Driving Me Wild

by Maria Benson

  Dustin waved a hand, literally shuddering with disgust. “Fucking bloggers, literally paying for access. Real journalists can’t compete with that.”

  The despair crossing his face warmed the cockles of my heart, a welcome feeling given the extent to which I was shaking inside. I hoped I was putting on a good front, but I had no confidence about where all this was heading. As certain as I was that I had done the right thing, I hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time since deciding to do the interview with Mel.

  Sure, I was the flavor of the moment, but would I even get the standard fifteen minutes? The whole point of my action had been to save Ian’s job by squelching the abuse allegations dogging him, but with that accomplished the sports public would be moving on pretty quickly. Would anyone really want to hear from me after that?

  After stepping away to take a call in his inner office, Dustin returned and stood over us with his hands in his back pockets. “Well, this was a lovely visit. I’m glad we cleared the air, Aimee, and I appreciate hearing about your future plans even if they sound completely nuts.” He nodded cautiously toward me, then extended a hand toward Mom. “Lynda.”

  As my parents cordially shook hands, I followed through with the other promise I made–in this case, to myself–about the meeting. “Can I ask you both a quick question?”

  Dustin and Mom exchanged a wary glance before mumbling mutually weary assent. I folded my hands, hoping that would make me look least threatening. “As I start talking to women about empowerment and overcoming self-sabotaging relationship decisions by putting yourself first, I need your help with something that’s been eating at me.” I patted my mother’s hand again, eyes on her alone as I continued. “I hope you understand, I’m raising this now because I think it’s the best way to get the truth.”

  Shifting in her seat, Mom frowned. “What are you talking about, honey?”

  I glanced up at Dustin, who was staring over my head as if he were chiseled onto Mount Rushmore. “I’ve been wrestling lately with nightmares, disturbing memory fragments too.” I recounted the Robin Roberts nightmare interviews, Dustin’s cruel roasting of me before a bunch of men from my past, and occasional flashback memories of fights and intense discussions between my parents. “Putting myself first means I have to level with myself, and with the both of you, about what’s brought me to this point in life.”

  The look in my father’s eyes chilled to the point that his stare became blank, even vacant. “What’s your point?”

  I stood. “I’ve shown you the respect of coming here and apologizing for assaulting you. I’ve even explained why I’m risking a life of infamy that may cause you some minor inconvenience.” I swallowed slowly. “The least you can do is apologize for the damage you’ve done to me.”

  From behind me, Mom’s voice: “Aimee, this isn’t the time for all this. Your father and I are still digesting your decision–”

  I turned toward my mother, my voice filling with tremors because, in her case, I wanted to be firm without hurting her. “Mom, you’ve never leveled with me about the fact that, at some point, I was apparently around the both of you when I was little. You’ve always made it sound as if you two broke up before I was even born.

  “These dreams I’ve had, I can’t explain it, but they spurred some memory flashbacks that I can’t shake.” I looked from one of them to the other, tears sprouting. “You guys were still seeing each other for the first few years of my life, right?”

  Mom walked to me and grabbed one of my hands. “Sweetie, this is all about what you think is wrong with you?”

  Instinctively, I pulled away. “Have you been paying attention, Mom? Let’s start with the fact that I have only ever been attracted to men who treat me like trash. I hear most women talk about looking for Mr. Right, dreaming of marriage, babies and growing old together, and I can’t even imagine that as anything more than a child’s fairytale. I think the idea of a successful romantic relationship is a mirage, I really do, and I think that’s why I usually seek out guys who are fun in the moment but clearly bad news down the stretch. That way I never get let down.”

  Dustin gently cleared his throat. “Did Wallace fit that mold?”

  Feeling a bit like a pinball, I whipped around to face my father. “You know, I actually gave myself credit for him, as if he was an exception? And for the record, he’s a much better man than anyone I’ve been with in years. Gentle, loving, and concerned enough about me that he’s tried to point me away from him and toward that mythical Mr. Right several times. I’m the one who kept returning to him. But–”

  Mom finished for me. “You see that in fact, he’s as bad for you as the less thoughtful ones.”

  I nodded listlessly. “Now the question is whether I’m willing to try someone who looks like a more healthy bet.” Hello, Michael Blake. “But it would help if I could just clear the air with you guys, okay? Let’s be real about the history here, and acknowledge where we’re all wrong–”

  Dustin cleared his throat again, fixed his gaze to the office’s plush carpet. “I can’t give you what you’re looking for, and I’m sure as hell not going to explain the tits and tats of my history with your mother.” He stood to his full height, back arched. “If you need more help healing from the damage I’ve caused, hire a credentialed psychotherapist. Have them bill me. ”

  I stood right in front of him, toe to toe. “That’s not what I’m looking for.”

  Dustin stepped behind his desk, grabbed a blazer strewn across the nearest chair. “We’re done here.”

  “I’m already remembering whatever it is you want me to forget, Dustin,” I said, my voice shaking and reverberating within my head. I grabbed my purse and bolted toward the door. “You know what, fine. I’ll send you a bill real soon, along with a press release about everything the shrink helps me dredge up. Get ready to be famous for all the wrong reasons, you bastard!”

  I swung the office door open, slammed it after me, then nearly collapsed right there in the hallway. Regretting the fact that I had left Mom alone with Dustin, I was helpless to reverse course. Sliding to the floor as Dustin’s and Mom’s raised voices wafted into the hallway, I shut my eyes and gently balled my fists. Humiliation setting in, I fought it off with whispered words. “This is fuel,” I insisted. “Fuel for whatever’s next.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Michael

  I strode down the hallway leading to Aimee’s condo, man on a mission. Hair freshly shampooed and gelled, five o’ clock shadow carefully cultivated, I wore a fitted blazer and khaki-colored slim jeans outfit that had won compliments during half a dozen recent dates. The memory of those other women–all the women of these recent months–faded into the ether as Aimee’s door swung open.

  She stood there, her gaze analytical, mouth turned into a smile. “Wow, it is you.”

  “What, you think you’re so famous now strangers are walking into your lobby and impersonating your friends?” I had shown up announced, meaning I had to dodge the clump of reporters and TMZ types, then ask the security desk to call Aimee to approve my being buzzed up.

  She chuckled, turned and motioned for me to follow. “This is the show you get when you don’t call ahead,” she said, referencing her ponytail and the not-so-sexy housecoat draping her figure. “Have a seat, I’ll make coffee. You still take it black?”

  “Aimee,” I said, leaning against the wall nearest her refrigerator, “we both know I’m not here for coffee.”

  She kept her back to me as she reached high for an extra mug. “Don’t make me regret allowing you up here. You should feel privileged, you know.”

  “No doubt,” I replied, scratching at my chin. “You’re probably hearing from everyone you ever knew these days.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Aimee said, turning back toward me with mugs in hand. “I pretty much delete all emails and voicemails as they come in. A higher percentage of texts are proving to be from real friends or people making business proposals, so I scan those.”

&n
bsp; I stepped between her and her Keurig machine. “Look, I’m here because we agreed to a date, and I figured now was a time you could use some no-strings attached company.”

  Her stare narrowed. “So, you’re not going to pick up where we left off at Winthrop’s, or hit me with twenty questions about my messed-up life?”

  I spread my arms wide. “I’m here to listen.”

  She put a hand to her hip. “Can I be honest with you?”

  At her question, the little gremlin in my head came out to play. Here it comes, he whispered. Give her credit, chief. She’s gonna cut you loose, put you back in your place before things get awkward again. You’ll never escape her “Friend Zone!”

  Answering Aimee’s question, I shook the idiot off, even if I feared he was right. “Shoot.”

  “I let you up here because we’ve got unfinished business. There’s your date invitation, which I was open to, but then there’s the things we last said to each other.”

  I swallowed involuntarily. I wasn’t sure why, but I think I was flattered that I had left that much of an impression. And that was the old me.

  Aimee took a breath before continuing. “I realize now that I was insensitive that night, but you said some pretty mean things to me. You pretty much implied that I was broken, too damaged to know a good man if he hit me in the face.”

  I stood taller. “Aimee–”

  “I’m exaggerating, I know. But what you said stuck with me, Michael, and I’ve been dealing with accusations like that from you and others for a bit now. Do you know how much sleep I lost before taping that interview with Melanie Miller? I did what I had to in order to protect a man who I really care about, at a point where I frankly had nothing to lose. But I knew it would also prove people like you right.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not about that.” I had no doubt that the Michael Blake that Aimee rejected months earlier would have leaped for joy at the sight of her outing as Ian Wallace’s mistress. It would have been a bloody shirt most men would wave as proof that they weren’t the problem; the woman who didn’t want them was.

  Thing was, that Michael Blake was either dead or locked in my emotional basement. After the life I had lived under Scott’s and Bobby’s tutelage, I was in no position to judge anybody. I wanted to tell Aimee that, but once again my instructors’ training kicked in. I could hear Scott advising me as if he was in my office.

  Remember Rule # 5–keep them guessing. Don’t even think about coming clean with Aimee about who you are. She can see you’ve changed; if she hadn’t, she would not have called your once-corny ass back. Keep it vague.

  Aimee reminded me I had gone mute. “So what is it about?”

  “Aimee, all I want to know is how you’re holding up and what your next steps are.”

  Ever the pistol, she didn’t hesitate. “Bullshit.”

  I motioned toward her bedroom, keeping my gentlemanly distance. “Try me out and see. Throw on some clothes, and let’s go do this date thing.”

  ###

  “I’m taking you on an adventure,” were Michael’s first words as I climbed into his Audi. I had given him the parking garage code so he could pick me up there in relative privacy.

  Buckling my seat and taking a second to appreciate the Live in New York City Springsteen he was rocking, I glanced over at him. “Okay, consider me intrigued.”

  Still having barely looked at me, Michael zoomed out into traffic. As he impatiently dodged and weaved his way down State Street, an impish grin curled his lips. “I thought we’d spend the evening away from the prying eyes of your new fans, if you don’t mind.”

  I smirked, unsure if I was more amused by his grin or his words. “You say this like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Well, the challenge, Ms. Chase, is that you can’t exactly hide in plain sight in Yuppie Chicago. Everyone who’s anyone from Hyde Park to Evanston, and most points west, is extremely sensitized to your existence. An area home girl whose beautiful mug is on everyone’s lips and, four days in, still trending everywhere.”

  I crossed my arms. “Is there a point to this?”

  Michael came to a jarring stop at a red light, but continued talking like he hadn’t heard me. “You don’t make things any easier by refusing to change your look,” he said, before staring head-on. “I mean, even dressed down you look stunning.”

  Despite myself, I glanced away in embarrassment. Both in hopes of keeping a low profile and holding Michael to his “no strings attached” promise, I had kept things pretty simple. A pair of navy leggings, black wedge sandals and a long-sleeved lavender lace-front tee. My hair, which I couldn’t cut because I needed to wear it long when conducting public and online appearances–my look during the Melanie Miller interview was now the one that people associated with me–was pulled into a multi-tiered ponytail. The only other accessory for the evening was in my purse; a new pair of off-the-rack, twenty-dollar reading glasses from a local Walgreens that could camouflage me in a pinch.

  I waited patiently for a few seconds as he navigated onto Lower Wacker Drive, a sign we were likely getting out of Dodge. “So if you don’t think we can enjoy ourselves without being interrupted anywhere locally, where are we going?”

  “We’re headed south,” Michael replied, “little city called Gary.”

  “Hmm,” I said, folding my hands nonchalantly. “I didn’t realize there was a Gary, Illinois too.”

  He glanced over, clearly pleased. “Is that the sound of your blood pressure spiking?”

  “Very funny, Michael. Now where are you really taking me?”

  “Aimee, come on. Ah, damn.” He switched lanes suddenly so as not to miss the interstate ramp. “Remember, I said this is an adventure. How many times have you visited Gary?”

  I maintained eye contact and simply blinked.

  “Thought so. Let’s break some stereotypes tonight, kick ‘em in the teeth. I’ve survived a few evenings in Gary with Brody over the years. He’s got a mess of cousins over there. It’s nowhere near as bad as people make it out to be.”

  I lay back against the passenger seat, shaking my head at this new guy beside me. The last time we had gone out, Michael had rolled out the red carpet. Now he was taking me to the armpit of America. “You swear to me that you’ve been there, that you know your way around?”

  “Scout’s honor.” He punched his accelerator, merging ahead of the streams of traffic on I-90. “Think of it this way: No one in Gary will connect you to the Ian Wallace scandal. You can be off the grid and relax for a while. ”

  I sighed at that thought. Although I desperately needed to “monetize” my infamy, I wasn’t yet comfortable cultivating my brand while trying to conduct daily business, be it shopping, working out or dating. Least of all dating! “I’m sold, let’s have an adventure.”

  By the time we arrived in Gary and parked at our destination, D&G Soul Food, I was relieved for two reasons. First, we had arrived without suffering a carjacking, and second, the thirty plus minutes of car conversation had pretty well erased the memory of our blow-up at Winthrop’s. I hadn’t been quite sure what Michael wanted when he suggested we go out, but it seemed like he just wanted to talk.

  As he steered me into my seat at D&G’s, then slipped into the chair nearest mine, I was reminded that something was really different about Michael. This was not the same self-conscious, decent everyman who tried so hard to impress me a few months ago. It was like he’d been replaced by a slightly evil twin. He leaned in close, complimenting me on my perfume, and demanded my eye contact instead of searching for it tentatively. As we discussed his new promotion at work, he swayed in his seat, a refreshing change from his old stiff-backed posture.

  “Tell me,” he asked as we tore into heaping plates of collard greens and heavily breaded catfish, “what are you saying to the naysayers? How are you so confident that you can use your newfound fame to really help others and make money at the same time?”

  I sat back against my rickety chair, a finger to my chin. “
I guess my answer is that I have to make it work, so I will.”

  Michael leaned forward. “Be honest. Of the email you’ve read, what percent are hateful trolls versus love letters?”

  I batted my eyes innocently. “I’d rather stay in the dark on that one. I see plenty of emails from women who appreciate me for refusing to be shamed into silence about a consensual relationship. But I see at least as many all caps bombs tossing around the words skank and slut.”

  Michael grabbed his phone and playfully eyed me, a thumb hovering over the screen. “If I go to your FaceBook page, what will I see?”

  “Nothing from me,” I said. “Plenty of posts from my ‘friends,’ though.”

  As he surveyed his phone screen, eyes dancing, I knew he was clicking around my page. “Well, I see my determination to be classy about all this makes me a pretty special dude.” He shook his head. “Ugh, Seacrest out for that.” He looked up at me. “You should have somebody manage your page, clean off the over-the-top posts and add your viewpoint on a regular basis.”

  “That goes into effect next week,” I said. My friend Helen Taylor, who had expertly handled social media promotion of the books I had ghostwritten with Todd, had already offered to take over my existing social pages and manage them strategically. “I have a meeting about all that tomorrow evening.”

  His plate nearly empty, Michael crossed his legs and patted his stomach. “Plans are good–any money coming in yet?”

  “I have my first paying gig!” I sat up straighter, feeling suddenly proud to hear the fact spoken out loud. “I mean, the payment is all of 500 bucks, but it’s nearly a third of my rent. My college sorority has its regional conference in town next week, and Helen called them up to offer me as a speaker who could talk about how I built up the courage to subject myself to public scrutiny. It was her brainstorm without even speaking to me. Can you believe it?”