Cab Ride

By Nolia Harp

Cora Tinsley stives for perfection, in her work life as the director of The Pink House Art Gallery in the art district of New York City. She strives for perfection in her appearance, her black business attire with her sleek salon blowouts.
But the one thing she cannot perfect, the one thing she cannot control are her debilitating episodes of pain which have plagued her for the last ten years. Their cause? Unknown. How to stop them? Even more unknown.
Not only have these episodes caused her to drastically limit her social life and circle of friends, but it has kept her from a secret desire to fall in love.
After she reluctantly agrees to her two best and only friends, who won't take no for an answer, to go on a blind date with a famous actor's son, it throws her down the road of a life-changing ride which opens her heart to her deepest desires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667888859

Book preview

Chapter 1

City of Angels

1976

We missed ya at the funeral. I know she would have wanted her favorite fella here, CJ’s mother tells him, sounding more sober than he could ever remember. Her words come from so far away, yet, through the pay phone, are crisp and clear with an undertone of loss.

Yeah, I know. Things are just busy for me right now, the boy lies, twirling the silver sticky phone cord around his finger.

You know when ya might be comin’ home to your momma? The hope in her voice is evident. I know you and your daddy ain’t never seen eye to eye. But he misses ya bein’ here, and it ain’t just ’cuz he needs your help on the ranch.

I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise. It was no surprise to himself how easy the lies roll off his tongue. He had, after all, learned from the best.

His mother let out a sigh. It was sad, ya know. There were only the five of us. Me, your daddy, your sisters, and the preacher from church.

Sam wasn’t there?

No, son. I’ve got some bad news about Sam. He passed away in his sleep barely two days after her. Doctor said it was from the concussion. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it was from a broken heart. He sure did love her. And her going out the way she did, so suddenly. None of us would have thought in a million years she would’ve shot herself.

His eyes begin to fill with tears as screams reverberate in his head. Don’t you understand why I can’t come back? Not after what I’ve done. Their deaths are my fault!

He clears his throat hard and swallows the sob trying to make its way up his throat. Where is she?

We couldn’t afford to bury her in a plot. Son, I’m sorry to be the one to tell ya this, but we had her cremated. We scattered her ashes. I thought she might like to float in the breeze over the hills.

With a crack in his voice, he lies. I think that’s nice. She would like that. The thought of her entire existence being reduced to nothing is almost too much to comprehend.

You still stayin’ with that Christian couple and workin’ at the church?

Oh, yeah. No need to worry. They’re good people.

Happy sixteenth birthday, CJ.

Thanks, Momma. And tell the girls I said to behave.

He hangs up the pay phone and makes his way down the sidewalk to the car parked just down the street, his legs feeling heavy underneath him. He drags himself into the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition, still able to smell the lingering cigarette smoke embedded within the cab of the vehicle. The bloody handprint, crusted on the dash, is now a faded color of brown from the miles and miles of being baked in the scorching sun. The engine starts and he shifts the car into drive, something he has done many times before. Yet he doesn’t peel away from the curb, hearing the rocks clinking at the bumper as he hoots and hollers out the window in delight. No, the driver, with tired circles under his eyes, stares down the Los Angeles Street because… he simply has nowhere to go.

He used to love the sound this car made and the smell of the white leather. He loved the excitement he used to feel buzzing around his body when the cherry-red Oldsmobile Cutlass began to hum. The excitement of another forbidden adventure in his small town. But even more exciting than sneaking around with the potential of getting caught was being with the person he shared those times with. The most important person in the world to him. The person he would never see again.

He didn’t even feel guilt from the week after week of lying to his family. It was a pale sin in comparison to what he had done. Because there was no way in hell CJ Haskell was ever going to step foot inside a church again. Not after the lives he had ruined, including his own.

The truth is, he has no job, he has no bed to sleep in. He is all alone. And in his mind, that’s exactly what he deserves.

CJ closes his eyes hard and clenches his jaws, wondering how much longer he can make it on his own. How much longer he is going to be able to keep the reality of what he had done at bay. How long he is going to be able to keep her face out of his mind and hide from it.

Slamming the car back into park, he shuts off the engine and opens his eyes. The hot, California setting sun glares through the windshield, clawing at his brain, making his head begin to throb. Flipping down the visor, he notices in the mirror his bottom lip is still swollen, an angry red split down the middle trying to heal. He had gotten into scuffles before, but none like this. On his one and only night in a homeless shelter, shortly after his arrival to the city, three grown men jumped him when he refused to hand over his cowboy boots. He woke up to the feeling of his leg being tugged on, and when he realized what was happening, he kicked one of those men right square in the jaw. But that was the only lick he was able to get in before the other two intervened, one holding him down while the other punched him in the mouth, blood exploding all over his face. It wasn’t a fair fight in the least, but at this point in his life, not much is.

It could have been a whole hell of a lot worse than ending up with bare feet. Those men could have found and stolen his only lifeline… the cash he had hidden in his car parked outside. A gift from the only person who had ever believed in him. From the only person who had always supported him. And he was damn certain he was going to use it for what it was intended… to make his dreams come true.

Chapter 2

Weirdo

2011

Are you serious? Perry whines, as he stands back and cocks his head to one side, assessing the enormous oil painting he and his co-worker had just rehung on the wall for the second time that morning. I think it looks fine over here.

Yes. I’m deadass, Cora responds eyeing him with a look of contempt. "I think it should go back on the opposite wall; three inches lower to be exact."

Fine, fine, Perry tells her, throwing his hands up into the air. "You are the brains of this place. And I’m the beauty. He smirks. Now let me go find the brawn, because I am not schlepping this yuge thing across the showroom by myself." Huffing, he leaves the showroom to find his new hired co-worker, Thad… the third one this year, muttering something under his breath about her constant strive for perfection.

Patting her cheeks, she attempts to clear her head, careful not to smear her makeup, as she moves to the next painting and examines it for the umpteenth time. She’s aware her patience is thinner than usual due to her 3:00 a.m. painful wake-up call… one of the unexplained and excruciating episodes which have been plaguing her for the past ten years. Their cause? Unknown. When they would attack? Even more unknown. Random and debilitating were the only things certain about these relentless attacks.

She sighs as she feels a twinge of remorse for fussing at Perry, her oldest and best friend. Twelve years had gone by since the two teenagers met while hiding in the girls’ bathroom in high school. Both hiding, however, for different reasons: Cora reeling from yet another gut-wrenching episode attacking right in the middle of class, while Perry was finding solace in the girls’ bathroom from all the haters, as he liked to call them. Their friendship bond was immediate and unbreakable, weathering the ups and downs until it landed them at this moment in time.

Cora earned a Master’s degree of Arts Management, leading her to becoming the director of a popular art gallery in the trendsetting neighborhood of the West Village in New York City. Her intelligence, maturity, hard-working-attitude, and professionalism landed her the coveted internship right out of college. Basically, her type A personality and unwillingness to be second best made her a shoo-in for the permanent position. Perry, with a double major consisting of a Bachelor of Arts and Business Management, and a talented eye for up-and-coming new artists, not to mention his enormous social circle, was her first choice of hire for the busy gallery’s much-needed registrar.

Why are we moving this again? Thad asks, as he returns to the showroom with Perry in tow.

Because— Perry begins to explain.

Because, Cora interrupts, number one, because I said so, and number two—

Oh no, here we go again… Perry folds his arms over his chest.

Cora ignores Perry’s comment. The average woman is five foot three to five foot four, and the average man is five foot nine to five foot ten. I am exactly five foot three and a half, my heels are six inches. If I take my heels off—she steps out of her sleek black pumps—I am right at the height an average woman would be—granted if she is wearing flats or sandals—to view the artwork at her most optimal level. If I put my heels back on—she steps back into her shoes—I am at the right height of the average man to also view the artwork at his most optimal level. I need my customers to experience each piece of artwork in this gallery as close to perfection as we can get, therefore, making each patron coming through those doors feel as if they have fallen into the piece and wanting desperately to take it home and make it their own, she concludes. Got it? She glares at Thad while she purses together her matte-red lips.

Yeah… got it, Thad replies while cinching up his back brace.

Cora watches Thad turn and stomp away and notices Perry checking out Thad’s backside. She reaches out and slaps her ever-horny best friend on the arm.

Ow! I am just looking, you freakin’ nun, he hisses as he trots away from her disapproving look.

I don’t think this Thad guy is a good fit for the gallery, Cora scoffs as she and Perry finish up their nightly locking-up-the-gallery ritual and step out onto the city sidewalk. It was after ten and the street was almost as busy as it was during the day with the power crowd leaving the numerous art galleries and heading for late night dinners at their favorite eateries.

Oh, please, please, please do not get rid of another one, Cora! he begs her while he grabs onto her arm, making their way down the sidewalk. I need this guy to help me lift all the heavy stuff, especially the sculptures. Plus, I like looking at his muscles. I’m pleading with you, keep him. My cute little ass cannot lift this stuff by myself.

She laughs. Fine, you schmuck. I will keep him. But only for the sake of your cute little ass.

Thank you! He slaps himself on the rear end and tells his backside, You’re welcome. He stops and turns them both to look at their reflections in a closed store window. Look at us. Did you ever think we’d get here? Remember the haters in high school? They laughed at us and called us weirdos. You for trying to hide your weekly writhing in pain and me for being… me. Well, who’s laughing now? ’Cuz that is one fabulous looking set of friends right there! he concludes as he blows his reflection a kiss.

She looks at their reflection. He is right, they have come a long way. Although her painful episodes never left her, she knows how to cope with them now. How to put on a brave face and shut herself off to just about everyone to keep them hidden.

Come on, let’s go get a pie to celebrate. You are finally done getting all the artwork needed for the silent auction for charity and you can actually attempt to relax a little. I mean, it’s only taken you almost a friggin’ year.

How’d you know that? I hadn’t even had a chance to tell anyone I had secured the last piece earlier today over the phone, she asks him as she pulls her thoughts back to the moment.

I looked through your desk while you were in the bathroom, he grins.

Jayson Perry Drew! You know I hate it when you snoop. She removes her arm from his and places her hands on her hips in a futile attempt to show her disdain.

Please, girl. He mocks her hands-on-hips pose. You know there’s nothing in your boring life you could ever dream about hiding from me. Come on, let’s go.

Her demeanor changes as she reaches up to rub the area over her heart… the place on her body where the pain always strikes. Thanks, but no thanks. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I’m too tired to wait on line for a slice.

"I would ask you to come over for a glass of wine and to ogle all the muscles with my Game of Thrones-watching friends, but I know that’s a no-go also," he pouts.

Ha! You got that right, she agrees while making her way to the edge of the sidewalk to flag down a taxi.

Still the only person I have ever met who doesn’t watch TV, much less even own one. It’s a wonder we are still friends. He sighs as he begins to walk backward down the street.

Watching TV is a complete waste of time! she yells in his direction as she climbs into the taxi.

He laughs as he shoots her the bird.

She reaches her hand out the open window of the taxi and flips him off in return. Leaning back, she grins to herself at her lovable yet annoying best and oldest friend, as she hears Beyoncé’s, Best Thing I Never Had coming from the front seat. But her grin fades away while she succumbs to the worn-out nylon of the taxi seat and its smell of bitter cleaner and remnants of sauerkraut as she thinks of the reason why she feels trapped in her evenings of chosen solitude. Looking out the window, she mumbles under her breath, Maybe I am still a weirdo.

Chapter 3

Home, Lonely Home

2011

Cora unlocks the front door and steps into her top-floor apartment of the small three-story building located between the West Village and Chelsea. Her stomach growls. Time for a little nosh. She hasn’t eaten during her busy workday since the bagel with a schmear sometime mid-morning. Hanging her rented designer bag on its designated hook, she steps out of her pinching, pointy-toe heels. She places them at the end of a line of five pairs of almost identical black stilettos, one for each day at work. Attempting to control as many things as she can in her life is what keeps her from losing her mind when she has no control over the pain.

But first, some nicotine and city night air, she says out loud to fill the empty room, opening the double doors of the small terrace of her apartment. She lights the cigarette and closes her eyes, taking a deep inhale while listening to the familiar noise of the resilient city. The unmistakable sultry notes of a saxophone drifts from her neighbor’s open window of the adjacent building. She recognizes the old jazz song, Lonely Woman played by Ornett Coleman. Her eyes begin to feel hot and damp as she squeezes them shut tighter, trying to push away the recurring thought of wondering if she’d ever find anyone who could overlook her flaw, the unexplained pain. The thought of what it would be like to hold someone’s hand, kiss someone’s lips and melt into someone’s arms, all without the worry of being wrenched away from another’s closeness by a soul-crushing pain begins to consume her. But her thoughts are interrupted by her cellphone ringing.

And what do I owe this evening call to, Laurel? Cora greets her sister while gathering herself.

Why haven’t you returned any of my calls? You know good and well it’s Paul’s birthday this weekend, and I really need you to come help with the boys. Brandon, get back to bed now! Laurel yells at Cora’s five-year-old handful of a nephew. And you know Mom and Dad are coming, and we all haven’t seen you in a while. You better be here. Well, are you?

Mm-hmm, Cora replies, with one foot still in the daydream of a relationship with something other than her pain and cigarettes. Yeah, stop buggin’. I will be there. Geez! I texted you two weeks ago and told you I would be there. I’ve just been really busy this week with work.

Busy? Laurel scoffs. You don’t know the meaning of the word busy. Until you’re married with kids, you will never understand what it is to be truly busy. I don’t even have time to shave my legs.

It sounds like the kids need you. She attempts to change the subject, not having the mental energy to hear one of her sister’s ‘mom-life’ rants.

Yes. It’s way past their bedtime. Bryce had the biggest diarrhea blowout I’ve ever seen… it was all the way up his back! And Brandon keeps getting up. She lets out a heavy sigh.

Yuck, Laurel!

Oh, it’s just poop, Cora. I’ll see you Sunday. Bye. Oh, and you should bring a date. She hangs up without even waiting for her sister to return her goodbye.

Yeah, sure. She says into the dead line, wishing Laurel could hear her sarcasm. If only I could either, A: completely cure my episodes from ever happening again or, B: find a truly wonderful, understanding and accepting man who is perfectly okay with me gritting my teeth in pain on the regular, then hell yeah, I’d bring a damn date!

She scowls to herself as she takes another long drag and blows out the smoke, watching the night air carry it away… wishing she could somehow be carried right along with it.

Chapter 4

Family Times

2011

Why do I always get stuck on wild toddler duty?! Cora yells out from the playroom, in hopes someone will come to relieve her, as she crashes a racing toy car into her nephew’s for what seemed like the millionth time.

It’s solely because you don’t have any kids yet, Cora’s brother-in-law, Paul, laughs, taking a swig of his drink and walking into the playroom.

I don’t see how that makes any sense at all. She brushes who-knows-what off her black, dry-clean only cashmere sweater.

Daddy! Brandon yells, jumping onto his dad. I want cake!

Yeah! Birthday cake! Paul scoops up Brandon in one arm and Bryce in the other, all without spilling a drop of his drink.

Phew! Saved by the cake. She lets out a sigh of relief. And pretty impressive not spilling while balancing those two monsters in your arms, Paul.

You should see what I can do during ninja bedtime stories, he announces with a proud grin.

She has no idea what he means, but considering those two kids, she was sure it’s award-winning super-dad skills.

After singing happy birthday and passing out slices of gluten-free, sugar-free, dye-free, not to mention taste-free, cake her mother had made, Cora could see her mom settling in for her usual twenty questions.

So, honey, we haven’t seen you in a few months. How are things going?

Fine, fine. Work is busy and the gallery is doing really well right now. I was able to procure the last piece of artwork for the silent auction for the upcoming charity event. Cora forces down a bite of the dry, colorless cake.

And what’s the theme this year, again? Paul asks as he attempts to wipe some type of organically sweetened frosting off almost every inch of his wiggling three-year-old’s face.

Oh, it’s reincarnation from all the religions who believe in some form of it. This was a tough one. Cora lets out a long breath. It took a lot of research to find the right pieces.

"Mm-hmm,