by Petrova, Em
Though, maybe I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. My track record lately wasn’t something to write home about. I had no trouble with simpering or vacuous posturing or giggling—if and when it fell into my lap. But lately I was pretty much the job, and nothing but. Socializing meant sucking up to admins with agendas and stories and insider crap I wasn’t going to find outside of locker rooms or late nights at the bars catering to loud, obnoxious and hollow legged.
I needed to make this work, otherwise no one would ever take me seriously again.
Arturo hovered at my elbow. The thought crossed my mind he might be interested in more than my appetizer preferences, but then Cordie, a stout, balding man in his fifties and a Valkyrie floated to the table.
Arturo did not try to hide his disappointment.
Chapter Two
Tay
“Tay, dearest, it’s just dinner.”
Dinner and a show. With her baby brother, the one I remembered as a pimply faced jock, loose-jointed and gangly. The only thing holding him upright was a sack of testosterone and a boatload of ’tude.
I wanted to say no in the worse sort of way but the words hung on my lips, settled uncertainly along the pursed ridge between I’m so fricking lonely I could die and I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a spork.
The game changer came with my belly growling in dismay. Being poor and a student and living in a hovel of a walk-up with mostly pervs and druggies for neighbors did not make for elegant choices. For some, eating out was a luxury … for me, eating was the luxury. Something my six-foot frame was showing signs of a definite lack of groceries.
If my mom was still alive, she’d have hauled my sorry ass back down to Blacksburg, chillaxing me with grits and chitlins ‘n gravy, maybe her deep fried chicken with breading so dense it’d have sunk the Titanic, just on principle.
One thing about Cordie, she might not have much patience with her husbands, but she knew better than to rush me when I pondered.
I was good at pondering. It made me smart and cagey in the paint, but shite with relationships.
Cordie humphed and reminded me we were on the clock.
I grunted, “Where?”
Okay, partial capitulation. I left the door open just in case we were talking Shephard’s Pie and a Guinness—I married a mick: that bad taste still lingered. The only thing that lingered. The sonofamuthu— left me high and dry with nothin’ but the clothes on my back, stranded in Milano. Not the one in Texas. The one in Italy.
No job, no money…
“Hon, it’s just dinner. And you haven’t met Fink yet.” Fink was Cordie’s third, maybe her fourth, and no … I’d yet to meet the good doctor. She iced it with, “It’s that nice place we went to back when you played the Garden, do you remember it?”
Oh yeah, the Italian upscale, to-die-for lobster ravioli in a sauce so light the plate nearly floated away. Olive-skinned waiters with dark, flashing eyes, an obsequious air and little white napkins placed just so on strong muscular forearms. Bending over to fill the crystal water goblets. Attentive.
Gack!
Italian was my second choice of things-and-places to avoid, but the prospect of chowing down on all that lusciousness was way more than my dignity and bad memories could bear.
“I guess.”
“See, I knew you’d come around.” She mumbled something to someone, probably the Fink, alerting him that it was a go and to shine up his Platinum card because any one of the tony bistros on West Forty-Sixth was going to spike a bill to rival the national debt.
To her ‘should we swing by and pick you up?’ I demurred and made arrangements to meet them at the restaurant. Driving by my place would only leave the Fink and my best friend without tires, an engine block, and any and all electronics. Even a mini-Cooper was fair game, the chop-shoppers leaving the small stuff to their offspring for practice. I’d bet my collection of dead roaches that the Fink drove foreign and tasteful.
Besides, I hastened to remind her, “Cordie, you don’t need to drive. You’re at the Millennium, right?” Mumbling ensued. Apparently my clueless friend hadn’t paid much attention; she had no idea where they were in relation to anything in mid-town Manhattan. “Oh,” followed by titters, “alright, love, we’ll meet you there.”
The Fink was on the ball and said, loud enough for me to hear, that five-thirty-ish would work and don’t be late because the show started at eight-thirty and he still needed to hit the will-call window.
The ‘-ish’ part of the plan would nail us between set-up and before theater rush, usually way too early to chow down in this town, but the doctor had a meeting the next morning so late night schmoozing and imbibing was off the evening’s menu. Which was fine with me. Trying to walk the streets after midnight did not appeal.
Not without a tank and the 101st as backup. Being mocha-whipped with cornrows and an awesome wingspan wasn’t good enough to keep predators at bay. I was working on seeing to the protection angle with a few like-minded individuals, older guys who still remembered my salad days when I was hot shit with an even hotter hand and the threes fell like manna from heaven.
I hated asking for an escort. I hated even more being left like roadkill down a dark alley. Swallowing bile along with my pride made for longevity in this city. If I was very, very lucky, I’d last long enough to finish up my degree and find a job doing what I loved best: being involved with women’s basketball programs.
I had no aspirations for the top tier. Small, out-of-the-way colleges with passing interest in Title IX sports for women would do nicely.
The cool thing about my parentage … and I had no idea why that thought crossed my mind right that minute … was that being is she or isn’t she opened doors, strangely enough.
Cordie rang off with a ‘see you tomorrow, dearest, can’t wait, Fink is all atwitter with excitement…’ left me smiling and remembering better times, back when the world was still rabidly color-conscious but a cheeky socialite from Pittsburgh strong-armed her sorority into taking me on.
I’m not sure Va Tech and my new sisters had ever been the same after that. Those ladies gave me perspective but, even better, they gave me the confidence to go after what I wanted without resorting to posturing and trash talking. And they kept me honest when the temptation to go outside the boundaries of my scholarship would have destroyed any chance at a career.
Not bad for a poor girl from the backwaters of the Blue Ridge Mountains, with a daddy who made do with hard-scrabble farming on rock and determination, and a mother who scrubbed floors for the better-off living with pools and sculpted landscapes down on the flats.
I missed them. The older I got, the more I realized what they sacrificed to get me to this point in my life. That I’d screwed it up big time was on my shoulders, not theirs.
I owed them, and I owed Cordie. I didn’t like the ledger being so unbalanced. It’d never have suited Pa, though he’d kept his own counsel about such things. Not like Ma—she’d have holy-rollered me with the righteous good word and a reminder of what just do it meant in a world full of poor excuses.
So if going to dinner and a show was a plus-one obligation to help a friend with her symmetry issues … well, there were worse ways to spend the evening.
Sipping the dregs of my cold cup of tea, I wondered how her younger brother had turned out. Guess I’d find out soon enough.
Robbie van Horn had been a pain-in-the-arse wannabe jock, three, maybe four years younger than me. I’d only met him a few times when I’d gone home with Cordie over the holidays or spring break.
Other than recalling shooting a few hoops with him and his sisters, I couldn’t conjure a picture of the boy to save my life.
Now I was going to make nice, pass the salt shaker and pretend I liked musicals, pimping myself out for a meal and an obligation.
I’d done worse, far worse…
***
“Morning, Coach.”
He nodded in return and pointed to the racket. A man of few words. Which was
a good thing. I’d skipped breakfast, again, in order to beat feet to the gym, part of my get-back-in-shape fitness program after letting myself blossom to a size blotto post Michael O’Brien.
“O’Brien?”
I still cringed at the name but it was easier to keep it and not admit I’d faffed away a mega-bucks deal on a sweet contract to follow a silver-tongued snake oil salesman around the continent.
You don’t have to marry young to marry stupid.
“Gonna hand you your ass in a sling, girlie, if’n y’all don’t get yore mind in the game.” Coach was slathering on the shugah, teasing me with memories of down-home and warm welcomes. It could have made me sad and morose but instead his wide grin and dark-eyed deviltry were guarantees to bring me out of whatever funk I’d slid into.
And funk was exactly my state of despair, served up with a side of regret and a desperate urge to find a non-lethal illness that a brain surgeon might not ever have heard of.
The odds for that were about as good as me beating the mountain taking up more than his half of the middle of the court. Racquetball was not my thing and it showed. Even with a reach that nearly brushed the walls, it did little against nearly six-five wearing two seventy like Twiggy on a diet.
Coach was big, in a cast a shadow like the dark side of the moon big, but without anything resembling an extra ounce of body fat. My BMI was an embarrassing twenty-four, on the high side of normal but stratospheric compared to my lean, mean point guard dimensions.
That made me, at an even six foot, thin and flabby. And thirty-eight years old.
As if reading my mind, Coach chuckled and said, “It’s just a number, babe.”
I mouthed eff-you and set to with a solid whack of the racket. Game on.
Like dark and milk chocolate, we sauntered arm-in-arm to the corner Starbucks.
“Not on your game, darling. Wanna talk about it?”
“No, well…”
He frowned and muttered, “Me and the missus don’t much like where yore holed up, hon. We got that extra bedroom, and the offer’s still on the table.”
“Ah, Sam, you know I can’t.”
“Or won’t. Yore folks, they’d want this for you.” He was going to remind me of our shared family heritage but thought better of it.
Sighing, I sipped at the white chocolate latte indulgence that Coach always treated me to after our workouts. I’d considered the offer more than once, but I’d been a leech, a parasite ever since my ignominious return from Europe. It was long past time to be accountable, to find my own way and stop relying on the kindness of family and friends to see me through the tough times.
I said, trying to convey as much gratitude as I could without bursting into tears, “You’ve done enough, getting me into the program.” And seeing to financing without committing me to years of grad student servitude. If I was lucky, I’d graduate with at least a few years of useful career life left to me.
Knowing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with me, but not giving up, he offered, “How about coming for dinner tonight. Marie’s been asking after you and with the kids gone, she’s been out of sorts. Do her good to cook for more than just me.” He patted a flat belly and grinned.
Oh mercy, an excuse! I could lie through my teeth…
Oh Cordie, I’m so sorry but I have this thing.
I forgot all about…
I wish…
But the Fink had already purchased the theater tickets and it wasn’t fair to put him and his wallet on the sunk cost side of the equation.
See, Cuz, those finance courses are sinking in.
Wistfully, I nodded my thanks and told him about Cordie and the Fink, leaving off the plus-one because he’d tell Marie and she’d be all over that like white-on-rice.
A childless divorcee in the Big Apple nearing the watershed of forty was a challenge and an opportunity for the empty nesters in my acquaintance.
I did just fine and dandy making mistakes all on my lonesome. Having a phalanx of black yentas on my tail wasn’t going to improve my grade point average or get me where I wanted to go.
I liked being alone, being accountable to just me. The loneliness sucked lemons but everything had a price.
Sam gave me a bear hug and made me promise to come over soon, then turned left to head to his office. I watched him meld into the heavy stream of tourist traffic and felt the first of many frissons of fear about the upcoming evening.
And for the first time, in … like, forevah … I worried about what to wear.
The cell buzzed. I checked the text message.
Wear flats.
Uh-oh.
Chapter Three
Rob
Arturo harrumphed as Cordie and the Fink approached. Half of my brain registered that my oldest sister actually looked happy instead of simply well-groomed and petulant.
Sis had married often and well, the partings amicable, mostly, and the settlements generous. But unlike the rest of the distaff portion of our clan, she’d rolled the dice in the emotional lottery, coming up sixes and sevens and it hurt. I didn’t need her twin, Cate, to tell me so.
Of course, my peccadillos were the stuff of legend so anything I did, or didn’t do, was fair game. In some ways, of the whole brood, Cordie and I were cut from the same mold: cynical, closet romantics, loners with a hard-on for acceptance, but ultimately destined for rejection and disappointment.
Way to go, Robert. Hop on the pity train when big Sis shows up beaming with happiness and sporting a Platinum Visa card on her arm.
I should have been big enough to toodle past the misery loves company, and with another glass or two of that red wine under my belt, I’d give it a try.
That was the half with commitment issues talking.
I had a second half that was more left brain oriented, the one I used to analyze point spreads and keep track of double doubles. The Post had me locked into reporting on the pros but I had an enduring closet relationship with women’s basketball, especially at the college level. And there wasn’t enough currency in the world to convince me Gino didn’t walk on water or that Vivian didn’t part it.
Which was why I got that tingle, the one that should start in the gut and swirl around, setting the fine hairs to full alert. The tingle that said game on or I smell a story. This one was different. It headed south, like a freight train. As Arturo hustled to lay claim to the rest of the party, forsaking me in favor of a sure fire hit in the wallet ala a tip, I lusted after that dangling linen napkin.
Held just so, it would do a fine job of masking the happy to see you in my pants that was surprising the hell out of me.
The Valkyrie wasn’t anywhere near my type, which at age thirty-five amounted to short, perky, young and willing. Even with the willing, it sometimes took a lap dance or two to fire up the synapses. Chalk it up to overwork, or boredom, or being high … the fact of the matter was little Robert sometimes failed to show up to play. Tonight was different. I just couldn’t figure out exactly why.
Maybe it was the way the woman moved. Loose jointed, like a natural born athlete. A lot of tall women hunched to hide their height. This Valkyrie wore her dimensions with a fuck the universe attitude.
Kind of like my guys in the locker room.
If she’d been, say … fifteen years younger I’d have pegged her for WNBA, that’s how she moved—or conducted herself, depending on your school of thought, and in what decade you were born. When she reached to direct Cordie around to my side of the table for the air kiss, I caught a glimpse of a wingspan wide enough to have me creaming my jeans.
Not that I was wearing jeans. That’s just an expression.
Cordie whispered in my ear, “You’re a prince, Robbie darling,” and pinched my ass hard enough to make me jump.
Hissing, “I’m not six years old, in case you haven’t…” then left off, realizing I was being had.
I shook hands with Dr. David F. Finklestein, III, M.D. plus a slew of other initials that proclaimed him ready and willing to
suit up not just himself, but also a boatload of robotics and a few dozen scrub nurses to tackle the next brain aneurysm.
“Call me Fink. Everybody does.”
He had a pleasant smile and looked to be in his mid-fifties with steel grey hair thinning on top, pince nez glasses and a waistline that appreciated my sister’s quite excellent cooking.
Arturo glared in my direction, indicating with a subtle flip of the napkin that I was falling down on my host duties.
That meant moving away from the shelter of the tablecloth into the spotlight of too much information regarding my interest in my not-a-date. I moved quickly to step behind her, gently nudging a very shapely derriere toward the seat and out of line of sight of what was straining my only pair of metrosexual wool pants. They were cut tight, with straight legs that snugged over the tops of Kenneth Cole motorcycle boot knockoffs.
Cordie granted me a nod of appreciation. I’d topped off the outfit with her Christmas present, a Ralph Lauren contour hugging long sleeve Merino wool mock turtle that set her back five C-notes or better. I know because I found it in Bloomies when one of my then current squeezes had strong-armed me into a flyby on the jewelry counter.
We broke up the next day.
Concentrating on my sartorial splendor wasn’t doing squat to get the lady seated. Nimbly, she maneuvered away from the seat, narrowly avoiding Arturo, still hell bent on getting the party—and his tip—jump started.
Holding out a hand she smiled, although given my obvious efforts to park and duck for cover, it might have been more of a grimace.
“I’m Taylor O’Brien. Call me Tay.” Cordie tittered in the background, making noises about remembering Robbie. I ignored her in favor of shaking the proffered hand.
Strong. Not just for a woman, for anyone.
Large hands, rough pads, like she worked outside with them, without gloves. Capable. Nice enough to palm a basketball.
I liked women who could handle balls, especially mine, but I preferred being able to look them in the eye.