Page 10 of Truck Stop Tempest
“NICE TO SEE YOUagain,” the woman next to me said, her voice soft and melodic.
“Good morning.” I offered my hand.
“I’m Joyce.” Sliding her warm palm against mine, she shook my arm with vigor.
I stared down at our joined hands, fascinated by the stark contrast of my ivory palm encased in her ebony fingers. “I’m Tuuli.” I lifted my gaze to meet a pair of exotic green eyes.
Joyce was beautiful. I guessed in her late sixties. Dark, flawless skin. Hair cut short, tight to her scalp, enhancing her features. She wore a plum-colored suit with a paisley blouse underneath the blazer. Red tainted lips spread into an inviting smile. “It’s about time we introduced ourselves.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you for saying hello.”
Joyce and I occupied the same pew almost every Sunday. Over the past few weeks, we had exchanged glances and smiles, but I’d never reached out.
“I figured it was time, seeing as we both seem to prefer the back row.” She leaned closer, her exotic, green eyes playful and comforting. “I need to stay close to the ladies’ room if you know what I mean.”
I preferred to stay close to the exit, but Joyce didn’t need to know that silly detail.
My new friend moved her handbag from between us, set it on the other side of her lap, and inched her hip closer to mine. “Tuuli is a beautiful name.”
“Thank you.” Shame coiled through me, sinister and cold. If she knew the truth, my name would sicken her.
The band started to play. Joyce jumped to her feet and bounced on her toes for a few beats, then turned and gestured for me to stand. She clapped in rhythm, and when the lyrics kicked in, she sang along, loud and proud.
I rose, eyes glued to the woman next to me, enthralled with her infectious joy.
Without taking her eyes off the stage, she leaned into me. “That handsome boy behind the drum set is my grandson.”
I nodded but didn’t speak. I couldn’t form a syllable through the lump in my throat.
Joyce raised her hands in praise. I stared at my palms. Palms that had touched the enemy and remained unscathed.
Guilt weighed heavy on my shoulders, crushing my spirit. My eyes filled with tears, and two bars into “Glorious Day,” I was a blubbering mess.
I braved a glance at Joyce who seemed lost in the lyrics. So free, so full of the Holy Spirit, I wanted to hug her tight and soak up her positive energy.
There was no way the woman next to me was bad. She wasn’t dirty. I didn’t feel damned or disgusted for having touched or spoken to her. She’d made me feel…loved. She didn’t know me, but I sensed that she wanted to, and I wanted to know her better. I wanted to know all the people surrounding me.
My tears fell harder with each beat of the drum. I couldn’t stay. Not with the lyrics or the anticipation of Pastor Davies’ sermon. I couldn’t stop the flood of emotion leaking down my face. I could not open my heart to the word of God when I was so full of self-hate.
I snatched my purse off the pew and bee-lined for the exit, heading left toward the lake, instead of right toward the bus stop. No way was I about to get on public transit in my emotional state. Everyone would stare and see me for what I was, weak and pathetic. So, despite the cold wind whipping through the tree branches and biting through the thin fabric of my cardigan, I headed toward work, on foot, again.
Halfway down Sunnyview Boulevard, where the houses tripled in size and the lake came into view, my tears dried, and I’d crammed the guilt back into the dark hole in my gut. I would go back to church next week, head held high. Maybe I would get there early enough to have coffee and talk with some of the people. I hoped Joyce would be there, and still wanted to sit next to me.
When a dark figure at the bottom of the hill caught my attention, an odd flutter rose in my chest, halting my brisk pace.
Even from a distance, Tito was recognizable. Larger than life. Focused. Inspiring.
His strides didn’t falter, motions didn’t slow, even with the steep incline.
Heat flooded my veins. My insides buzzed with anticipation, cosmic and utterly ridiculous.
The wind picked up as if challenged by his drive. Tito only put his head down and plowed through the gusts, rising higher, and closer to me. Me, who hadn’t budged since laying eyes on him. Me, who stood shaking under the cold force of the wind—or maybe because of the sheer force of his raw, frightening beauty.
Feet planted firmly on the cracked cement, I waited, silent, nervous, anxious. Would he see me? Would he stop?
My fingers tingled, imagining the feel of his sweaty skin.
One block away. My cheeks heated.