Yes, You

by Carla Ryan

  "Tristao Cassatt, CEO of a waste management company."

  "Is he married?"

  "He's off limits, is what he is," you say, panic creeping into your throat.

  "So he is married."

  "I don't know, but even if he's not, you absolutely cannot get involved with him."

  "Forbidden fruit?" She snaps her mirror shut and does a little shimmy of excitement. "How tantalizing."

  The driver parks at the clubhouse entrance and gets out.

  "I'm serious, Mom. Not mixing work with sex is my only rule."

  "Then don't have sex with him," she says with a smirk.

  Her door opens and she takes the driver's hand, stepping out in that elegant way only the rich and famous can pull off. You let yourself out and hurry to your mother’s side.

  "Please --" you begin, but she cuts you off.

  "Don't worry, babykins," she says, taking her own survey of the land, "I can control myself when necessary. As for your man..." She smiles and waves at a clique of men watching her from the driving range. "...I can't speak for him."

  This is going to be a catastrophe.

  Your mother visits the ladies' room while you rent some clubs, keeping an eye out for Tristao. He said he'd be in the lounge but you don't see him anywhere. Maybe he's already on the green?

  A flirtatious giggle floats toward you from the restroom hallway. You head in that direction, about to call your mother away from whatever poor sap she's hooked, but before you turn the corner she emerges, her arm already linked with none other than the only man in this entire city she's not supposed to touch.

  "There you are!" Tristao says with a grin and a wave. "I hope you don't mind," he says to you, "but I've invited this lovely young lady to join us on the green."

  "I was about to tell him no," your mother says, letting go of his arm and taking yours, "but it seems I'm already a member of your entourage."

  "Am I allowed into this loop?" he asks, still smiling.

  "Tristao Cassatt, meet my mother, Valentina Thomas."

  "Don't you dare any empty flattery," your mother playfully cautions him, "or I'll never believe another word you say."

  "Having a daughter of such intellect and grace is a greater compliment to your character than anything I could ever say." He takes her hand and brings it to his lips.

  "Isn't that simply..." Your mother appears to be at a genuine loss for words, but it's been several years since you last saw her in the ring, so perhaps she's spent most of her marriage honing her acting skills.

  Did you say catastrophe? This is the fracking apocalypse.

  "Shall we get out on the green?" you ask, desperate to pry their gooey eyes off of each other.

  "I need to say adieu to a friend in the lounge," Tristao says. "I'll meet you ladies out front?"

  As soon as you're out of earshot, you whisper, "Five minutes. It took five minutes for you to do the one thing I asked you not to do."

  "I didn't know it was him! We stepped out of the restrooms at the same time, he complimented my chapeau, I reciprocated with an appreciation for his colors, and the next thing I knew he was asking me to play a round with him. I told you, I can't be held responsible for a man's urges."

  She glances back through the glass door. Tristao, in a yellow polo and matching chino shorts, is still in the lounge wrapping up his conversation. "And what a man. You should have warned me he's so yummy."

  "Mom!" You snap your fingers right in her face to get her attention. "You cannot do this to me. That man's practically ready to propose, and when things go sour between you two, it won't only ruin your relationship, it'll ruin his relationship with Spare."

  "So? He's a competitor, isn't he? You're supposed to be at odds."

  "Spare's just starting to find its feet. A man with his connections and influence could cut the legs right out from under us if he wanted to -- which he will, if you break his heart."

  Tristao shakes the man's hand and starts for the door. Your mother, watching him, smiles as he approaches.

  "Please, Mom," you whisper, stepping in front of her to block the view. "You said you're here to help me. So help me!"

  Her face darkens with irritation, and when Tristao joins you outside with his clubs in tow, you're not sure what she's going to.

  "Off we go!" he says, offering your mother his arm.

  Her gaze lingers in the crook of his elbow, but with a polite smile she takes yours instead, saying, "Thank you, but I'm here to spend time with my daughter, not smooth-talking bachelors."

  His surprise is obvious, but he recovers quickly, seeming almost pleased at her rejection. "Then I'll do my best to hold my silver tongue at bay."

  He gestures for the two of you to take the lead, but your mother appears too preoccupied by thoughts of his silver tongue to move. You tug on her arm to get her moving, then whisper "Thank you" as quietly as you can to her.

  Giving you a distracted smile, she pats your arm gently, and you feel another rush of gratitude towards her for putting your needs ahead of her own.

  Let's see how long it lasts.

  Chapter Eleven

  The game goes surprisingly well -- as far as your mother is concerned, anyway. She's probably not capable of speaking to a man without flirting at all, but for the next couple of hours she does an admirable job of keeping the double-entendres to a minimum and curtailing his advances.

  However, the reason you're out here in the first place is to get a better sense of Tristao's character and how he'd handle the merger, and while your initial impression of him as an affable straight-shooter is confirmed, he, unlike every other business man you've ever met, is adamantly opposed to discussing business on the green.

  "This is a place of leisure," he says when you start to bring up Spare's future. "No work allowed."

  Your mother parks the golf cart, and one of the caddies hops out of their still moving cart to offer her a hand, but Tristao beats him to it.

  "Thank you," she says, holding his hand a little too long before letting go and moving to your side.

  "The pleasure is all mine," he says as you walk back to the clubhouse, "most assuredly. I couldn't ask for a more enjoyable morning. Will you join me for lunch?"

  "That would be --"

  "Thanks," you say, preventing your mother from accepting, "but we can't stay." Your mother and Tristao give you matching frowns, but you stand firm. "We already have plans."

  "My loss," Tristao says, taking your mother’s hand. "Thank you for an unforgettable game. It was most..." He brings her fingers to his lips. "...stimulating."

  "The feeling is quite mutual," she says, rubbing his hand with her thumb.

  Are they still talking about golf?

  "I think I see the car coming," you say, eager to separate these two.

  "A pleasure as always," Tristao says, shaking your hand. "I look forward to hearing from you." With a nod goodbye, and a longing gaze in your mother's direction, he goes inside.

  "I did it!" your mother says, turning her back to the door and squeaking with laughter. "Did you see how I held him at bay? He kept coming at me with those charms and biceps, but I batted them back, every one!" She mimes a few tennis swings, making little pew! pew! sound effects that no tennis ball ever made.

  That's not exactly how you remember it, but you leave it alone. She did better than you expected, and you're grateful that she even tried in the first place.

  "You know," she says as the driver helps her in, "turning a man away is almost as exhilarating as turning him on. I'll have to try this more often."

  "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," you say, getting in with her. "Thanks for doing it."

  "Where to now, miss?" asks the driver.

  "My place," you say, but at the same time your mother says, "Downtown."

  "Are we eating at your cottage?" she asks.

  "Umm, no. We can go out for lunch, but I need to get back home after."

  "For what?"

  A date.

  No way y
ou're admitting that though. Dating is a waste of time, you've always said. She'd be all too happy to call you out, and you don't feel like explaining the whole story to her.

  "I met someone and we're getting together tonight."

  "Sounds like progress," she says approvingly. "Maybe you're not as depressed as I thought."

  * * *

  Your mother drops you off at three, leaving you plenty of time to relax and get ready. But the more you try to unwind, the more nervous you become.

  What are you going to talk about? Problem is, you're more of a you're-hot-I'm-hot-let's-bang kind of girl. A woman's personality has never really been a priority for you. What if she asks about things you'd rather not discuss, like your childhood, your love life, your family... pretty much anything personal? You don't like sharing those kinds of details with lovers. Or anyone. But if you don't open up at all, she could get frustrated and not want to see you again, and that's not an option.

  After spending a solid half-hour coming up with safe discussion topics, including some generic childhood anecdotes, you feel better but still anxious. There's just too much riding on tonight. You try to take the edge off in the bedroom, but even your vibrator fails to fully set you at ease. By the time 6:30 rolls around, you walk into the restaurant feeling even more nervous than when you were presenting to investors -- at least then you knew what to say.

  The host shows you to your table. Marigold hasn't shown up yet, so you sit facing the entrance. As the minutes tick by, it occurs to you for the first time that she might not even come. She never did say yes.

  But she didn't say no either.

  Almost half an hour later, after the waiter has asked you twice if you'd like to order appetizers, you're about to call it quits when you see her come in. She scans the restaurant, and when her gaze settles on you she doesn't look all that pleased.

  "I didn't think you were coming," you say as she takes her seat.

  "That makes two of us." She's not very dressed up, with no makeup and wearing a loose blue shirtdress over leggings that could easily be what she wore to school today. You've never seen her with her hair down though, and it's longer than you realized, framing her sweet face perfectly.

  The waiter appears and asks for her drink order. "Just water, please," she says.

  "The ginger pear juice is great," you suggest, holding up your glass.

  "Water is fine," she repeats.

  "Do you like hummus?" you ask. "They've got great hummus here."

  "Sure," she says, picking up the menu.

  You order the hummus appetizer, and the waiter, happy to finally be on his way to a tip, dashes off.

  "Thanks for coming," you say, pressing your clammy hands against the napkin in your lap.

  "Thank you for the free dinner," she says, still reading the menu.

  First safe topic: restaurants.

  "When I was looking for investors this was my favorite place for a first meeting," you say. "Good food, but not too expensive; quiet, but not empty."

  She nods while continuing to peruse the menu. Her pink lips shimmer in the soft light. Maybe she is wearing lipstick, or at least lip gloss. Is it flavored? She probably tastes like strawberry, or vanilla...

  Focus.

  "Have you ever been here?"

  "A couple times," she says, her eyes still down.

  "Did you like it?"

  She shrugs. "It's fine."

  Is she ever going to look at you?

  You take a swig of your juice and decide to hold off on more chit chat until she puts the menu down. No sense in using up all your conversation ideas while her attention's divided, right?

  It's a reasonable enough strategy, but a flawed one. Minutes go by and she's still glued to the menu as if it were a Cara Malone novel.

  "Where do you usually go when you eat out?" you ask, immediately regretting your choice of words. Luckily she doesn't seem to catch the innuendo, although now all you can think of is her hiding under the table with her tongue between your thighs.

  "I don't, much," she says.

  No kidding.

  These short, non-committal answers are driving you insane. This is why you hate small talk. Why not cut through all this riffraff and just get in bed?

  The waiter comes to your rescue, arriving with the appetizer and forcing Marigold to order. Without the menu to distract her, she focuses her attention on the food, piling up her plate with hummus, veggies, and pita.

  Next safe topic: entertainment.

  "So what kind of music do you like?" you ask. "Jazz, obviously."

  She takes a bite as soon as you start talking, and chews about a million times before saying, "A little bit of everything, but mostly jazz," and quickly taking another bite.

  No wonder you never go on dates.

  Spooning some hummus onto your plate, you jab a few carrot slices and celery stalks into it, already losing steam. The long game is supposed to be a fun new challenge, but instead it's an awful new challenge. Marigold is clearly holding back, doing her best to put you off, and although you hate to admit it, she's winning. You're just not built for this. You don't care about where she went to school or what her favorite movie is. You just want to see her naked.

  "What about you?"

  You're so deep in thought that at first you don't hear Marigold's question. When you glance up and see her eyes on you for the first time since she sat down, the words that have been bumping up against your self-pity and daydreams finally break through and reach your brain. The harmlessness of the question doesn't match the tension in her face though, as if she were asking something she'd rather not know the answer to.

  "What music do I like?" you ask, making sure you heard right.

  She takes a bite of pita and nods gravely.

  You're not sure why she looks like you're about to tell her your grandmother died, but hey, it's a start.

  "I like dance, hip-hop, rock, anything with high energy and a strong beat. And jazz, of course. Love jazz."

  No, you can't let that one sit. Too many ways for it to come back and bite you later.

  "Actually," you say, "I don't like jazz. At all. I was just saying that to make you like me, but I don't like lying either, so... sorry."

  Is she going to leave? She looks like she's thinking of leaving. But you were honest! That has to count for something!

  Marigold takes a drink and puts the glass down directly in front of her, tapping the sides of it as if she were playing the piano.

  "What is your business?" she asks suddenly. "The one you're always talking about."

  Again, the question is simple enough, but her expression is oddly serious. What does this have to do with you lying about jazz?

  "It's called Spare. We make it easy for people to recycle and upcycle their waste by providing a one-stop-shop for everything from e-waste to old clothes, and then connecting those reusables to companies and people who want or need them."

  Whatever she was expecting you to say, that clearly wasn't it. Her face lights up with curiosity. "That sounds incredible."

  This is more like it. You could talk about work all day, and having Marigold's undivided attention makes your stomach go all ping-pongy, which, although a bit distracting, feels surprisingly nice.

  "That's not even the coolest part," you continue. "We have a tracking system that allows people to see exactly where their waste goes, and gives statistics about how much they've diverted from landfills. People can earn commissions on items that have precious metals in them, and we're working on a partnership with some big video game companies where people can earn money within the games."

  "Do you operate around here?"

  "Not yet. We're only in Massachusetts and Rhode Island right now."

  The small smile that was blooming on her lips droops with disappointment. You don't like that at all.

  "We're growing quickly though," you say. "We've been getting a lot of good publicity lately."

  "Are you working with any schools out there?"


  "No, we haven't had any schools sign up yet."

  "That's too bad. The tracking angle is perfect for a school. The kids could all bring something in, and then learn about the recycling process by watching where their stuff goes. We have a unit on recycling, but having a personal connection with the process would make a huge difference in how deeply the lesson is absorbed."

  Other than when she was onstage with her trio, this is the most animated you've ever seen her. She's smiling, saying more than three words at a time, and actually looking at you. Clearly she loves her work as much as you love yours.

  Her job: safe topic.

  "Teaching is one of the hardest jobs in the world," you say. "I could never do that."

  "You're really good with kids though," she says, taking a bite of her pita. "I've never seen Gustave get that comfortable with anyone so quickly before."

  Was that a compliment? Now we're getting somewhere.

  "Oh, I love kids," you say. "They're a lot smarter than people think, and they're so honest but with no filter, which is awesome. But a whole room full of them? No way. You guys should get paid more than all the fracking football players combined for dealing with that."

  A surprised smile brightens her eyes, and the restaurant around you seems to fall into darkness. "A fan of Battlestar Gallactica, are we?" she asks.

  Heat floods your cheeks. "Sort of. I'm not actually much of a television person, but my friend Jabir -- we cofounded Spare together -- he got me hooked when we were in college. After his son was born, he stopped swearing and started saying frack instead. At first I said it just to make fun of him, but eventually it stuck. Why? Do you like that show?"

  "Science teachers are sci-fi nerds by definition." She smiles, looking so unbelievably cute that it's hard to believe everyone else in the restaurant isn't staring at her too.

  "When did you start teaching?"

  "I started out as a substitute, as a way to earn some extra money since I was working nights at the --"

  She cuts herself off, the light in her eyes suddenly dimming.

  "What's the matter?" you ask.