Apples & Oranges (The This & That Series)

by Moss, Brooke

  The first five days were spent with Penelope, the sixty-year-old woman he’d hired to clean his house. My dad left for work before I rolled out of bed in the morning, then returned late in the night, half drunk from the client dinners he hosted in the evenings. I’d spent most of my visit paddling around in the pool while Penelope drank coffee in a lawn chair.

  “Well, well, well. Look at my pececito.”

  I gasped, and paddled to the side where my dad was waiting with his briefcase. It was only two in the afternoon, and he was home already. He’d come home to spend time with me! I was ecstatic, kicking like a fool to reach the tiles.

  “Ack!” Penelope cried, shielding herself from the drops of water. “Not so hard, not so hard, Marisol.”

  “Mom put me in swimming classes four days a week,” I told my dad, pool water running in rivulets down my face. “My instructor says I’m her second best student. I am your pescado, Dad. I’m ten times better than a fish. I can hold my breath for thirty seven seconds.”

  “Impressive, kiddo.” He looked at his watch and winced. “Ouch. Gotta run, baby. Tell Penelope to take you to Ernest’s for dinner. They make great burgers.”

  Scowling, I drifted away from the wall a few inches. Mom didn’t even allow me to eat burgers. He’d have known that, had he stuck around. “Are you coming?” I asked.

  “Sorry, no can do.” He shook his head, and ran a hand through his brown hair. I’d gotten my thick locks from him, and it was starting to thin on top. At that moment, I was glad. He deserved to go bald. “I’ve got a date tonight, kiddo.”

  “A date?” I treaded water. “Can I go, too?”

  My dad laughed. “On my date?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be good. I won’t talk, or anything.”

  He started to walk towards the house. “Forget it. It’s Friday night, Marisol.”

  “But I haven’t seen you all week, and I fly home on Sunday!” I whined.

  “You just saw me.” He kept walking. “Come on. Don’t be a child about this.”

  Anger flushed my skin, despite the cool water. “I’m not a child. I’m almost a teenager.”

  He looked at me over his shoulder. “Then act like it, Marisol.”

  “I’m bored.” I scowled at him, paddling in place. I wanted to go home, but my mom would be mad if I showed up out of nowhere two days early. “Not like you care.”

  My dad looked up at the sky and groaned. “This was a mistake.”

  My blood boiled, and I swam to the side of the pool. “This visit? Or me?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” Dad frowned from behind his sunglasses. I could tell by the wrinkle between his eyebrows. I hadn’t ever seen him without a pair of Oakley’s. “I flew you here, didn’t I?”

  Penelope put her coffee cup down and smiled sadly at me. “Why don’t we go inside and pick out a movie, Marisol?”

  “No, thank you.” I pulled myself out of the pool, and stomped over to where dad was standing. He jumped away from the water dripping off of me. “I want to hang out with you, Dad. Just one night, that’s all.”

  He grimaced. “It’s the weekend, Marisol.” Dad over-exaggerated his syllables like he thought I didn’t understand the concept of a weekend. Believe me, my mom had made the importance of a Friday or Saturday night very clear. “I can’t just cancel. Look at you. You’re practically grown up now. You shouldn’t be playing in a pool all day.”

  “Shut up.” I pouted, suddenly feeling self conscious in my bathing suit. I was starting to get a womanly figure, and some of my friends had even started their periods. I waited for my dad to scold me for telling him to shut up, but he just looked out at the sand and blue water beyond the edge of his patio and sighed.

  “I’m gonna give you a little piece of advice, Marisol.” He put his hands on his hips and strolled towards the beach. I followed, leaving wet footprints as I walked. His steps stopped just short of the sand. “The people who count in this world—the people who stand out—are the ones who are out there. Being seen in the hottest restaurants, and the best clubs. Showing up with the hottest woman…” He glanced at me. “…or man as your date.”

  A warm wind swayed the palm trees over our heads, and I waited for Dad to say he was bringing me out on his date. So I could be “seen,”too.

  “Never let a weekend go by without a date, Marisol.” He pointed his finger like this was the best advice he’d ever bestow upon me. “Always be seen. Always be on the go. Always have something to do on your weekends… and nobody will forget about you.” Patting my head, Dad walked past me, and ducked into the house without another word.

  My shoulders dropped. He was leaving me again.

  Penelope put a towel around my shoulders. “Come on. Let’s dry off and go to Ernest’s.”

  Wriggling out of her grip, I threw the towel on the wet patio tiles. I didn’t want to spend another night eating with my dad’s housekeeper. I wanted to go home. Sure, my mom would be mad that I’d come home early and interrupted her time with her boyfriend, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t ever going to be forgotten by my dad again.

  Cocinero’s horrendous yowling interrupted my thoughts, chasing away memories of my father like a fog, and I looked around at my still-empty house. I guess I’d given up on trying to ensure I wasn’t forgotten by anyone. It was too much effort. Who wanted to spend their time on meaningless date after date, when there were twelve hundred thread count sheets and a pissy Siamese cat waiting at home?

  Throwing back my head and downing the rest of my pinot, I turned off the lights in my kitchen and headed for the stairs. I was pretty sure I’d recorded Avatar the other night. That would be a good way to spend my evening… me, the big blue alien dude, and Cocinero.

  Once again, my thoughts were interrupted by my cat’s yowling and hissing. When I came around the corner into the foyer, he was clawing at the bottom of the front door like there was a chunk of Pacific cod waiting on the other side.

  “Stop that,” I scolded him, scooping the ball of white fluff off of the floor and cuddling him to my chest. He wiggled out of my grip, landing on the wood floor and resuming his clawing. “Ugh. Come on, Cocinero, I don’t have time for this tonight.”

  There was a muted thump outside, and the meowing started again.

  “Who’s here this time of night?” I asked my cat. Peering out a nearby window, I saw nothing but the giant, yellow rhododendron bush I’d had my gardener plant last year. The thing had tripled in size, blocking my entire view of the driveway, just like Candace had warned. Now every time she came over, she pointed to it and rolled her eyes.

  As usual, I’d chosen beauty over function. It was the same with my Juicy Couture pencil skirt. And my Beemer. This was a really embarrassing pattern with me.

  I heard the sound of a car door shutting and scooped Cocinero back up. Straining to see through the mustard yellow blossoms, I came up short. “Who’s out there, sweetie? Do we have company?”

  Cocinero quieted, and we both stood in the darkness, listening. It was probably my neighbor. She was in her sixties and spent most of her weekend nights square dancing with a club downtown. Usually about two or three times a summer, she brought her fellow square dancers back to her house for late night drinks after a show. I’d never actually seen Agnes bust a move on the dance floor, but word on the street said she wasn’t half bad, and I was all for anything that kept a widowed sixty year old woman out having fun until eleven at night.

  I guess it gave me hope for my own golden years. But whatever.

  “Must be Agnes, Cocinero. She and her friends must be whooping it up after a gig.” I pressed a kiss to his soft head. “Let’s you and me go upstairs and get in bed.”

  There was another thump, followed by a deep groan. This time it came from just outside the front door.

  “What the…?” I froze in place. Cocinero meowed lowly, then burrowed deep underneath my arm. “You’re a terrible guard animal.” Tip-toeing down back over to the door, I pressed my ear to the wood. I could
hear some scraping, and some indecipherable muttering.

  My blood ran cold. What if Greg found out where I lived? It wasn’t difficult. I’d known enough people at that party, he could have asked someone where to find me. What if when he woke up the next morning, instead of feeling stupid for behaving like a belligerent tool, he’d decided he was mad?

  My fingers shook as I checked the locks on the door. Each of them were in place, thank God. “Don’t be scared, don’t worry,” I whispered to Cocinero, knowing that I was saying it more for myself. “Everything’s fine. Mommy’s got her gun.”

  I glanced at the chair in the corner of the foyer where I usually tossed my purse. Aw, hell. Sure enough, I’d taken it up to my bedroom when I went to change my clothes.

  I wasn’t even sure how to shoot the damn thing, anyway. Why, oh why, had I declined the opportunity to go shooting with Candace and Brian last year? I’d scoffed at them, calling them conservative barbarians, but now I was kicking myself. There was another scuffling sound, and I peeked through the window, squinting to see beyond the rhododendrons.

  Sure enough, there on my flagstone front walk, was a pair of legs. The feet, clad in dark boots, were kicking furiously to free themselves from the garden hose they were tangled in.

  Gasping, I jumped back from the window, and practically threw my cat into a nearby chair. “Call the cops, call the cops, call the cops!” I hissed at myself, scrambling through the darkened first floor to where my phone was…

  NOT plugged in.

  “Son of a… what is wrong with me!?” I scanned the counters, opening and closing drawers. Sweat pricked my forehead. I’d left the damn iPhone in my purse. Which was... I don’t know where. “I swear upon everything good and holy on this earth, I am going to duct tape it to the side of my fricking head!”

  For someone who prided herself on independence, I was embarrassingly scatterbrained lately.

  Cocinero hissed in the foyer, and I knocked over my empty wine glass. It landed in the sink with a shatter. “Shhhh!” I told myself. For all I knew, Drunk Greg was outside with a chip on his shoulder, and I was practically beckoning him inside. “Home phone. Home phone. Where… is… the… home phone?”

  Cocinero yowled in the foyer, and it was followed by a swift knock on the door. Yelping, I dove for the door and flipped open the control panel on my alarm system. I’d never had to push the panic button before. Well, there was that one time when I’d pushed it because I thought I saw a mouse in my kitchen, but I’d learned very quickly that the panic button was not used for those kinds of emergencies.

  Although, the fireman who came was quite hot. But that’s a story for a different time.

  Another knock rang out, and my heart leapt into my throat. Gads, was this enough of an emergency to push the button? A potentially drunk and disgruntled guy I’d rejected and subsequently ticked off?

  “Marisol?” The voice was low, angry, and very close to the door. That much was clear, despite being muffled by the wood. I nearly peed my pants, and my hand came down on the red panic button with a decisive slam.

  The house filled with the ear piercing sound of an alarm, and I slapped my hands on my ears. Cocinero jumped off of the chair to dart from one end of the house to the other several times, his fur turning into a white blur.

  “You’re not helping!” I yelled, barely hearing my voice over the alarm. I pounded on the door with all my strength. “HEY BUDDY! YOU’D BETTER GET OUT OF HERE, BEFORE THE COPS SHOW UP!”

  Though I could barely make out his words, I thought I heard a holler coming from the other side. “OH, COME ON, PRINCESS. THE ALARM?”

  Wait. What? Did I recognize that voice? That low, gravelly pitch? That edge of irritation in the tone? It was hard to hear over the screech of the alarm. I peered through the window, but only saw darkness, part of the garden hose, and those damned yellow flowers.

  “DEMO? IS THAT YOU? I—” Groaning, I punched in the code to stop the alarm. Once it stopped, a deafening quiet filled my house. Breathing a sigh of relief, I leaned against the door. “Demo, why are you on my porch?”

  I heard him sigh. “You are seriously high strung.”

  Shaking my head, I flipped off the door. “There was a man on my porch in the middle of the night. What did you expect? I could have shot you.”

  “Doubtful. But it’s only ten,” he called. “That’s not the middle of the night.”

  “Shut up,” I whispered.

  “How long until the cops come?”

  As if on command, a tinny voice filled the foyer. “Good evening, Ms… Vargas. I see you hit the panic button. Are you in need of assistance?”

  So that’s what I paid an extra forty bucks every month for, I thought.

  “Um…” I said into the speaker on the wall. Snickering to myself, I added, “Maybe.” It would serve Demo right to get handcuffed and frisked by a cop. Besides, it might be kinda sexy.

  “Oh, come on, Marisol. You gotta be kidding,” the growly voice said from the other side of the door.

  The tinny voice returned, this time more insistent. “Ms. Vargas, are you in need of assistance? Should we connect you with emergency services?”

  “No.” I rubbed my eyes, and scooped Cocinero off of the floor. “I’m fine, thank you. It was a mistake.”

  “You can say that again,” he muttered.

  “Helllllooooooo?” Agnes came in through the kitchen, making me jump a foot off of the floor.

  “Holy hell!” I yelled. “How did you get in?”

  She held up a flowered keychain. In her spare hand, she held a cast iron skillet. “I used the key you gave me. Are you okay? Did you see another mouse?”

  I stared at the pan. “Why did you bring that?”

  “Oh, this?” She held it up and examined it. Her breath smelled like Irish cream. “I grabbed it in case you needed me to fight off an assailant. Are you sure you’re all right, dear?”

  Releasing a long breath, I leaned against the wall. “I’m fine, I just—”

  Static crackled through the speaker. “Pardon me, ma’am. Are you in need of assistance?”

  “I’m fine. It was a misunderstanding. I’m sorry.” The tinny voice thanked me, then with a beep disappeared. I turned to Agnes. “It’s my mechanic. Er, a friend. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Mechanic?” Agnes cuddled Cocinero to her ample bosom, which was pushed up and locked into place by her square dance costume.

  “Friend. Or, well, I don’t know… just…” Tucking the stray strands of hair hanging loose from my ponytail behind my ears, I unlocked the door and swung it open.

  Sure enough, there in the darkness stood Demo, with my black garden soaker hose wrapped around one of his legs and a seriously pissed off scowl on his face.

  “Are you sure it’s your friend?” Agnes whispered, once again right behind me. “He looks a little bit angry.”

  “He’s always angry,” I whispered back, before shaking my head at Demo. “What are you doing here so late? What is wrong with you? Are you stalking me now?”

  He scoffed. “Of course you think I’m stalking you.”

  I threw out my hands. “You’re on my front porch in the middle of the night!”

  “I already told you, it’s not the middle of the night.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Two or three in the morning is the middle of the night,” he countered.

  “No, it’s not. That’s a good morning.”

  The corner of his lips ticked up. “Okay. Maybe one. But definitely not ten at night.”

  “You’re a moron.”

  “You’re a brat.”

  Agnes flicked on the porch light, and stepped between us. One of her hands went on each of our shoulders. “You two are so cute.”

  Demo and I both gaped at her. “We can’t stand each other,” I said lamely.

  She shook her head, grinning. “You can’t fool me. That there’s a lovers quarrel.”

  “No,” Demo said, scrubbing a hand ac
ross his five o’clock shadow. “It’s not.”

  “Please.” She wagged a red nailed finger in Demo’s face. “I know two people who are mad about each other. You should’ve seen my Theo and me. We were at each other’s throats nearly every day. Then at night, we were at each other in another way, if you know what I mean.” Agness jabbed Demo in the ribs with her elbow.

  “Ow.” He rubbed his side, then held out my car keys. “Look, I’m only here to give you these.”

  “My car is here?” I peered out the door. The shining back bumper of my Beemer gleamed in the darkness. “You already finished it?”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t so hard.” Demo waved a hand. “Figured you’d need it tomorrow, so I thought I’d leave it here. You know…” He shrugged and his words trailed off.

  “As a surprise?” Agnes fed him. “That’s so romantic.”

  He scoffed. “Please.”

  I was taken aback. Every time I made up my mind about Demo-the-mechanic, he surprised me with a random kind gesture that was more Prince Charming than giant douche bag. “Thank you,” I said quickly. “Very much.”

  Demo nodded. “Yup.” He looked around awkwardly. “Listen, Marisol, you need to take better care of yourself. You should leave your porch light on, so burglars won’t think the house is empty.”

  I scrunched up my face. “Were you worried about me?”

  He didn’t answer and instead turned to Agnes. “And you, lady, you’re not going to defend anyone armed only with a skillet. What if I had a gun?”

  Agnes grinned and jutted out her hip, as if she were some sixties’ sex kitten. “Oo, is it a big one?” I snickered, and she jabbed a thumb in my direction. “Besides, she’s the one with a gun.”

  “It’s in my purse,” I whispered.

  Agnes frowned. “Where’s your purse, dear?”

  “I’m not entirely sure.” I shrugged. “Whoops.”

  Demo’s eyes narrowed before he turned back to Agnes.

  “A skillet isn’t a defense against a weapon,” Demo continued as if neither of us had spoken. “Next time, you call the cops. Let them sort it out.”

  “Yes, sir.” I saluted to him, and looked around for someone in a waiting car. “How are you getting home?”