Promise Me

You might think that those who would most look forward to the new year are those eager to leave the past behind—but it’s not usually so. If you hated your last dentist appointment, you don’t look forward to the next.

Beth Cardall’s Diary

The holidays are a cyclical time for dry cleaners. Prompt was always crazy busy up until Thanksgiving, slow until Christmas then pedal to the metal the week before New Year’s as people cleaned out their closets and got ready for their New Year’s Eve festivities.

Prompt Cleaners closed early on New Year’s Eve, at 2 P.M., so we were slammed all morning with people picking up their formal wear for New Year’s Eve parties. I was pressing pants when Roxanne came back. “What’s cookin’, Beth?”

“Besides me?” I asked through a blast of steam. It was always ten degrees warmer in back next to the big machinery, the massive dry-cleaning machines that could swallow thirty-five pounds of dinner jackets in one sitting.

“Here’s your check,” she said, handing me an envelope. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“I’m afraid I already did,” I said.

Roxanne leaned back against the shirt press. “Can you believe it’s the last day of the decade?”

“Good riddance,” I replied.

She grinned at my response. “My, aren’t you little Miss Sunshine. Does sourpuss have any hot New Year’s Eve plans?”

“I’m making cheese enchiladas for Charlotte. That’s about as hot as it will get. What about you?”

“Ray’s working, so it’s just Jan and me. I’m making my chocolate fondue. Why don’t you and Char come over with your enchiladas and watch Dick Clark with us?”

“Thanks, but Charlotte wasn’t doing all that well this morning. We’ll probably just go to bed early.”

“Oh, you’re a barrel of fun. You’re not at all excited for the new decade?”

“I’m broke, alone, and working in a sweatshop. What do you think?”

“I think you need someone.”

I looked up at her. “I have Charlotte.”

“A male companion.”

“You sound like Charlotte. She prayed that Jesus would bring me someone. I don’t think Jesus runs a dating service.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to take care of you?”

“Yes, that’s a lovely fiction. Unfortunately, not everyone can be Ray.”

“You don’t think Ray has problems?”

“Everyone has problems. But you don’t have to marry them.”

“You don’t really want to just sit around alone on New Year’s Eve. That’s . . .”

“Pathetic?” I said.

“I was going for boring, but pathetic works.”

I kept pressing. “I’ll think about it.”

Roxanne folded her arms. “You’re not coming over, are you, party-pooper?”

“Look, Rox, I’m not in the mood to celebrate. You know what I’ve been through.”

“Then don’t think of it as a celebration. Think of it as a wake for a bad year.”

“Thanks for the invite.”

She sighed. “All right. I gotta get back up front. Enjoy your enchiladas, killjoy.”

Roxanne and I locked the front doors at the two o’clock closing but still got the frantic last-minute crush of people who had forgotten their evening wear and pounded on the front and back doors begging for us to open. It was nearly three when Roxanne and I finally snuck out the back.

“Offer’s still good,” Roxanne said, unlocking her car. “Chocolate fondue and strawberries and bananas for dipping.”

“We’ll see.”

“That’s what you tell your children when you don’t want to say no, but mean to.”

“Love you, Rox,” I said. “Happy New Year.”

“You too, baby. Let’s hope for a better one.”

I drove across the street to the bank to deposit my check, then over to the grocery store to pick up a few things for our ‘celebration’—a six-pack of root beer, a package of cinnamon bears, a can of tomato sauce, some cheddar cheese and corn tortillas.

As I waited in the checkout line, soap opera guy, the man I met Christmas Day at the 7-Eleven, stepped in line after me. He was just as beautiful as I remembered.

“Déjà vu,” he said.

I looked at him, trying to remember his name. “Mike,” I guessed.

He grinned, a slight dimple appearing above his right cheek. “Matthew.”

“Right, Matthew. The head-butter.”

He chuckled. “I like that, Matthew, the head-butter. I’m still embarrassed about that.”

Without acknowledging me, the woman cashier started scanning my items and dropping them in a plastic sack.

“So what do you do for an encore,” I asked, “a body slam?”

He laughed. “Yeah, well, if they hung me for being graceful, I’d die innocent.”

The cashier said, “That will be eight dollars and seventy-four cents.”

“I should have that,” I said. I dug into my purse, hoping that I had enough cash to not write a check. All I could find was six dollars.

“Here,” Matthew said, handing the cashier a ten-dollar bill.

I looked up at him. “I got it,” I said. I rooted back through my purse in vain. Finally, I brought out my checkbook and started writing. “Eight dollars and . . . seventy-two cents?”

“Seventy-four,” the woman said curtly, doing her best to look annoyed that I was writing a check for such a small amount. I finished scribbling the amount and handed her the check.

“I need I.D.,” the clerk said.

“Really? For eight dollars?” Matthew asked.

“I don’t make the rules,” she said.

“I’ll get it,” I said. I got back in my purse, brought out my wallet and showed her my driver’s license.

She stamped the back of the check, wrote down my driver’s license number and put the check in the till.

I looked back at Matthew a little embarrassed. “Bye.”

“Hey, would you hold on a second?”

I looked at him quizzically. “Why?”

“I just want to talk to you. I’ll just be a second. I promise. Please.”

I’m not sure why I said yes—maybe something as simple and powerful as social pressure—but I relented. “Okay. Just for a few minutes. I really need to get home.”

“That’s all I need,” he said.

I walked over near the automatic doors to wait for him. He handed the clerk a couple bills and said, “Keep the change.” He walked up to me smiling. “Thanks for waiting. Got a big party tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. We’ll be swinging from the chandeliers.”

“Sounds fun,” he said, as if he believed me.

“So, are you stalking me?”

His smile broadened. “You’re a direct woman, so I’ll just cut to the chase and ask you out.”

“You want to ask me out?”

“I do.”

“What if I told you that I’m not interested?”

“I’d expect that.”

“But would it deter you?”

“Probably not. It’s a new year. I’m betting you could use a friend.”

“I have enough friends. Besides, men never just want to be friends.”

“Maybe I’m the exception.”

“That would worry me.” I looked at him, feeling a little sympathetic for his situation. “Look, you seem like a nice guy and I’m sure you know you’re very handsome, but I’m not looking for a new relationship in my life right now. I’m flattered, really. But I’m not interested. Sorry.”

He stood there looking at me, completely unfazed by what I thought was a pretty clear dismissal. “You’re honest. I like that.”

“Which only shows that you haven’t been around me long enough. No one wants that much honesty.”

“You’re right, it would probably drive me crazy. When can I take you out?”

I looked at him in astonishment. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

“I’m a poor listener.”

“Listen . . .”

“Matthew,” he said.

“Right. Matthew, you know nothing about me. You don’t even know my name. So let’s leave it at that. Trust me, that would be best.” I turned to leave.

“It’s Bethany,” he said.

I turned back. “What?”

“Your name is Bethany.”

“How did you know that?”

He shrugged. “I must have heard someone call you that.”

“No one calls me Bethany except my mother. And she passed away ten years ago.”

He just looked at me. “Then it’s a mystery.”

I said, “I really need to go.”

“Wait, please. I just want to ask you out. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Take it or not, that’s still the answer.” I walked away. He followed me out to the parking lot.

When I was unlocking my car, he said, “Why won’t you give me a chance?”

I opened my car door. “I told you why. Besides, now you’ve set off all my internal warning bells. Bye.”

“I’m not giving up,” he said.

“Bye.” I climbed inside my car.

I started my car and backed out. He stood there, his hands in his pockets, watching me. What did he want? Roxanne would have smacked me over the top of the head for turning him down.