How to Save a Life

“Veronica Vega…that’s right, two Vs…” I hear Vern say. I glance up from my crouched place behind the cosmetics counter and watch her smile at a man, handsome, late forties, dressed to kill.

He doesn’t stand a chance. She’ll have him crying and threatening self-harm by Christmas.

“…as in victory. Or, if you put them together, W for winner.”

I snort and she lands a kick to my hip with the point of her Manolo Blahnik four inch heels. I’m torn between laughing and howling.

“I bet,” replies the good-looking soon-to-be-crier.

I’m back to restocking the black mascara in the bottom drawer when I hear a chillingly familiar voice say, “Where is she?”

It’s a gut punch that sends my pulse racing and my hands shaking. I’m having so many conflicting emotions they’re running into each other. Last time I saw him was an unmitigated disaster. But I guess it’s all out in the open now. There’s no running from the truth anymore.

“Veronica, where is she?” he repeats.

That’s when anger begins to rise above the rest. At him, at life in general who seems hell bent on humiliating me at every turn. I’ve played out this scenario in my head a thousand times and never once did it involve him finding me on all fours, hiding behind the cosmetics counter of a department store while wearing a headband of turkey feathers. I’m not doing this now. Not here. Not when I need this job more than I need opposable thumbs.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll be right with you,” Veronica forces out between a fixed smile.

“I really need to speak to you now,” says the man I both hate and love to death. But it’s the panic in his voice that gets my attention. It reminds me of how he reacted the day I had to rush Maisie to the hospital when she had the allergic reaction to the hazelnut ice cream. At his broken expression the other day when he cornered me outside the hospital in a jealous fit.

“Go ahead and help him,” I hear the customer say to Veronica. “I can come back later.”

“No, no, no. I can help you,” Vern pleads to her unwitting victim. “He’s nothing––a nobody.”

“Yeah, thanks, man. It’s urgent,” Jordan breaks in, ignoring Veronica’s attempt to get rid of him.

“It’s not urgent! I don’t even know who you are.”

A moment of silence follows in which I’m fairly certain the guy walks away.

“I tried to call her, but I think she blocked me.”

You bet I did. It was also pretty much an empty threat. I didn’t expect him to call. It’s not like I’m brave or anything. In fact, if this experience has taught me anything, it’s that I’m not nearly as brave as I thought I was. That was a hard pill to swallow.

“Have you lost your mind!” Veronica fires back. “You just cost me a sale.”

“Here. Put it all on my card. I’ll buy it all. Just tell me where she is. I drove by the house and no one answered, not even her mother. Her neighbor won’t tell me anything.”

I make a mental note to give Mrs. Argento a break on her last month of rent.

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart or something? She doesn’t want to see you, asshole. She doesn’t want to hear from you. You blew it. God gave you a gift and you threw it back in her face. Get the hint.”

A lump forms in my throat. Love may be painful but it’s also brutally beautiful when it shines, when you get back tenfold what you give. I can’t imagine my life without Vern and I’m grateful I never have to.

“I know,” Jordan quietly admits, one of a handful of times I’ve heard him humbled. Nice to know he’s capable of it. “I know…I just…I just want a chance to apologize.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you accused her of being a thief.”

“Technically, I didn’t accuse her of that.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. She didn’t explain why she took the money and I assumed the worst. That was wrong of me––”

“Yeah, you did, Jordan. You accused her of stealing.”

“Just tell me where she is!” booms across the busy cosmetics floor.

Holy hell…

The room goes dead quiet. Veronica gets that look on her face, the one that tells me she’s plotting a murder, making a list and checking it twice: stun gun, electrical tape, garbage bags, bleach.

I saw it once, the same look, when her sister Selma borrowed her Louis Vuitton bag without permission and ruined it with nail polish. The following day Selma had no eyebrows and no one asked questions. We all just knew.

“You did not just yell at me.” The words come out pulverized between her back teeth. “Riley––come get your mans before I cut him.”

That’s my cue to stand. Slowly, as gracefully as possible, I get up and straighten my clothes, cast a brief look around. Every single woman in the busy cosmetics department is now watching us with a level of engrossed attention usually reserved for a Housewives episode. I calmly remove the goofy headband because I won’t be having this conversation with a crown of turkey feathers on my head and finally meet Jordan’s gaze.