Eye Candy

by Jessica Lemmon

  “It’s not that bad. It was girly the night Bethany and I came because you would have been outnumbered.”

  “No,” I say as we follow a hostess to a table in the center of a packed house. “Today in the conference room I was outnumbered.”

  The table is tiny and the chairs are spindly. Glad I don’t have a weight problem. I lower myself into the chair gingerly, half expecting it to collapse like a pile of matchsticks.

  “Welcome to Chic Winehouse,” greets a neatly attired waitress. She delivers a plate with two miniature pink cakes the same shade as her shirt. “Here are your petits fours. They’re on the house tonight as an amuse-bouche.”

  “They’re what? For the what?” I need an interpreter for at least two of the words she just used.

  “Thank you,” Jackie says. “I’ve been here a million times, but he might need a minute.”

  “No problem.” Our waitress, her long legs snipping like scissors, clips to another table with an air of efficiency.

  “Oh, I love these,” Jackie says about the cakes. “They have a raspberry puree nestled in a créme—Vince!”

  She’s barking at me because…well, I don’t know why.

  “What?” I ask around a mouthful.

  “You’re supposed to savor it.” She takes a bite I’d only be capable of if my mouth were wired shut.

  “Uh-huh. No, thanks.” I lift my menu. Half of it is in French. I put it down and cross my arms over it, leaning over the postage stamp–sized table. “Tell me how the questioning went in the conference room after I left. Did you spill about the great sex you’ve been having lately?”

  “You’d love to know, wouldn’t you?” She nibbles a corner from her tiny cake.

  “You could eat it in one bite, you know.”

  “I’m savoring.”

  “You’re turning me on.”

  Her cheeks color a darker shade of pink than the frosting, and now I want to take her home and make out long and slow.

  “But we’re on a date,” I remind both of us—me and my burgeoning manhood—“so I’m going to be a gentleman.”

  “I appreciate that. We can’t just”—she waves her hand—“you know…every time we feel like it.”

  “Oh, that we could.” I pretend to read the menu. “I think the Brookdale Group would fire us for getting it on in the copy room.”

  “Or one of us.” She points at herself.

  “You’re an asset, Butler. They wouldn’t keep me over you.” It’s not a throwaway compliment. She’s wildly more qualified for VP than I am. I’m a displaced entrepreneur trying to make it work in a corporation and doing a fair to middling job.

  “Yes, but you have a penis.” Her mouth freezes open when the arrival of the waitress coincides with the moment the word “penis” exits Jackie’s lips. And now that I have that word swirling around in my mind…What were we talking about?

  We order a red blend and food—I’m assured what I’m getting is the “most popular item on the menu,” though I think that might be what the restaurant tells all the guys, given it’s coincidentally the most expensive item on the menu. I don’t mind. I like treating Jackie.

  Halfway through the wine, the food devoured, she’s laughing at some half-witted joke I made.

  “I like this wine we ordered,” I say over her laughter. “It makes me funnier.”

  My phone bings and reflexively I check it.

  “Everything okay?” Jackie asks, probably because my face falls as I read the text.

  “My parents,” I announce glumly, “are coming to town on Friday.”

  Jackie claps and grins, not sharing my dread of their arrival. “That’s great!”

  “No. Great is when they ship Christmas presents instead of delivering them in person. Great is when they call me from Europe to say they’re having the best anniversary of their lives. Great is when they’re far enough away that I know they’re okay but I don’t have to share meals with them.”

  “You don’t get along with your parents?” she asks, her eyebrows bending with concern.

  “It’s not that.” How do I explain? I take a drink of my wine, emptying the glass. “They’re fantastic parents. They raised me well.”

  “I sense a ‘but.’ ”

  “But.” I smile and she smiles back, and already talking about my family is easier than I guessed it would be. “They didn’t approve of the divorce.”

  Jackie wrinkles her nose. “Well, then they should take that up with Leslie, since she was the one who wanted it.”

  See that? That right there is why Jackie rocks.

  “Did they not take your side?” she asks. “My parents took my side.”

  Sure, because Lex is a cheating jerk. In my case Leslie backed away slowly until she vanished into the ether. The lines aren’t as black and white.

  “They think I could’ve tried harder. Worked harder to keep Leslie around.” There is such a distinct pause, I’m sure I’ve overshared.

  “Could you have?” Jackie asks quietly.

  Her question is like a punch to the gut, but Jackie is my friend first. She isn’t trying to skewer me, though the question did feel similar to getting shivved in the diaphragm.

  “Before I came to work at Brookdale, I owned a real estate company.” My neck is hot and I rub my palm over the back of it. Much as I’d like to blame the wine, it’s not the red blend’s fault. “The ripple effect from the real estate bubble bursting consumed my would-be empire.”

  I meet Jackie’s eyes and see the sympathy there. I will myself to shut up, but instead tell her the ugly truth.

  “I lost it all. Including my wife.”

  Jacqueline

  Vince’s mouth presses into a thin line and he ages ten years before my eyes. His posture shrinks, dark circles appear under his eyes, and he holds himself as taut as a bowstring.

  “Anyway,” he continues as if he isn’t corroding inside, “I had a marketing degree to fall back on and a fair amount of sales experience. And here we are.”

  “I had no idea.” Of all the things we’ve shared over the years, he never mentioned a company he owned. It’s a big detail to leave out.

  “Bankruptcy is humiliating. Especially when your marriage falls apart as a result.”

  I finger the stem of my wineglass in thought. I shouldn’t ask, but the question comes anyway. “Do you regret it?”

  His forehead crinkles. “What? My business?”

  “Yes. Knowing that everything would collapse in that financial climate, would you have made the decision not to start it?”

  He blinks as if he’s never been asked the question before. As if he’s been so plagued by regret that he’s never once considered the positives that come from having a business and losing it.

  “I would do the same thing,” he admits quietly. “How about that?”

  The weight of the moment passes with one of his quick grins. He hovers the perilously low wine bottle over my half-full glass, but I shake my head. He empties the bottle into his own glass, filling it only an inch or two.

  “That’s it for the wine,” he announces, but I sense his comment is more to fill the gap in conversation.

  “I’ll go with you,” I blurt.

  He sets the wine bottle down slowly, his eyelids narrowing.

  “Dinner with your parents,” I clarify. “Take me. I’m the perfect buffer for uncomfortable conversations…assuming they have a modicum of social etiquette.” Ironically, I’m uncomfortable with this conversation, but I continue offering rather than take it back. “I’m great with parents. And if they think it’s weird that you’re bringing a date, you can blame work. Tell them our project ran late and I tagged along for fun.”

  “You think hanging around with my ’rents is going to be fun?” His amused expression pairs with a low laugh that sweeps away the heaviness from before.

  “Tell them whatever you want.” I wave a hand to halt my jabbering. “You’re good on your feet.”

  Vince frowns down at the
text and nods, eyes still on his phone. Why do I feel as if I’m teetering on a precipice?

  “Yeah. Okay. Sure.” He nods again, this time at me, and I swallow nervously.

  “Great.”

  We finish our wine in silence and I hope I haven’t marched through a string of invisible DO NOT CROSS yellow tape. Where Vince and I are concerned, I’m not sure where our boundaries start or stop.

  Like, at all.

  Chapter 23

  Vince

  My mother’s eyebrows are raised so high they’re practically on top of her head.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I insist. “I have plenty of room.”

  We’re surrounding their rental car in my driveway. They drove from Maryland, and thanks to a mix-up better known as my dad trying to navigate the Internet, they don’t have hotel reservations at the Hilton like they prefer. Mom refuses to stay at the Holiday Inn Express, and my father is grumbling about how it’s late and he doesn’t want to “deal with the staff” until morning.

  Being a good son, I offered them my spare room. It’s upstairs, same as my room, but on the other side of the house. Essentially, if I took enough snacks and drinks up to my own bedroom, I could shut the door and not come out until morning. So it’s really no big deal.

  Did I say that already?

  “We will not impose.” Cathy Carson knows me well.

  My dark features—hair and lashes—come from her, and my abysmal sense of style from my dad. Thank God Mom took the reins a few decades ago. Today he resembles a well-dressed storefront mannequin. He’s in a pair of faded jeans and a button-down shirt that fits his slim physique. No beer belly on my dad. He’s always endeavored to stay fit.

  “Come on, Cat,” he says as he hefts their suitcases from the trunk. “I just want to sit down and drink a beer. Plus, Vince can fix the reservation snafu.”

  “You mean the snafu of you booking a Hilton in Virginia instead of Ohio?” I take one of the suitcases from my dad’s hands.

  “Yes.”

  They get settled with relatively little fuss, which makes me think I’m overreacting to the whole parents-staying-with-me situation. Until Mom starts inspecting the house and offering her “advice” on every detail.

  I don’t approve of these curtains, Vince. You have cobwebs over the dining room table. Why do you insist on such an unattractive cloth recliner when you know leather is a viable option? If it’s a price concern, they have fake leather now and you can scarcely tell the difference.

  In the kitchen I pull another beer from the fridge as my dad ambles in for a refill.

  “Leave him alone, Cat,” he calls. “Another wine, dear?” He winks at me when she says no. Appeasing her is well within his skill set, even if booking the correct hotel isn’t.

  I hear a clicking sound followed by Josh Groban. Not only has my mother found my Bose speaker but she’s also hooked up her iPod. She has no issues with technology. I must have inherited that from her.

  Dad settles at the counter where Jackie and I made pizza last week. I sit on the opposite side, both hands wrapped around my beer.

  “It was a long trip. Thanks for putting us up. Or should I say putting up with us?”

  He smiles and I relax for the first time since I saw the maroon Buick in my driveway.

  “It’s okay.” He pats my hand. “You’ve acclimated to bachelor life and here we are, cramping your style.” Dad’s an attractive fifty-five. His light brown hair is graying at the temples and his crow’s-feet give him a distinguished air.

  Without admitting he’s right about them cramping my style—whatever the hell that means—I go with “It’s been a long week.”

  He accepts the brush-off and drinks his beer. I do the same. “Any new women in your life?”

  Unlike Mom, Dad doesn’t pry. If he asks, he’s genuinely curious.

  “I’ll level with you if you promise to break it to Mom for me.”

  He purses his lips in consideration.

  “And,” I add, sweetening the pot, “I’ll handle booking your hotel reservations from now until the end of your long, long life.”

  “Deal.” His smile turns wily.

  “My friend from work is joining us at dinner tomorrow night. Her name is Jackie.”

  “Office fling.” His tone is approving likely because he met my mother at his office. She was his secretary.

  “Not exactly.” Jackie isn’t a fling, but my vague response could imply she and I aren’t burning up the sheets. “We’re good friends. I thought it’d be nice to have that fourth seat filled.”

  Dad glances into the living room, where Mom is paging through an issue of GQ. I buy it for the fashion ads so I can dress myself—no lie. The articles on “Fifty Ways to Make Her Beg for More” and “How to Smart Carb” glance off me. I know when I’m being pandered to.

  “A seat filler also means no hot seat from us,” Dad says. Accurately.

  I shrug. Guiltily.

  “Marriage is hard.” He spins the bottle on the countertop and I wait. What follows isn’t the usual tirade like the one I get from my mother, and as he gets deeper into it, I realize I haven’t heard from him on this. Not really. I lump him in with Mom, usually because she’s the one doing the talking. He mentions “bumpy roads” and that “it’s hard to see trouble coming when you’re busy,” and I find myself leaning closer, wanting to soak in his wisdom. Then he floors me with “I had a business once.”

  At my gaping reaction, he nods sagely. “Handyman.”

  My dad may not be able to figure out the World Wide Web, but he can repair anything leaking or squeaking.

  “I built my clientele, quit my sales job, and printed business cards.” He shakes his head as if he’s remembering it fondly. “Eight months later, I was ready to go back to work. I was always a better employee than an owner. I wanted the control—and the upper management where I work offers enough. At the end of the day, I can go home, open a beer, talk to your mom about her day.”

  I feel a frown coming on. This isn’t going the direction I originally suspected.

  “There’s no shame in failing. In business or your marriage.”

  The comment sets fire to my temper and I feel my nostrils flare.

  “Now you have a great job, something going with a girl. Enjoy it.”

  I nod stiffly, not sure what, exactly, is bothering me.

  A moment later I stand from my stool. “I’m going to bed. You guys make yourselves at home.”

  “Will do.” Dad stands and walks with me to the living room, unaware of my prickly mood.

  “The nearest Hilton?” I ask as I snag my laptop from the coffee table.

  “Yes. We want a room with one king,” my mother looks up from the magazine to say.

  “As opposed to two queens?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  I lean down and kiss her on the temple. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Night, Vince.”

  “Night.” Only when I’m in my room, completing the reservations for them online, do I realize why my dad’s comments bothered me so much.

  My father basically told me I failed both as an entrepreneur and as a husband. The business was mine through and through—that fault I could accept. Was it painful? Yes. But Leslie…When it came to my running my business with our income, her opinion didn’t count. I was in charge and I knew what I was doing.

  Until I didn’t.

  That sharp pang in the center of my diaphragm returns, and it dawns on me that Leslie leaving me wasn’t as one-sided as I convinced myself it was. She wasn’t the villain any more than I was the hero. We failed because I failed.

  That was a hell of an unplanned epiphany.

  I fall asleep, my chest hollow, wishing I would’ve been more insistent on my parents going to the hotel tonight so I could have avoided the convo with Dad.

  Jacqueline

  Vince seems nervous. Or…something.

  Dinner with his parents is tonight at seven, which gave us time to go home
and change. I offered to drive to his house but he insisted on picking me up. I like how gentlemanly that sounds. I’m a self-assured modern-day woman, but being cared for takes lots of forms. Being chauffeured is among my favorites.

  I tell him that as I pull down the visor and swipe lip gloss over my lips. It’s the final touch on preparations that include a fresh manicure, curling my hair, and dressing to impress the parents.

  I keep reminding myself I’m only on this date as a buffer, but as the workday crept to its inevitable end, I grew more and more aware that I was meeting the parents of the guy I’m sleeping with. Where I’m from, it’s no small gesture. Even though I invited myself along, the importance isn’t lost on me.

  Tonight is about Vince needing backup and me being there for him. It feels good to be there for him, and it’s a familiar role. Maybe that was why I was so quick to offer.

  “My mom is a talker, but she’s polite. Sometimes she sounds overly critical, but it’s not malicious. She’s just—” He flexes his hands on the steering wheel as he considers the rest of his explanation. “Opinionated” is the word he finally settles on.

  “I like her already.” I close the mirror in the visor and smile over at him, but Vince regards me with a frown. Rather than chase this conversation the way I did when I was married to Lex (What’s wrong? Nothing. Just tell me. Nothing, dammit.), I let it fall away and shift the topic. “What about your dad? What’s he like?”

  Vince blinks as his thoughts redirect. It feels good not to dig in and argue. I haven’t had the opportunity to arrive at that crossroads since I was married.

  “Dad’s cool. He’ll order a whiskey sour and ask you about your job a lot.”

  “No delving into my future plans with his only son, then?” I ask with a teasing elbow to Vince’s arm.

  “Of course not.” He doesn’t crack a smile as he glowers out the windshield.

  I sigh, incapable of avoiding the question I’m dying to ask. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” He offers a shrug that seems forced. “I’m sorry, Butler.” His hand closes over my knee and squeezes. I like it there, so I put my hand over his. “Everything’s good. I’m in deep thought about a hundred things. Which is not fair to you.”