

  You know me. I’ve spent my entire life knowing exactly how it should go. You used to tell me to loosen up and not try to plan things out so meticulously. But I’m a planner. You know how it was supposed to go: finish high school with honors so I could go to a good college; graduate from law school; pass the bar; get a job at a great firm; make partner by thirty. Boom. Boom. Boom. That was the plan. You always wanted me to be a lawyer, too.

  Mom, I was right there! I had it in my hands!

  But I screwed up.

  Guess I’m not as smart as I thought. I know you wouldn’t ever say it to me, but I feel like a disappointment.

  Life goes on. Isn’t that what you always told me when stuff didn’t happen the way I planned it? Don’t obsess about the bumps in the road, you said.

  But, Jesus, Mom, and excuse me for taking the Lord’s name in vain, but how glib. Life goes on? What a joke! What life? I’ve been too busy my entire life planning and working for my future to have any sort of life. And for this? How did I let it happen? I studied and I focused and I was doing so well. I was on track. I was most definitely on track. Nineteen years of school, then months of studying for the bar exam. I was almost there. And then I blew it. Blew it big time!

  This was not the plan!

  Sorry for yelling.

  I keep thinking about Aunt Corny. She used to say, “Fate doesn’t always give you a warning when she decides to throw a curveball.” I sure figured out what she meant the hard way.

  I’ve heard it said countless times that things happen for a reason. Maybe it would be somewhat comforting if I actually believed in fate. But, honestly, I think it’s bullshit. Goddamn platitudes aren’t going to fix this, though.

  Sorry about the language.

  This is where I could use your wisdom, Mom, but that’s not gonna happen. I’m writing a letter to my dead mother in my journal and I miss you so much I ache and my eyes burn from staring at these pages, trying to conjure up something—anything—that will help me plan my way out of this. But the answers refuse to write themselves. Where does it leave me? Sitting in the dark like some Emo kid, lamenting the details of my wasted life. Looking forward to a shattered future.

  Fuck.

  Sorry for the language, Mom. Sorry for the blasphemy. But more than anything, sorry for letting you down.

  How did this disaster become my life?

  I never wanted to let you down. I always thought I was smarter than this. What kind of idiot passes the bar exam on the first try, then goes and gets herself pregnant?

  This kind of idiot, I guess.

  Aunt Corny is right. Life goes on. Fuck my life.

  Fiona read the words she’d written in her journal for the tenth time.

  It didn’t even sound like her, she thought dismally, as she looked at the sentences penned in her neat scroll. She closed the journal and tossed it onto her nightstand, scattering the seven pregnancy test wands she had carefully placed in a neat little row on the polished wood tabletop. She pulled her legs up onto the bed and dropped her head onto her knees. Her attempt at writing in the leather-bound book she hadn’t cracked open in over five years had been a failure. Her entire future was on the line, and her words sounded like a poorly written indie blog. She never had been good at journal writing. At best, the act of writing her deepest thoughts felt arduous and manufactured. Trying to write the letter to her mother had helped, but it was little more than a stream of self-recrimination. Why was it so hard to find the self-awareness to get the feelings out, let alone explore them? The flood of emotion she felt threatened to drown her. God, she wished her mother were here. She missed her so much. For a minute, the ancient grief of losing her parents eclipsed the awful present. She cried with the pain she felt all those years ago when the loss was fresh.

  She fell sideways, curling up in a tight ball on her bed. Self-pity consumed her. She needed someone to talk to. Someone to help her with solutions. For the first time in her life, she didn’t think she could face something by herself.

  It had been two and half months since that stupid night. She and Mike hadn’t spoken since. With the bar exam behind them—at least for her—and no more marathon study sessions, they’d had no need to get together. But, the truth was, it had been the embarrassment that kept her from calling him. She assumed he had similar thoughts, since he hadn’t called her, either. Now, she wished it was simply embarrassment she had to live with. This was worse, though. So very, very, very much worse than embarrassment.

  Pregnant.

  Holy crap.

  She was pregnant.

  Something she never thought she’d be. Ever.

  Should she tell him?

  Mike deserved to know, right? Or did he? If she took care of it, became un-pregnant—for some reason she couldn’t even think of the real word, even though she was categorically pro-choice—would it matter if she told him?

  The thing was, if he wasn’t part of this whole mess, he’d be one of the first people she’d actually tell. If she told anyone. Despite the past couple of months, he was one of her closest friends, up there with Maureen and Josh.

  But could she bring herself to tell her closest friends abo
ut this? She was terrified of being judged. Self-pity consumed her. Who would tell her everything would be okay? Would everything be okay? She couldn’t imagine it. Her perfect life was ruined.

  Stop it, she scolded herself. She would not feel sorry for herself.

  Women got pregnant all the time.

  Not women like her. She had her career to think about. What did this mean for her future? Her dreams of becoming a high-powered New York City lawyer were on the line. She had every reason to feel sorry for herself.

  The question was: what were the next steps? Fiona had spent the better part of her life knowing exactly what came next, but now she found herself in the previously unimaginable position of not knowing. She felt like she was perched on a tightrope, without a net, teetering wildly.

  She pulled the covers over her head and continued to cry.

  12

  Meg danced from foot to foot, holding herself, praying for relief. She didn’t even try to paint, although it had been a good distraction in the beginning. She’d had to go to the bathroom for a long time, but Aunt Vi and yet another woman Meg didn’t know were at the end of the hallway doing God knows what, and she didn’t want to deal with all the awkwardness. She should have gone earlier, when it had been only a faint need, but she’d been in the zone and the colors had been flowing perfectly. The urge to pee had tipped to code red at the same moment she’d heard Vi’s bedroom door open. She’d gotten up and stood by her bedroom door, listening for the woman to leave. Now she’d been hovering there for several minutes, hopping from foot to foot, listening to the murmur of the two women’s voices. She eyed an empty glass on her bedside table, both wishing she hadn’t downed the entire lemonade and wondering if she should use it for more practical purposes.

  How had she gotten into this situation?

  Aunt Vi had the most active dating life Meg had ever seen. Since she’d walked in on Vi in the living room two months ago, she’d seen her with at least a dozen different women. Sherri continued to come over, too. Nobody talked about Vi’s extracurricular love life.