Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  “Sure. In small doses. That’s what nannies are for, right? To take the burden off mothers so that they can still have lives after they drop their kids.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Meera replies, giving me her haughtiest look yet. “I raised all five of my children without any outside help.”

  “Bummer for you,” I mutter, then take another hearty sip of my mojito.

  She glares at me. “It was not, as you say, a bummer. It was my great privilege to spend all the time and energy I had on caring for Arjun and his siblings, who all turned out to be very successful and well-adjusted thanks to my hands-on approach to mothering. And now that I have reached my golden years, they are happy to return the favor. All five of my children insisted I move in with them when their father passed two years ago.” She pats Arjun’s shoulder.

  Smiling with affection, her son says, “And I was the one fortunate to have you grace my home with your presence.” He lifts her hand and places a kiss on her knuckles.

  Huh? Is he saying that his mother lives with him, now, like in the same house? Because that’s just weird. Arjun has more than enough money to put Meera up in her own place. And there’s no reason why she can’t live on her own; it’s not like she’s decrepit or senile.

  “You and your mother share a living space?” I ask Arjun for confirmation because I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around the concept. I spent most of my teen years counting down the days until I didn’t have to live under the same roof as my parents.

  He confirms with a nod, which makes me even more incredulous. “Isn’t privacy an issue?” How can he bring a date back to his place for a bump and grind sesh when his mother is within hearing range? That’s certainly not my kind of kink!

  “Why would he need privacy?” Meera retorts. “We are family, and family should be together. My son works so hard. He needs me to take care of his house and cook for him since he doesn’t have a wife to do those things.”

  And he probably never will with this woman scaring off potential mates! Good thing I’m not that faint-hearted. I’ll be more than happy to send Meera packing should I secure a permanent position in Arjun’s life.

  Our waiter arrives with our appetizers, and I have to stifle a sigh when he sets a bowl of gazpacho down in front of me. Not that I don’t enjoy gazpacho, but I’d rather be digging into some empanadas or bacon-wrapped dates.

  “This black bean soup is delicious!” Arjun enthuses after eating a spoonful. “Try some, Mother.” He slides his bowl over to her.

  “No, thank you. I am fine with my salad,” she claims, although she’s yet to take a bite of the mixed greens with yucca croutons.

  Arjun slurps down some more frijoles negros. “Forgive me, Izzy,” he says, pausing for a moment and dragging his eyes up from the bowl. “I forgot to ask how your audition for that music video went today.”

  Meera blanches. “Music video?”

  “Yep, for Pitbull. He’s a rapper,” I explain because I doubt that “Don’t Stop The Party” is her jam. “And he always hires local models when he shoots his videos in Miami because he likes to give back to the community. He grew up here in Little Havana.”

  “I see. And what does a model do in a music video?”

  I shrug. “Depends. For this particular video, Pitbull needs girls in bikinis to shake their groove things all around him while he’s singing by a swimming pool.” No need to tell them that

  I didn’t make it past the first cut at today’s open call.

  Meera’s left eye twitches as she slowly sets her fork down on her salad plate. “I’m sorry, son, I tried to hold my tongue, but this,” she waves a hand at me, “is not an acceptable companion for you. She parades around half, no mostly, naked for a living, something that requires no intellect, no education, and no self-respect. I cannot fathom why you would lower yourself to the level of such a woman after dating Ranjita Chaudhary, who was so lovely and smart and accomplished—an oncologist, Arjun.”

  “Mother, please,” he groans wearily, “not this again . . .”

  “Yes, this again! I will keep bringing up Ranjita until you admit that parting with her was a terrible mistake. The two of you were so well-matched! I would have been so proud to call her my daughter.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I hold up my phone, which I just did a surreptitious Google search on. “You wanted this horse face to marry your son? Your grandchildren probably would have come out neighing.”

  “Insolent!” Meera flings the accusation at me. “On top of being totally devoid of any class or morals.”

  Holding up my hand, I say, “Slow your roll, hacha de guerra.” I’m not going to translate that for her, so she can just stew about how much of an insult it was. (P.S. It means battle-axe.) “If anyone’s been insolent at this table tonight, it’s you. You had a hate on for me before I even sat down. I’m sorry that I’m not your precious Ranjita, but I have my own set of fabulous qualities that you would have gotten to know if you’d given me half a chance.”

  “Izzy, I apologize for my mother. She has not treated you fairly and she has been much too free with her opinions, which I warned her about before we got here.” Arjun gives her a recriminatory look, but she doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. “I hope you’ll understand that her protectiveness of me comes from a good place. She just wants me to be happy.”

  “Yeah, well, she should have stayed at home then. I agreed to a date with you, not a threesome. If I wanted to get grief from a maternal figure this evening, I could have just called my own mother.” Standing up, I throw my napkin down on the table and pronounce, “I’m out,” just as the waiter shows up with our meals.

  “Would you pack mine up in a to-go box and bring it to me out front, Carlo?” I lean forward and murmur in his ear, “Along with your phone number.”

  Why not? He’s young, hot, and guys who work for tips are always eager to please. Without so much as a glance back at my date, I flounce out of the restaurant.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I can’t believe you’re eating that.” Zane makes a face as I shovel another ice-cold spoonful of froyo into my mouth.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” I mumble while chewing the crunchy bits in my sweet treat. “This carefully selected combination of ingredients is the perfect marriage of flavors and textures.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think squishy qualifies as a texture.”

  I fish out one of the pieces of candy that’s sitting atop my yogurt and say, “Don’t listen to him, Mr. Gummy Bear. You aren’t squishy; you’re soft, sticky, and delicious.”

  Switching to a high-pitched, cartoony-sounding voice, which I imagine the bear would speak in, I have him reply, “That’s right. I taste like key lime and I’m having a party in this piña colada froyo with my friends, white chocolate, macadamia nut, and Funfetti cake. What could be better?”

  “Nothing,” I declare. “I think our friend, Zane, is just jelly because his froyo is so boring.”

  I march the green gummy bear across the table and jump him up onto the lip of Z’s yogurt cup. “Only one topping?” I squeak in my bear voice. “That’s just sad. YOLO, dude.”

  “You’re right. You do only live once.” Plucking the candy from my hand, he pops it into his mouth.

  “Oh, noooooooooo . . .,” are Gummy’s last words. Zane gives me a Joker-like grin while consuming the little guy, which cracks me up.

  “Man, I’m glad you texted. I was in dire need of some laughs after the excruciatingly dull day I had.”

  And it’s impossible to be in a bad mood or feel sorry for yourself when you’re at Fizee’s, which has been one of my favorite places since I was a kid. Papá would bring Pilar and me to one of the many Fizee’s scattered around Miami whenever we had something to celebrate or had earned a treat (for Pilar that was usually getting all As on a report card or winning another student government election, for me it was going a week without being sent to the principal’s office or apologizing to Ana after I’d done somet
hing naughty like “borrowing” her Caboodles case and ruining most of the makeup inside—it looked better on me anyway!). I’ve always loved the tropical theme of Fizee’s, including the beach-inspired froyo flavors like Saltwater Taffy and Island Punch, and the brightly colored, Floridian décor (palm frond ceiling fans, surfboards on the walls, and glittery fish net tablecloths). I even worked at Fizee’s one summer when I had to pay my mother back for denting the bumper on her Benz, which I took without permission natch.

  “What was so dull about your day?” Zane wonders. “Did you do go-sees again?”

  “Nah, Marty got me a gig doing background work in an industrial video. Oh my god, it was so cheesy and low-budget. I even had to provide my own wardrobe! Of course I didn’t have anything in my closet that was drab and conservative enough to make me look like a worker bee in some lame office, so I had to ask Pilar to dig a fugly pantsuit out of the back of her closet for me. It was gray, baggy, and about five years out of fashion. I was dying on the inside the whole time I had the hideous thing on.”

  “It couldn’t have been that bad. You’ve always said that you could make a potato sack look sexy.”

  I pick up my cell phone, tap the screen a few times to pull up a picture that was taken while we were shooting the video, then shove it in Zane’s face.

  “Uh, well . . .” He chews his bottom lip thoughtfully. “That outfit did tone down a lot of your natural Izzy-ness, but my eye still goes straight to you in the picture. You’re hard to ignore with that angry look on your face. Makes me wonder if you’re plotting to murder your boss and take over the company.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was going for.” I smirk and retract the phone, which is when Z’s buzzes.

  He glances down at the display screen, exhales a soft sigh, then takes another bite of his mango madness.

  “You don’t want to answer that?” I ask because I’m nosy.

  “That would be kind of rude since we’re in the middle of a conversation.”

  “Never stopped you before. Besides, it’s not like this is a date and you have to observe the corresponding rules of etiquette.” Grabbing a yogurt at ten-thirty on a weeknight is definitely a friend thing.

  He smiles, some of the orange froyo still clinging to his lips. “You and me, on a date. That’s a funny idea, isn’t it?” He slides his tongue along his upper lip, licking off the yogurt, and I forget what his question was for a second.

  “Uh . . . I don’t know if ‘funny’ is the word I’d use.”

  “I didn’t mean ‘funny’ ha-ha. More like ‘funny’ weird or ‘funny’ different because we’ve been friends forever and we’re so comfortable with each other.”

  Comfortable! Is he kidding me? Old shoes are comfortable. And I am most certainly not an old shoe! I’m a sassy pair of fuchsia-colored designer wedges that cost a bundle and give you a thrill every time you put them on because you’ve never felt more sexy and fabulous and strutting around in those five-inch heels brings a little bit of danger to your life. (I’m currently wearing this exact pair of shoes, by the way.) Zane and I might just be friends, but I’m not okay with any guy thinking I’m anything less than the most exciting woman he’s ever had the pleasure of spending time with. Maybe he just needs a reminder.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” I advise, leaning forward on my elbows so that my tetas are pushed up and look as though they might spill out of my floral print bustier top. “You never know when I might surprise you,” I say huskily.

  For a guy who claims he’s not into big boobs (and his string of A-cupped girlfriends supports that), it’s comical how fast Zane’s eyes fall right into my cleavage. When his cell buzzes with another incoming text, I don’t think he even hears it because he’s so busy ogling the girls.

  “Your phone,” I prompt him.

  “Huh?” Another buzzing sound seems to finally shake him out of his boob-mesmerized state. “Oh, right.” He blushes with embarrassment, his pale skin turning much the same color as my shoes, then grabs his phone. Reading what’s on the display screen makes him frown.

  “Everything okay?” I’m being nosy again.

  “Uh huh, it’s just Misty,” he tells me as he types a quick response. After the text is sent, he turns off his phone.

  “Trouble in Waif-ville?” I inquire as I scoop out another helping of my froyo, which is quickly turning into soup.

  “No,” is his knee-jerk response. “She’s a great girlfriend,” he continues as if he’s been asked to present a defense of her, “really sweet and thoughtful and always interested in what I’m doing.”

  I pull my spoon from my mouth. “In other words, she’s all up in your grill twenty-four/seven, wanting to know where you are, who you’re with, etcetera, etcetera.”

  Zane leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “I hate it when you do that.”

  “Cut through all your bullshit and get right to the heart of the matter? Yeah, I can see where that would be annoying,” I retort cheekily.

  He rakes his fingers through his dark hair, looking all angsty. “I’m just not sure what to do. I really like Misty, but she’s so needy and possessive. Lately I’ve been feeling . . .”

  “Trapped, tortured, turned off?”

  When he nods, I decree, “Dump her.”

  He winces. “That’s a little drastic. She’s really sensitive; I don’t want to hurt her.”

  “And you’re afraid she’ll write a song about you if you kick her to the curb. ‘Zane, he caused me so much pain. When his eyes filled with disdain. After our last kiss in the rain,’” I warble in a horribly off-key voice.

  “Stop, please!” He begs, laughing and holding up his hand.

  “Are you sure? Because I’ve got a lot more words that rhyme with Zane—propane, cellophane, membrane—”

  “Don’t forget my luxurious mane.” He points to his head full of dark hair. “Or that I like to eat chow mein.”

  I chuckle. “I’m making a mental list so that I can send all these lyric suggestions to Misty after you’ve broken up with her.”

  “What if she were to break up with me?” Zane lifts an eyebrow.

  “Fat chance of that, Romeo. You already said she’s obsessed with you. So, I doubt there’s anything you could do that would make her want to give you the boot. She probably thinks your farts smell like freshly baked cookies.”

  “They do. Thanks for noticing,” Zane says, with an amused quirk of his lips. “But seriously, I think there might be a way for me to disillusion her enough that she’ll be the one to end things between us.”

  “Sounds like a lot of trouble to me.” I toss a froyo-soaked chunk of Funfetti cake in my mouth. “Isn’t it easier to just be brutally honest? That’s what’s always worked for me.”

  “Uh, yeah, because you don’t care about sparing other people’s feelings, or what the guys think of you after you’ve given them their walking papers.”

  I shrug. “My attitude is that anyone who’s had the great good fortune of experiencing all this,” I make a circular motion with my hand in front of my face and boobs, “should consider himself damn lucky and not have any regrets or hold any grudges. I mean, I know it’s probably next to impossible for these guys to find someone else who’ll compare to me, but that’s their problem, not mine.”

  “Izzy Alvarez, ruining men for other women since 2006.”

  I snort. “You think I was eighteen when I lost my V-card? That’s cute. It was actually three years before that. In a Fizee’s as a matter of fact.” I glance around the yogurt shop and smile at the memory. “I was dating this senior named Santiago, who was crazy hot. He smoked pot, wore a beat-up leather jacket, and was always getting suspended from school for starting fights. He would come by after Fizee’s closed, and we’d do it in the walk-in cooler.”

  “How romantic.” Zane rolls his eyes.

  I lob my last gummy bear at him and chuckle when it hits him square in the chest, leaving a wet splotch on his white, v-neck tee.
>
  “Can we get back to my love life now?” He retrieves the gummy bear from his lap and sets it on the table.

  “Sure. What’s your brilliant plan to get rid of your clingy girlfriend?”

  “Well, it’s our two-month anniversary on Saturday—”

  “Please tell me you only know that because Misty reminded you. Otherwise, I regret to inform you that you’re a girl.”

  “Very funny. And no, I had no clue this weekend was our anniversary. I’m not even sure what we did on our first date, and she wants me to recreate that night.”

  “So, you’ll screw it up, she’ll be pissed and tell you to take a hike, then your sandalwood-scented nightmare is over.”

  “Or . . . I tell her that I have a job on Saturday night and she’ll think I’m choosing work over her, get pissed, and tell me to take a hike.”

  “Do you need to hide out at my house Saturday night to make this lie believable?”

  “No, thanks. It’s actually not a lie. Remember my friend, Sully, who’s a photographer over at M*I*A?”

  The mention of that magazine makes me flash back to my brief relationship with its wussy-voiced owner who had a bad case of blue balls last time I saw him. I shake my head to try and dislodge that memory, which Zane thinks is a sign that I don’t recall Sully.

  “He covers local nightlife for the magazine, and he’s been assigned to this private gala being held at the estate of the CEO of Sandoval Spirits on Saturday night. They’ll be celebrating the release of some special aged rum, and Sully said there will be a lot of Miami movers and shakers there, probably some celebrities, too.”

  Private gala? Estate? Miami movers and shakers? It sounds like this party is going to be wall-to-wall fat cats. And surely some of them will be under forty, single, and looking to mingle. I’ll probably have my pick of future husbands!

  “Sully’s assistant isn’t available to work the gala with him because she’s recuperating from foot surgery, so he needs help at the event and he asked me to sub-in. It’s a really great opportun—”