Suzanne Young: A Desire So Deadly

There are several customers sitting at the outdoor tables of the Costas Bakery when I show up for my shift. I don’t normally work during the week, but after my phone took a dip, I asked my parents for a new one. My request was met with laughter, and then extra shifts so I could afford to buy one myself. Which will hopefully be by next paycheck.

I park the Jeep on the side of the building and then take a minute to look in the rearview mirror and tie up my long red hair, which is stringy and salty-dry. I brush sand from my temples and then close my eyes for a second, still feeling the sway of the waves. When the sensation threatens to rock me to sleep, I blow out an exhausted breath and then smile as hard as I can for ten seconds.

“Six, seven . . .”

By the time I get to eight the smile turns real, and I’m ready to serve up some cinnamon lattes. My parents have owned this bakery since I was a toddler, naming it after my mother’s family in Mexico. Our place is a hit; then again, we’re the only bakery in Deseo other than the donut case in Safeway. I don’t mind working here; it’s not like the job doesn’t have its perks. I get free coffee.

I approach the back door and see Tanner—our busboy—sitting on a milk crate, smoking a cigarette. Tanner’s in his early twenties, with long black hair he wears in a ponytail. He used to be a riot, but lately he’s been calling in sick. Distracted. Cranky. Today, he’s staring off across the parking lot, pulling a long drag from his smoke.

“Hey,” I say as I pass him. He turns slowly, his dark eyes rimmed in red. I’m about to ask if he’s okay, but then I feel a wind blow through me, although it doesn’t brush against my skin or move my hair. A tingling inches up my veins until my entire body tingles. I take in a sharp breath, and suddenly knowledge floods me—knowledge I could never have had on my own.

Panic starts to bubble up, but then a vision materializes and I’m immersed in it, as if I am there. It’s months ago, and I see Tanner sitting at a bar, talking to a woman who’s not his girlfriend. I know everything then—what he’s thinking, feeling. Tanner thinks this woman is everything his girlfriend is not. The scene fast-forwards and I watch their affair, watch how Tanner becomes obsessed. His mind twists around the thought of being with her, only her. And he doesn’t want her with anyone else.

I try to pull myself from the vision, terrified of what’s happening to me. How can I see this? How can I know? But it’s like I’ve lost control of my body, and I’m submerged once again.

Tanner watches as the woman, Kira, flirts with other men at the bar. He begs her to stop, tells her he’ll leave his girlfriend. But Kira says it’s too late—she’s moved on. Tanner won’t accept it. His passion brightens into anger—murderous anger that turns my stomach and makes my body shake.

I stagger back a step, cutting off the vision. “What’s happening?” I ask as Tanner stares at me, wide-eyed. I realize then that he saw it too—we shared the memories.

“How are you doing that?” he demands, jumping up from the crate. He drops his cigarette on the ground and stomps on it. Tears begin to sting my eyes. I’m scared, but I don’t answer Tanner because I can still see his plan; the gun in the glove compartment of his car. He’s going to use it to kill Kira and then himself. He’s going to ruin everything.

How do I know all of this? How can I possibly have this much information? I press my hands to my temples, afraid I’m having a nervous breakdown. But then . . . comfort rushes over me. Peace. Words form in my head, as if whispered in my ear from beyond me, beyond here. They are compassionate, but firm.

“You won’t be able to take it back,” I say, lifting my eyes to Tanner’s. My bones ache, but with each word I speak, I find a little relief. “You’ll never find peace. You need to let this go. You need help.”

“Go to hell!” Tanner snaps, and kicks over the crate he was sitting on. His cheeks have grown red with anger—he doesn’t want me to know; he doesn’t want me to stop him. His desire has made him desperate.

Tanner’s posture grows impatient, and he moves quickly to push past me. But the minute he touches me, his body convulses, stopping him. I moan, a sudden rush of light pouring from me, draining me. Tanner sways on his feet.

My arm heats up, my hand, my fingers. I can feel my skin burning Tanner. He gasps but doesn’t pull away; instead tears race down his cheeks. In my mind, in our shared vision, we watch Tanner commit the crime—murder Kira and himself. But then the scene is overwritten. A new future is offered, one in which Tanner leaves town without hurting anybody. He heads back to his home in Texas, with his mom and dad. The medication that will even him out—control the rage that has built up. The therapy and eventual calm.

The rush stops, but Tanner stands rooted in place. His mouth opens, but no words come out. His eyes glaze over, and I know then that he’s listening. He’s going to take the other path. He plans to leave town, head back to Texas. He won’t hurt anybody—but even so . . . I’ll know how close he came. I’ll know what he’s capable of.

“I have to go,” Tanner says as he looks around, broken from the spell. I expect to see more of the anger, but he’s distracted. “Claire, will you tell your mother I quit?”

“What?” I can’t even process his words as I try to figure out what happened. I think I am having a breakdown. Tanner shakes his head and then starts for his truck, half-dazed. I’m about to call out to him, demand that he explain to me what just happened, when I’m struck with a sense of euphoria—an airy sense of completion, comfort, love. I sway, falling back into the cement wall. I’ve never felt so peaceful. I still, closing my eyes, and let the fear evaporate.

When I open my eyes again, Tanner’s truck is gone. For a moment, I wonder if I imagined the entire exchange, but I see the crushed cigarette still on the ground. My stomach is twisted in knots, my body trembling. I rush inside to the bathroom, afraid I might throw up. Bursting through the door, I slam it shut behind me before locking it. At the white pedestal sink, I rest my hands on either side, my head hanging as I try to gather myself.

Tanner almost killed somebody. Should I call the police? I should. But say what? I saw inside his head, knew his intentions? I helped him; I saved someone’s life today.

Holy hell. I turn the cold water on high and splash a handful over my face. As it runs over my lips, I taste the salt water wash off my skin. I do this over and over until I start to feel more like myself. I look at my reflection, trying to discern if I’ve changed, if anything is different. But I’m exactly the same.

“Keep it together, Claire,” I murmur, and grab a handful of paper towels from the dispenser. I pat my face dry, studying it one more time. There is a murmur of voices outside the bathroom door, and I know I have to go to work.

Tanner quit. All the rest could have been some weird hallucination—could be from my colossal wipeout this morning while surfing. After my shift, I’ll talk to my mom, maybe stop by the urgent care. But my head doesn’t hurt now. I don’t feel sleepy.

I’m fine. I have to be fine. I scrape back the stray hairs into my ponytail. I repeat my mantra until I’m calmed, until I’m together. I change into my Costas T-shirt, and swipe on lip gloss and wash my hands. I’ll just work and see how I feel in a couple of hours. If things get weird again, I’ll leave. Ready. Go.

I walk out into the packed store. The tables are littered with leftover plates and cups; there’s the hum of conversation, and the smell of coffee beans and confectioners’ sugar hanging in the air.