Inconvenient Daughter

by Lauren J. Sharkey

  "It's all confidential?" I ask.

  "Yes," Sylvia says, placing her hand on top of mine. "Your privacy and making sure you're okay are my top concerns."

  "You won't send anything to my house? My mom—"

  "Rowan." Sylvia squeezes my hand. "The only people who need to know what happened here today are you and me. So." She takes a deep breath. "What happened?"

  "I just wanted the pain to stop," I cry. "I didn't know it would be this way. I didn't want him, but, but . . ."

  * * *

  By the time I turned twenty, I hadn't seen Hunter in three months. Another one of Mom's rules was I had to be at dinner every night, Monday through Friday. After I dried the dishes and swept the floor, I'd go for a walk. Once I got to the end of the block, I'd take out my phone and call Hunter.

  At the start of the call, he would say all the right things—that he was sorry, that he loved me, that if I came back things would be different. But within minutes, he was screaming.

  "Why don't you want to come down here? You fucking some other guy up there already? You are, aren't you?"

  I'd swear I wasn't.

  "Don't you love me anymore?"

  "Of course I love you," I'd cry.

  "If you loved me, you'd be here with me."

  I'd consider his words carefully. My wrist had finally healed, I had some money in the bank, and I had my learner's permit. But there were other things I hadn't had with him—a job making lattes at Starbucks, friends I went to the movies with, a home to come back to.

  Valentina was still in Mineola. After I had finally gotten up the courage to call her, we'd met for lunch, and after a few minutes of uncomfortable questions and awkward apologies, it was as if I'd never left.

  One night I thought I could muster the strength to leave it all, but I had to know one thing. "Where did you go . . . after?" I asked Hunter over the phone.

  "I went back to the dorm and waited for you," he said flatly.

  "And when I didn't come back? Then what?"

  "What do you mean 'then what?'"

  "Well, weren't you worried about me?"

  "Rowan—I didn't wake up till like three p.m. I missed my first class because of you!"

  "You fell asleep? After all that?"

  "What the fuck else was I supposed to do?"

  "I—I don't know. I thought you would have cared or been looking for me or at least worried—"

  "You know what? Fuck you. You're not worth my time. You're not worth anyone's time. Good luck getting anyone to love you like I did—you fucked up. You're fucked up."

  Like BioMom, Hunter viewed me as excess baggage that could be left behind. Maybe he loved me, maybe he was the one. But he didn't come back for me, and that was everything I needed to know.

  * * *

  I spent the next year and a half steaming milk and pulling espresso shots at Starbucks in the mornings and driving to Nassau to take classes in the afternoons. I'd come home, have dinner with my parents and Aidan, and head up to the attic to watch TV, fall asleep, and do it all over again.

  I earned my associate's degree two months after I turned twenty-two, and went from steaming milk and pulling espresso shots in the morning to steaming milk and pulling espresso shots in the morning and the afternoon.

  For the first few weeks it wasn't so bad. And then Miriam happened.

  Miriam was one of those women who carried a Louis Vuitton bag but complained about having to pay sixty cents extra for soy milk. She was old, she was cranky, and she was a pain in my ass.

  "Decaf venti nonfat no foam soy latte," I'd call from the bar to a crowd of angry and impatient worker bees.

  "Are you sure it's decaf?" Miriam would ask.

  I'd made it. I knew it was decaf. "Yes, I'm sure," I'd say with a smile.

  After taking a sip, she'd say the same thing, "No, no. I'm sorry, this isn't decaf."

  I'd take back the cup, pour the contents down the sink, and remake her drink as she leaned over the counter and said, "I'm deathly allergic to caffeine—that's why I need the decaf."

  I wanted to tell her she was full of shit because decaf contains caffeine, but instead, I said, "Decaf venti nonfat no foam soy latte," with a smile.

  "You're welcome," I'd mutter once she was out of earshot.

  "I hate people like that," sighed a man one morning from the other side of the counter.

  I turned to agree with him and felt my heart skip a beat. "Cole?"

  * * *

  I was beaming as I placed a kiss on Cole's cheek. I hadn't seen him in six years. The time hadn't aged him, and I was grateful. Even though I'd grown a few inches, he still towered above me at 6'1" and had traded in his Donnie Darko hoodie for a blue button-down. As I walked to the table, I smiled to myself—his green hair was gone. I'd never noticed he was actually blond. He was a man now, and single, according to Facebook.

  "What up, girl? You find the place all right?"

  "Yeah, I think I'm parked right next to you."

  "Cool," he said, taking a seat at the bar. "You know, I would have picked you up."

  "I am a licensed driver now, my friend."

  "What?" he laughed, looking at me in disbelief. "They let you on the road?"

  "Yup. I now have a driver's license and am legally able to consume alcohol."

  "Hey, Cole, how's it going?" asked the bartender.

  "Good, Jimmy, and you?" Cole replied.

  "Can't complain. What'll you have?"

  "I'll take a Blue Point and," he began, turning his gaze back to me, "what about you?"

  "I'll take the same," I said.

  "Coming right up."

  "Okay, so you can drive, but are you legally able to rent a car?"

  "No. But I will be in four years."

  "Good to know you still need me for something," he winked. "Damn. A lot's changed. How long has it been?"

  "Probably five or six years," I said, as if I hadn't already done the math.

  "Oh yeah," he smiled, "at Journey's."

  "Actually, I think it was at the Sadie Hawkins—"

  "That's right, that's right! The dance!"

  "I remember Sister Margaret Anne yelling at you because you were wearing sneakers."

  "I don't remember that, but I do remember the nun with the unibrow coming over with the ruler."

  "That's her!" I laughed. "Man, that was a great night."

  We drank until my cheeks were sore from laughing. He picked up the tab, and kissed me clumsily outside the bar.

  "Take me home," I said.

  "Yeah," he said, "okay."

  * * *

  "It's not that I don't like you," Cole said, looking around the room the next morning. "I'm just not looking for anything serious right now."

  "Me neither, dude," I replied, tossing a pair of boxers at him. "Have you seen my bra?"

  "Right here," he said, putting it in my hand and kissing me. "Last night was great."

  "Yeah." I kissed him back. "It was fun. That's what I'm looking for right now—fun."

  This is how the rules came to be—no more sleepovers, no meeting the parents, no strings.

  Cole worked as a travel agent at a small agency twenty minutes from his house. He spent three months working fifty hours a week, then took the fourth month off to explore a place he'd never been, before returning to Long Island, ready to begin work again.

  Before reuniting with Cole, I was seeing Jesse—a twenty-eight-year-old man-child not ready to make a commitment. Before him, Louis and I had been steadily headed in the direction of Facebook officiality, when he suddenly changed his Facebook status to "in a relationship" and changed his profile picture to one of him kissing a blonde he once described as "like a sister."

  I wasn't expecting anything after writing my number on Cole's Starbucks cup and telling him to call me, and I didn't expect anything now.

  * * *

  Cole and I spent the next year fucking, smoking weed, and eating Oreos. One rainy day, I put on my sore-throat voice when I ca
lled Dan to say he'd be one barista short. I hung up halfway through him wishing me well, and headed out.

  With the wipers on full blast, things were still blurry. The twenty-minute drive took close to forty. He was halfway to me when I got out of the car.

  "Don't!" I said, as the wind took his umbrella. "It's not worth it!"

  "Thanks for playing hooky with me," he said. "You want some breakfast?"

  "Sure, what do you have?"

  We ate Cheerios. I told him it was weird that my dad insisted on calling Corn Pops "Sugar Pops." Cole said he was normally a Frosted Flakes man, but the store brand sucked.

  He asked if I wanted to listen to a new song. We lay on his bed, a headphone each, listening to Mew inviting us to go skating on the thinnest ice we could find.

  We woke up a few hours later, split a box of pizza bagels, and finished off a pint of Ben & Jerry's with a single spoon. While watching 24 Hour Party People, Cole confessed he'd started listening to a lot of Joy Division after Tom shot himself.

  "Yeah, I remember." When Cole first told me about Tom, I hadn't known anyone who'd taken his own life. And while I still didn't know anyone who had committed suicide, I knew what it meant to lose a friend.

  "It was a long time ago. I just hope wherever he is, he's happy, you know?"

  "Of course," I said. This time, he didn't shoo my hand away. "Do you miss him a lot?"

  "He was my best friend, you know? Sometimes, I want to tell him things, but he's . . ." His voice trailed off as he covertly tried to brush away a tear. "He's gone. Linda, his sister, and I are close. Nothing happened, though," he said defensively.

  "That's nice that you're still in touch with her."

  "She's, like, all I have left of him, you know? I just wish I could talk to him, is all."

  "What things would you want to tell him?"

  "Well, I'd want to tell him about this cool chick I've been hanging out with," he smiled.

  "Oh yeah? What would you tell him about her?"

  "Oh, wow . . . this is kind of awkward because I'm hanging out with you too," he laughed.

  "Fuck you," I smirked, hitting him on the shoulder.

  "I'm just messing with you," he said, kissing me.

  "Yeah, you're real funny."

  "But yeah, Scott is my oldest friend but he's always with Patty so, you know. And Chris, well . . . I can't really see myself telling Chris about you."

  "Do you tell any of your friends about me?"

  "Sure, I do. Scott and Patty wanted to hang out before I head to New Zealand."

  "New Zealand?"

  "Yeah, that's where I'm headed next."

  "Man, that's exciting! For how long?" I asked anxiously.

  "Six whole months," he grinned.

  "Six months?"

  "Yeah, I thought I told you about this. That's why I've been working so much overtime."

  "Oh yeah," I lied, trying not to be mad, "I must have forgot."

  "Don't worry," he said, "we can still hang out until I leave."

  We'd been "hanging out" close to a year, and only now did I realize I was not a factor in his decision-making process. He wasn't concerned about what would happen to us when he left. There was no us—and I wanted there to be.

  * * *

  "You should grow a beard, carry a staff, and pretend to be Gandalf," I suggested to Cole, a week later.

  "I don't think I'd look good with a beard."

  "Try it."

  I'd volunteered to help him pack for New Zealand. Yet there I sat, on the bed, not helping.

  "I don't think all this is going to fit."

  "That's what she said."

  "Do me a favor. Come here and sit on this."

  "I just did."

  "Don't make me make you come over here," he sighed.

  I trudged across the room and dropped onto his carry-on.

  He smiled as it lowered.

  "All I needed was that ass."

  "What are you going to do when you need to come back?"

  "I heard women in New Zealand also have asses. There's no proof, but I'm going to find out. That's actually the entire reason for this trip."

  "Fuck you." Damn it, he makes me laugh.

  "Oh, come on. I'm also going to see if they have boobs."

  "Whatever, dude. They won't be as good as mine."

  "I guess you're right."

  "What if you do, though?"

  "Do what?"

  "Find a New Zealand girl with a better ass and boobs than mine?"

  "I don't know," he shrugged.

  I wanted to tell him I didn't want him looking for a New Zealand girl with a better ass and better boobs. I wanted to tell him I was going to miss him. I wanted to tell him not to forget to write, and I'd be here waiting for him.

  "Okay."

  "Thanks for helping me pack."

  "No problem. I wrote this letter for you. Read it on the plane."

  "Thanks, Rowan."

  I want you to come back to me.

  "Listen, I better get going. I'm meeting Scott, Patty, and Linda at the bar. It's a going-away thing. I'm going to be late."

  "I'll see you when you get back."

  * * *

  After Cole left for New Zealand, I quit Starbucks and briefly worked for a telemarketing scam before landing a job at the New York College of Health Professions as a receptionist. I'd finished up at Nassau, and briefly thought about applying to four-year schools, but was lacking in will and motivation. Part of me liked being able to count on things—direct deposits hitting my account every two weeks; a bacon, egg, and cheese waiting for me at the counter when the guys at the bagel place saw my car pull in; dinner with my parents when I got home at five thirty p.m. But the bigger part of me wanted to stay still so Cole could find me. It was about five months into his trip when Cole decided to come home, and he wanted to see me.

  * * *

  "Go with the pink," Valentina said. As one of my best friends since high school, I trusted her opinion implicitly.

  "I don't know. I don't want to look too slutty."

  "Yeah, but you want to get laid."

  "True," I laughed, snatching the hanger in her hand. "Oh my god!"

  "What?"

  "I can't believe this is happening already. It seems like he just left."

  "You going to tell him you want to be more than just friends?"

  "I haven't decided yet."

  "I think you should."

  "I don't know—he just got back a few days ago and then I'm going to drop this on him?"

  Valentina rolled her eyes and laughed. "You were fuckin' him for a year, mama. Should be no sorpresa!"

  "I'm just scared is all."

  "¿Por qué?"

  "I don't know."

  * * *

  After he paid for dinner, we parked in Parking Field 4 at Jones Beach and headed toward the water, the August air cooling as we got closer to the shore. I helped him turn the lifeguard stand right side up, and took his hand so he could pull me up.

  "I missed you."

  "I missed you too."

  We passed a bottle of pinot grigio between us, listening to the surf. As the wine moved through me, the question rose within. His arm curled behind me, bringing us closer. I turned into him, resting my head on his chest, the bottle between my legs, and told him, "Take me home."

  He smiled, jumped down, and held out his hand. I passed the bottle first, then my bag. My butt scooted along the wood, and I stopped.

  "It's okay," he said, putting out both arms, "I got you."

  Cole kissed me there on the beach just as a state trooper flashed his light in our eyes, and told us we weren't supposed to be down there.

  Before walking to the car, I glanced at the sand, taking note of how small my footprints were compared to his. Had the trooper not been right behind, I'd have stopped to take a picture—proof we had been there, together.

  My pink top hit the floor the minute we came through his bedroom door.

  "Wait," I said,
as he tossed my $54 bra across the room.

  "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just—I don't know what this is . . . with us."

  He laughed and shook his head. "Jesus."

  "Look, when we first started this, I wasn't looking for anything serious and that hasn't changed."

  He kissed me. "Then what's the issue?"

  "I need to know I'm the only one. I want to be the only one."

  "Oh man," he sighed, reaching for his phone. "I guess I better start making some calls."

  "Fuck you," I laughed.

  "Rowan, I'm not seeing anyone else and I won't if you don't want me to. But I'm still not looking for a relationship. I'll do whatever you want to do, though."

  I knew the answer to Valentina's question. I was afraid because I knew he didn't love me—but I wasn't ready to hear it, and so I kissed him back.

  The next morning, I woke up cursing white wine and the sunlight. I checked my phone—seven thirty a.m., I was late.

  "Do you have any baby wipes?" I asked, climbing over him.

  "What? No."

  "I smell and I'm late for work."

  "So take a shower."

  "Here?"

  "No, outside."

  "Is that okay?"

  "Yeah," he laughed, rolling back over. "Towels are in the closet at the end of the hall."

  "I smell like dude," I called as the water came on.

  "And this is my fault?" His voice was closer.

  I heard the swishing of his toothbrush back and forth, and peeked out the curtain. "Who doesn't have baby wipes?"

  "Well, I don't have a baby."

  "They're a standard household item, man. Everyone has baby wipes."

  "Maybe I'll get some then."

  "No need," I said, retreating to the water. "No sleepovers, remember?"

  "We didn't sleep the whole time," he said, pulling the curtain back.

  "Maybe that's why they call it a layover."

  He stepped in, and I didn't make it to work.

  * * *

  Suddenly, it seemed Cole was my boyfriend. We were going to dinner, the movies—to Central Park for the outdoor screening of The Wizard of Oz. Last year, we'd existed only in his bedroom, but now we were outside for all to see.

  I remember wishing I had brought a sweater, but decided not to because we were just going to CVS and would only be outside for two seconds. It was November—we were high, and hoping to buy the last of the Halloween candy. I huddled close to him, trying to get warm, as he rubbed my arms up and down.