Yes, You

by Carla Ryan

  "No prob bob."

  "My name is Gustave," he says firmly, emphasizing every syllable by rocking his head back and forth.

  Leaving the flowers and basket on the nearest table, you do small jerky dance moves with each of your syllables. "I know your name is Gus, Gus, but that's how we say 'you're welcome' back in Boston. You try."

  His eyes are on you now, watching your limbs, which are frozen in the same position as your last dance.

  "No prob bob," he murmurs.

  "No prob bob," you repeat, dancing some more.

  He starts dancing too, and soon you're both kicking, flailing, and laughing, all the while chanting, "No prob bob," over and over.

  "Gustave?"

  You spin around to see Marigold in the doorway, with two young girls beside her, both carrying a small stack of books in their hands.

  Gus is still dancing and chanting. "Psst," you say, tapping him on the arm. "Gus, we're wicked busted. Gus!"

  He sees Marigold and stops dancing, then takes a sideways step towards you. She looks back and forth between the two of you, appearing more curious than angry.

  "Aren't you supposed to be in the gym with the rest of the champions?" she asks Gus.

  "I had to say thank you," he says, eyes on the ceiling.

  When she looks to you for explanation, you say, "I found his cat yesterday."

  "Shahk-Tastic," Gus clarifies, smiling as he says it.

  This only seems to add to Marigold's confusion, but instead of trying to get answers, she says, "Gustave, can you please return to champions?"

  "Yes, ma'am," he drawls.

  "Thank you."

  With a completely straight face he says, "No prob bob," and leaves, dragging his feet the whole way out. The two students sit down at one of the tables, and you take the opportunity to make it clear that you are definitely not a stalker.

  "Annette told me where you work." Holding out the flowers and gift basket, you add, "I brought you these."

  She barely glances at them before asking, "Can you wait in the hall?"

  "Sure." As you leave the peace offerings, you notice that one of the girls' books is the same one Jake was reading.

  "Hey, I know that book," you say to the girl. "What's the bear's name? Chilly McChicken Nugget?"

  "No," she says, sharing a giggle with her classmate.

  "Oh, right, it's Chompy The Chilly Chihuahua."

  "He's not even a chihuahua!" one of them protests, their laughter growing.

  "Alright," Marigold says in her teacher voice, "that's enough."

  "Sorry," you say, withering under her frown. You're barely through the door before she closes it.

  Slowly pacing the wall, you think through the speech you prepared, expecting her to come out at any second. As the minutes tick by, you glance in and see her sitting with the students, listening to one of them read, with no apparent plans to come talk to you.

  Well, you knew this was going to take patience; here's the first test. How long could a tutoring session go for anyway. Half an hour?

  Fifty-three minutes later -- but who's counting? -- the door opens. You get up off the floor, rubbing your numb ass, and fluff up your hair. Marigold does a double take when she sees you.

  Yup. Still here.

  "You can wait in there," she says, thumbing back into the classroom.

  More waiting?!?

  "Sure," you say, hiding your aggravation with a stretch.

  The wait's only about five minutes this time. As soon as she closes the door behind her, she says, "What the hell are you doing here?"

  You're about to launch into heartfelt seduction mode when she adds, "And how do you know Gustave Seacole? Are you two related?"

  "Gus? We're neighbors. We go waaay back... all the way to yesterday."

  What's the opposite of a laugh? Because that's what Marigold is doing right now.

  "Like I said," you clarify, "he stopped by my rental looking for his cat, and I helped him find it."

  "You," she says, her voice dripping with skepticism. "You helped Gustave find his cat."

  "That's so hard to believe?" You can't help the edge in your tone. Does she think you're lying about something as stupid as that?

  She crosses the room and starts cleaning her desk. Instead of answering your question, she repeats hers. "Why are you here?"

  Putting a pin in the fact that she thinks you're incapable of a selfless act, you try to regain your footing. You pick up the flowers and gift basket, which were left untouched on the table, hold them out to her and say, "Wooing you, obviously."

  Without a glance in your direction, she says, "I made myself clear last night: I'm not interested."

  "Not yet, maybe. How about I take you out to dinner and see if you still feel that way by dessert?"

  "No thank you."

  Okay. Now this is getting annoying. Patience and persistence are muscles you rarely use, and you're already getting sore.

  "Why not?"

  "I told you, I'm not interested," she says, still not even bothering to look at you.

  "Why not?"

  She scoffs, the closest thing to a laugh you've pulled out of her. "Is it so hard to imagine that there's someone in the world who can say 'no' to you?"

  Yes.

  "I've known too many people like you not to recognize the warning signs," she continues, closing the windows. "I stay away from people like you."

  "But that's just it," you say, beating her to the last window, "you don't know anything about me."

  "I know enough."

  Where the hell does she get off? So you offered to give her the best night of her life -- which it probably would have been. That makes you a bad person?

  "What is it that you know, exactly?" you demand as she gathers her things. "You know that I'm on vacation and that I think you're a great piano player. You know that I helped Gus, and that I've heard of the Captain Chilly polar bear books. What out of those four things makes me not worth your time?"

  "You're leaving out the fact that you treated me like a prostitute the first time we met," she says, heading for the door.

  "That was six years ago!"

  She switches off the lights and starts to leave without waiting for you. Rushing to catch up, you match her quick pace down the corridor but stay quiet, collecting your thoughts.

  Is all this worth it? Is she worth it?

  The idea that she doesn't think you are worth it drives you nuts. Why? Why won't she give you a chance? Why do you care so much that she won't? Is she right? Are you really that spoiled?

  No!

  Well...

  Maybe you are a little spoiled. But you don't want her simply because you can't have her. You want to prove that she wants you too -- that those moments all those years ago and last night, when you saw the desire in her eyes, were real.

  The secretary says goodnight as the two of you leave, even giving you a wink, although it should be pretty obvious things didn't go as planned. Marigold's car is parked in a prime spot right near the entrance.

  "Yikes," you say, noticing the the basketball-sized dent in her rear bumper. "When did that happen?"

  She glances sideways to see what you're talking about as she drops her purse and sweater in the passenger's seat. "A while ago."

  And she hasn't gotten it fixed yet? Maybe she can't afford it. She is a teacher, and even teachers in San Francisco probably aren't paid as much as they should be.

  "You know," you say, getting back to the business at hand, "there are a few other things you know about me."

  Scowling at you, she swings the door shut. You follow her as she makes her way to the other side of the car.

  "Can you just wait a second?" you ask, chasing after her. "Please?"

  "It doesn't matter what you say," she says, leaning her hip against the car and crossing her arms. "The answer is no."

  We'll see about that.

  "The first thing is," you begin, "you know that I think you're beautiful. If I didn't, I wo
uldn't have said those things to you at the hotel bar, and I wouldn't be here now."

  Her cheeks darken, hiding her freckles, but her lips only press more tightly together.

  "You know that I like you enough to risk rejection not once but three times, and you know that if all I was after was sex, I could have gone home with Willa last night."

  Annoyance flashes across her face, but the truth of it is something she can't deny, and she remains silent.

  "I know some things about you too," you continue. "I know that you're independent, intelligent, caring... judgmental..." You risk a faint smile, and although she doesn't smile back, there's a deeper, subtler change that fills you with hope. A renewed focus slowly takes hold of her, an openness, and recognition. She's finally listening to you.

  As much as you want to move nearer to her, you stay where you are. You're so close to getting your yes you can taste it. You can't risk scaring her off.

  "But there's a lot I don't know," you say, "and no matter what you think, there's a lot you don't know about me either. I can't change who I was six years ago. All I'm asking is for a chance to show you who I am today."

  She studies you, chewing on your words for what feels like forever. Another teacher passes nearby and says good night, and Marigold turns to wave goodbye. Is that it? Will this moment come to the same fate as the others, with her suddenly shutting down and leaving you stranded?

  When she looks back at you, the concentration is still there. "I don't even know your name," she finally says.

  Heat flows through you, the blood racing through your veins suddenly twenty degrees hotter. Not daring to speak for fear of ruining the moment, you pull out a pen and the first piece of paper you can find in your purse. You write down your name, your favorite restaurant in the city, and 6:30pm on the back of your grocery receipt.

  "Meet me there tomorrow," you say, holding it out to her. "Please."

  She stares at it with such conflict in her eyes that you might as well be offering her a block of stolen hundred-dollar bills. Finally, when you start to worry that she's changed her mind, she takes it.

  "Maybe," she says softly.

  "That's not a no," you say.

  "It's not a yes, either." Is that a hint of humor in her eyes?

  Backing away before your luck runs out, you give her your most charming grin and say, "I'll take it."

  Chapter Ten

  You're brushing your teeth the next morning when the doorbell rings. Gus is at school, which leaves only one possible visitor: Ophelia. You went for a walk yesterday morning and bumped into her, and during a five-minute conversation she invited you no less than four times into her house for various foods and beverages, even though it was painfully clear what she really wants in her mouth is you.

  The short trip from your bathroom to the front door is haunted with visions of her standing on your doorstep in nothing but a bathrobe, but the reality is far scarier. With her back to the door, making sure your first view of her is the giant blue straw hat woven with pebbles and shells, stands your mother.

  "Mom?"

  "Isn't this the perfect chapeau?" she says, twirling to face you. "I told Ziti I was going to San Francisco and asked her if she had anything suitable, and ta-da!"

  "What are you doing here?"

  With a light hug she strolls past you into the house, her zebra-striped dress billowing in her wake. "I wasn't too thrilled when I heard you went on vacation without telling your own mother," she says, peeking into the two bedrooms and bathroom before settling in the kitchen, "but then I realized something really must be bothering you if you took time off from work, and if something's bothering you, then it's bothering me too.”

  She taps her knuckle on the back deck door. "Why don't we sit out here and you can tell me all about it over coffee?"

  "Who --" You notice the time and cut yourself off, heading back to the bedroom to get dressed. "We'll have to talk later. I have an appointment."

  "Ooh, a spa day? I am so in."

  "No," you call through the door, "I'm meeting with someone for work."

  Without knocking, she pushes the door open.

  "Mom!" you cry, tugging on your capris.

  She arches an eyebrow, but otherwise ignores your protest. "Didn't you tell Jabir you need time off from work?"

  So Jabir's the culprit, huh? But he doesn't know where you are, so how does she?

  "Did Wade tell you where I'm staying?"

  "No, your precious Wade would never betray your confidence."

  "Then how --"

  "His girlfriend, on the other hand, she was a font of information."

  You pull a t-shirt over your head to see her giving you a sly smile. "How did you get Fatima to tell you?"

  "Is that what you're wearing? Rather casual for a business meeting, don't you think?"

  "We're playing golf," you say, shooing her out of the way.

  "I love golf!"

  "You love watching men play golf," you clarify. "Now answer my question."

  "When Wade wouldn't tell me where you were, I asked to talk to his lovely lady, and she, under no obligation to secrecy, agreed to my terms."

  You glare at her as you put your sneakers on. "You bribed her?"

  "Don't be so dramatic," she scoffs. "She acquired the information, and I compensated her accordingly."

  "Why didn't you just call me?"

  "Would you have told me if I had?"

  No.

  "Maybe."

  Now it's her turn to glare.

  "Okay," you admit, "maybe not. But I have a right to some privacy, don't I?"

  "Privacy is a refuge only for the devious and the ill-mannered; you're neither. If something's bothering you, it will take friends and family to make it right. So here I am."

  As much as it irritates the hell out of you that she's here, you can't really get mad at your mother for caring so much -- and knowing you so well.

  "That's sweet, but I'm actually feeling a lot better already." You grab your purse and open the door. "And I really do need to get going."

  "How about we take my car?" she says, stepping outside and starting up the path. "I wasn't sure how long I'd be, or if you were even here, so I told her to wait out front."

  "I only made the appointment for myself," you say, chasing after her, "and you're not exactly dressed for golf."

  "Oh, I won't play. Driving the cart is my favorite part anyway. And like you said, maybe I'll meet the future Mr. Valentina Thomas."

  "I thought you were looking forward to being a free woman?"

  "Freedom isn't much fun without someone to share it with. Besides," she gives you a playful smirk, "buying a man isn't nearly as satisfying as winning one."

  It's official: your mother is ruining your vacation.

  A white Tesla is parked behind your car in the driveway. The driver gets out and opens the back door.

  "I think I should go to the meeting by myself," you say, stopping at your car. "How about I meet you for lunch after?"

  "Nonsense," she says, one foot already in the Tesla. "It's not a meeting anyway, it's golf!"

  "You know a golf course is as much a board room as it is a golf course. We're going to be talking shop most of the time."

  "I just flew across the country for no other purpose than to make you feel better, and this is how you thank me? I guess it's a good thing I'm not the one having a mid-life crisis."

  "I'm not having a --"

  "You'd probably send me one of those fruit bowls and call it a day," your mother continues. "Maybe I should have just texted you, like you did on Mother's Day last year."

  You're never living that one down.

  Shutting your car door, you drop the keys in your purse and start toward the Tesla.

  "There she is!" your mother cheers. As you make your way around the car, she adds, "Are you going to be so glum at your meeting? You look like you're walking the plank."

  Yep. That's about right.

  * * *

 
It’s a solid forty-minute drive to the golf course, but luckily your mother spends most of it talking about her foundation rather than gossiping about her ex-husbands. After her first divorce left her with more money than most people make in a lifetime, she wanted to start a non-profit supporting single-parent families. The only problem was that she had no idea how to go about doing it. You were only a college freshman at the time and equally as clueless, but you connected her with the non-profit management department at your university, and one of the professors who helped her eventually became the director of the foundation. Apparently he recently announced that he wants the organization to start a business venture to help it become less dependent on donations. Your mother is apprehensive, to say the least.

  “How much money are we going to waste setting up some business that could have gone towards helping families?” she asks as the car pulls onto the long private road leading to the course. “And what kind of business could it possibly be?”

  “It could be anything. Maybe a bakery, or a thrift store?”

  “Those are a dime a dozen,” she scoffs.

  “Well I think it’s a good idea. Instead of simply handing out money, the foundation could employ people, give them real stability.”

  “Not if it goes bust.”

  She falls silent, watching the scenery, and you do the same, leaving it alone. As much as you’d like to be more involved with her organization, you’re already too busy as it is, and working with your mother would be about as enjoyable as attending a flat-Earther conference with duct tape over your mouth.

  The course is one of the nicer ones you've been to. The entrance road winds through a wild forest of pine that feels more like a nature preserve than the entrance to a golf course. You roll the window down to enjoy the songs of the birds, a refreshing change from the inescapable crashing of the ocean that you've been living with for the last few days. You're not very good, but you enjoy golf, so you’ve been looking forward to this since you spoke to Cassatt's secretary yesterday and she told you to meet him on the green.

  “I’ll figure it out,” your mother finally says. Pulling out her compact mirror, she starts checking her teeth. "Who is it we're meeting again?”