Chapter 3: The Meeting

Today was the day. After thinking about it way too much, I wanted to arrange a fake meet-cute, just like in the movies, and it had to be perfect. I wanted Amelia to like me from the get-go, so I spent days planning how it would go, what I would do, acting out everything I would say in front of a mirror.

I chose carefully what to wear that morning, picking out a sundress I had bought specifically for this purpose. It was pale yellow, cotton, with thin straps and a hem that hit mid-thigh. I wore nothing underneath. The neckline dipped low enough to show the swell of my breasts, the inner curves visible when I moved. On my feet I just slipped on simple leather sandals. I looked in the mirror before I left and practiced my smile one last time. Innocent. Helpless. Needing a friend.

I walked to the mailboxes at ten-thirty, timing it based on the schedule I had observed over three days. Amelia checked the mail between ten and eleven, usually after her mother left for her shift at the diner. I stood at the box labeled 144, sorting through junk mail I had addressed to Paige Mitchell, my hands shaking slightly, rehearsing my lines.

I heard the screen door slam three trailers down. I did not look up. I waited until I heard footsteps on gravel just behind me, then I turned, letting the book in my hand slip from my fingers.

It fell at her feet, just behind her and face up. The Bell Jar, its cover worn, and the pages wrinkled and worn from continuous handling.

She turned and bent to pick it up, and I watched her as my breath hitched. The black spandex shorts were the same ones from yesterday, or another pair just like them, so tight they might as well have been skin. She bent at the waist, not the knees, and the fabric pulled between her legs, outlining her ass cheeks in perfect detail. She didn’t seem to be wearing panties, and I could see the seam of her, the slight swell, the faint outline of her labia where her thighs met. Her ass was round and firm, the muscles flexing as she straightened.

“Is this yours?” she asked as she turned back to me.

Her voice was softer than I expected, with a hint of Arkansas drawl. She held the book out, and I made sure my fingers brushed hers when I took it. Her skin was warm, slightly damp from the heat. It was the very first time I had touched my daughter, and I struggled to hold back a tear.

“Oh, thank you,” I said, letting my voice rise slightly, breathless. “I’m so clumsy sometimes. I’m Paige, by the way. I just moved in.”

“Amelia,” she said. She did not offer her hand, but she did not walk away. She was looking at me, taking in the sundress, the cleavage, the way the fabric clung to my waist. I saw her eyes linger for just a moment on my chest before she looked away, blushing slightly.

I touched her arm, light, friendly. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where the nearest coffee shop is? I haven’t figured out the area yet and I’m hopeless with directions.”

She looked back at me, and I held her gaze, letting my eyes widen slightly, letting her see that I was looking at her too. “There’s a Starbucks about two miles down,” she said. “Or a better local place, if you want.”

“The local place,” I said. “I hate chains. Do you have time? I mean, if you’re not busy. I hate to impose. I’m buying.” I gave her another smile I’d practiced, one that I thought showed me being hopeful but expecting to be turned down at the same time.

She hesitated. I touched her arm again, my fingers lingering on her bare skin. “Please,” I said, making my voice small. “I don’t know anyone here. I moved here to get away from a bad situation, and I just ... I need a friend.”

Those were the magic words. I saw her soften, saw the loneliness in her eyes that mirrored what I knew she felt, isolated in that trailer with those people she didn’t belong with. “Sure,” she said. “I can show you.”

We walked together down the gravel road, towards the shop that was about half a mile away. I made sure to walk close, our arms brushing, and once I “accidentally” let my hip bump against hers as I grabbed her arm. She blushed, a deep red that spread down her neck and chest, but she did not pull away, did not move farther from me. If anything, she walked closer, her shoulder pressing against my arm.

As we walked, I did most of the talking, trying to seem like someone who wanted to share, letting her get to know a little before I started asking her about herself. I mentioned that I had just moved from Austin, and was hoping to make a new start. I didn’t give much in the way of specifics, yet.

The coffee shop was called The Daily Grind, a small place with sticky tables and an overworked air conditioner that rattled in the window. I bought us both grande iced coffees, and we found a booth in the back corner. I made sure to sit beside her, not across from her, our knees almost touching under the small table.

“So,” I said, stirring my coffee slowly, the ice clinking against the plastic, “tell me about yourself. Do you have a boyfriend?” It was a slightly bold question, but it felt right.

She laughed, a bitter sound that didn’t reach her eyes. “No. I’ve never ... I mean, I’ve kissed a boy once. At a party. It was gross.” She looked down at her cup, her hair falling forward to hide her face. “The girls at school used to call me frigid. They said I was stuck up because I wouldn’t let Tommy Henderson fingerbang me in his truck.”

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper, intimate. I let my lips brush her ear as I spoke, feeling her shiver. “That’s not frigidity, Amelia. That’s standards. Most boys don’t know what they’re doing. They don’t understand what a woman needs, how to touch her, or how to make her feel good.”