Driving Me Wild

by Maria Benson

  “Michael,” I said, chuckling, “I know you and Scott thought I was some oblivious fool, but I saw you talking at several points with women who seemed inappropriately pissy with you. I know that usually only happens when sex–good or bad, but frankly usually damn good–has been involved.”

  His gaze darkened slightly and he dropped eye contact. “Hey, they were all past dates, women I’m no longer seeing–”

  “I know, Michael. I’m a big girl. Want to tell me about your boss, though?” I was halfway out on a limb with this one, but wanted to test my instincts.

  The veiled look that entered his eyes told me my “funny business” radar was intact. “This is getting to be embarrassing. I was trying to be the mysterious Don Draper of the Chicago social scene; you make me sound as graceful as Tony Soprano.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” I said, placing a hand to his chest. “I’ve dated my share of prominent men over the years, often under confidential circumstances. I saw a lot of those past relationships in your and Beverly’s body language. I could tell she was sizing me up competitively when you introduced us.”

  Michael shook his head, sucked his teeth. “You women, man, you are so hard on each other.”

  I wasn’t letting him out of his promised revelation. “Was it Beverly you broke up with earlier today?”

  He nodded. “No break-up,” he said. “A clarification. We slept together once, months ago now, and it’s not going to happen again.”

  I patted his chest again. “She didn’t seem prepped to take that well.”

  “You got that right. She sent me a pretty menacing text this morning. She had a suite at the Hilton last night, expected me to break away from you at some point and come ‘service’ her.”

  I couldn’t help but grin at his words. Michael was pretty impressive in bed, less for his brute force or cunning than his patient, expert application of foreplay and an ability to parry and thrust from angles most men would never think to even try. He had considerable staying power, too. He was in the relatively exclusive club–of my past lovers, at least–for whom “going all night” wasn’t just an empty pop lyric.

  He stared at me, eyes narrowing. “Is this amusing you?”

  “No, please,” I replied, covering my smirk by rubbing at my chin.

  He took me by the hand and we both stood, returning to our bikes. As we returned to the bike path at a leisurely pace, he finished filling me in. “I figured the best thing was go ahead and face the music. I went to Beverly’s office and told her our relationship is to be exclusively professional going forward. Said if she doesn’t like it, I’m happy to file a harassment complaint with HR.”

  “Whoa, you went right for the nuclear option, huh?”

  “You should have seen the look in her eyes,” Michael said, glancing over at me. “She was starting to look like Glenn Close in ‘Fatal Attraction.’ I realized I had to shut things down.”

  “Are you worried she’ll retaliate by firing you before you can get to HR on Monday?”

  “No,” he said, slowing and coming to a stop. “Ultimately, Aimee, it’s only one job out of millions in the Chicago job market. I’m not letting her infect my relationship with you.” He grinned half-heartedly. “Now can we stop talking about exes, or are we going to do a comparative blow-by-blow?”

  I walked closer to him and gripped his hips. As we both laughed in the face of stares from passersby, I whispered into his neck before placing my lips against it. “If we’re exclusive, what’s the point?”

  CHAPTER 39

  Michael

  I felt like a stalker, but my motives were pure. I reminded myself of that as I stewed in the passenger seat of Bobby’s souped-up Mustang, watching a large chartered bus pull into the parking lot of a Schaumburg Wal-Mart.

  As I anxiously scanned the faces of each person exiting the bus, a hand on the passenger side door, Bobby scowled. “Wouldn’t that be some shit if she’s not even on the bus?”

  Unwilling to entertain that possibility, I kept my eye on one person after another, determined to find Olive amid the sea of departing riders. I knew I had the right bus; I already recognized the faces of several members of her symphony. This was clearly the bus they had taken to this week’s performances in New York. I had picked up on the bus’s arrival time and location through the wonders of FaceBook.

  When I had finally thought to check her symphony’s FB page, I realized everything I needed to finally intersect with Olive was there–people loved to post minutiae about the organization’s concerts, trips and the little celebrations their families usually threw when seeing them off and welcoming them home.

  “Where is she?” I flung the door open, my patience growing short. Certainly half of the passengers had exited the bus by now.

  From the back seat, Scott sighed. “You know, Mike, we can still drive off before you bother Olive. It’s pretty clear she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  Standing now, I leaned down and peered into the car. “I told you. I just want a clear, civil end to the relationship.” For nearly two months now, Olive had ignored my every attempt to contact her and apologize for everything.

  Brody, who sat next to Scott, shrugged. “You’ve been head-over-heels happy with Aimee since before Olive disappeared on you.”

  “No doubt,” I said. “This is about principle, though.”

  Brody winked. “Oh, I know. This is about you buying into Aimee’s teachings.”

  I smiled at my friend’s crack. I was glad Brody was along for the ride; now that I had graduated from Scott and Bobby’s training course, I rarely hung out with them without Brody in tow. He had known each of them long enough to hang tight with all the trash talk while interrupting their more juvenile impulses.

  “If I can be real for a minute,” I said, “Aimee’s lectures and her book manuscript do talk a lot about owning our actions before we can understand them.” I was increasingly immersed in Aimee’s self-help insights, having just taken a vacation day two weeks earlier to fly to New York with her and her father, Mr. Fineman, to watch them be interviewed for ABC’s “20/20.” I sensed within minutes that the interview, which was live-streamed online, would go viral, and I was right: Aimee and her dad were so frank about their estranged relationship, its impact on her, and the issues that contributed to Dustin’s shortcomings as a dad, that they had hit multiple chords with viewers aged nineteen to ninety.

  The many eyeballs they had attracted had clearly traveled on over to Aimee’s web site, which now included not just the heavily promoted essays by her and Dustin, but also newly contributed content from celebrity contributors talking about their journeys toward self-acceptance, self-esteem, self-love, you name it.

  I turned back toward the bus, eyes still scanning. “Olive and I should own our actions toward each other, you know? She had really started pulling away emotionally even before the concern about her late period and catching on to who I was.” I cleared my throat. “I, of course, have more to explain than she does.”

  Scott scooted out of the Mustang and stood at my side. “Don’t punch me again, Mike, but I feel like I just sat through an episode of ‘Oprah.’ Nothing good comes of forcing a confrontation here–Olive’s moving on, and you most certainly have.”

  “Leave him be,” Bobby said, sitting low in the driver’s seat. “Granted, if I was Mikey, I’d be at the house with Aimee right about now, making much love and gettin’ myself a prominent part on that ‘Chicago Housewives’ show. You gonna put in a word for me and Scott too, right Mikey? You wouldn’t be with Aimee if not for us.”

  I shook my head, grimacing at a continued absence of Olive. “I really don’t think Aimee’s going to join that show.” Admittedly, the Bravo network had been pursuing her for the past month, to the point where they were outbidding themselves with each call to Aimee’s agent. The two of us were starting to wonder what she had to do to get rid of them.

  Even if Aimee’s role on the show materialized, I wouldn’t be getting a dime fr
om it. We had already agreed that, while she treasured my increasingly public profile as “her man,” it wouldn’t do my career in Finance and Investor Relations any favors to be splashed across the screen of a reality show. People in my profession are mainly prized for our ability to serve as backroom advisors, not front-and-center characters in a show business spectacle.

  As we both leaned against the Mustang, tempting Bobby’s wrath, I filled Scott in on the latest dramas at work. After behaving like a professional for the past several weeks, Beverly had gotten increasingly combative with me.

  “I hope you enjoy your present position, Michael,” she had said as we wrapped a Friday meeting, “because you’re never going back to Investor Relations. Get comfy right here working for me, because I’ve decided I’m happy with the job Maxwell’s doing. I won’t be replacing him with one of my buddies, and I’ll never send you back to that team so you can try to make VP.”

  Having long ago decided not to let her hold me hostage or endanger what I had with Aimee, I had shrugged. “You make sure to tell Maxwell that. You’ve had the poor guy fearing for his professional life for months now.” By now, my historical resentments of Maxwell had been replaced with pity–as my star had risen in the finance organization, he had begun seeking me out on a near-weekly basis for validation and assurances that he wasn’t about to be fired.

  Beverly had flipped me the bird with one hand while using the other to shoo me out of her office. “Fuck Maxwell, this isn’t about him and you know it. You’re never getting another job in this company, Michael, that’s for damn sure. I hope you enjoy life as a Special Assistant, because you’ve peaked here.”

  Scott shook his head. “Don’t think she’s totally over this, man. You need to be looking for a new job, and sleeping with one eye open in the meantime.”

  I pivoted toward him. “That’s your advice? You always said I should exploit the situation for full advantage. Running away doesn’t seem consistent with that.”

  “Well, you’re the one who fell in love and is now too good to keep slingin’ it to her. You wanna be a saint, you need to get out of Dodge.”

  I sank back against the car, rejecting Scott’s rationale and realizing I still had no Olive sighting. I began calculating my next move when Bobby’s exclamation startled hell out of all of us.

  “Bingo!” He hopped out of the Mustang, pointing vigorously. I followed his jabbing fingers a couple hundred yards to the south, and saw Olive standing near the bottom step of the bus.

  At first glance, one blurred by my high rate of speed as I ran in her direction, the familiarity of her stunning beauty struck me. Her hair was longer, face a little fuller, but even in a solid-colored sweat suit she stood out in the crowd.

  When I was within twenty feet of her, I stopped and let my silence amidst the swarming family and friends speak for me. Olive, who had her back to the crowd while the driver retrieved her bags from underneath the bus, whipped around and made nearly instantaneous eye contact with me.

  “M-Michael?” She inhaled visibly, then stepped back, looking as if it was a struggle to hold onto each of the suitcases in her hands.

  While Bobby, Brody and Scott stayed back in the crowd, I stepped forward and reached for her bags. “Let me help,” I said, eyes pleading gently.

  Once I had a suitcase in each hand, I tried to ignore the curious stares of her colleagues. “Is someone meeting you here? I just need to talk with you, Olive.”

  She dipped her head and walked quickly toward the back of the bus. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “I figured you might not be thrilled,” I replied, as the din of the crowd receded and we disappeared on the opposite side of the bus. “You didn’t leave me any choice other than a surprise visit, though.”

  Olive came to a sudden stop, a tear forming in one eye as she stepped closer to me. “Look at me, Michael.”

  Something in Olive’s tone reminded me that in the minute or so we’d interacted, I’d been too overwhelmed by emotion to do that, to just objectively look her over. Running a hand through my hair, I stepped back and found myself doing just that as she glared back. My gaze zoomed out to appreciate the beauty of her face, the new contours of her hips, the fullness of her breasts. Nearly three months since I had last been with her, her body still had the outlines of a Coke bottle but had grown alarmingly voluptuous. And from the looks of the baby bump forming beneath Olive’s early-maternity sweat suit, she might well be working on twins.

  I knew better than to throw her parting words from before in her face. Eyes on her belly, I stayed on my feet–barely–and just waited.

  She turned away, an early sob in her tone. “I’m not talking about this here.”

  “You don’t need to.” He bounded around from the rear end of the bus, a youthful-looking but bald-headed guy dressed in a pair of ratty jeans and an NYU hoodie. His height and build oddly mirrored mine, but while that should have given me confidence that I could take him, I was wary. That bald head–on an unmistakably fellow white boy–was a little intimidating.

  I pointed between the stranger and Olive. “You’re her ride?”

  “I’m more than that,” he said. He smiled suddenly, extended a hand for a shake. “I’m Carlos. You are Michael, right?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Carlos. I flashed back to the names of Olive’s previously revealed prior partners–a Carlos had been on the list.

  “Cool,” he said in recognition of my identity. “So we’ve both heard of each other.”

  I stared between him and Olive, knowing my eyes must look ready to pop from their sockets. “So, what do we do now?”

  Carlos pulled Olive to his side, then coughed gently. “Well, Michael, you go back to your car and leave, and I take Olive home.”

  Seeing no point in patience, I fixed my stare on Olive. “Whose baby is this?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that,” Carlos replied confidently. “You were seeing plenty of other women while Olive was with you, so it won’t hurt you to realize she came back to me before this pregnancy happened.”

  Olive wrapped an arm around Carlos’s shoulders. “Michael, I was going to explain eventually, but when I realized how disposable I was to you, I forgot about all that.”

  I paced side to side, well aware that a step toward them might result in violence. “You were going to explain what? That you were pregnant by your ex, not me?”

  She stared back defiantly. “Before I knew whether I was pregnant, I knew I was not the woman to raise a child with a man I didn’t really know yet.”

  I slid my hands into my pockets, eyebrows raised. “So you just told yourself that Carlos here is the Daddy, or you know that he is?”

  “You’re pushing it,” he said. “You don’t love her, so you don’t get to interrogate her.” He slid over so that he was literally shielding Olive from me. “I’m the one who told her to cut off contact with you. You want to do something about that?”

  I exhaled, patted the back of my head. “You know what? If you’re confident that baby–or babies–aren’t mine, we can call this a day right now.” I threw my hands in the air. “Who’s the father, Olive?”

  Nibbling at her nails, Olive glanced between me and Carlos anxiously.

  That’s when Scott rounded the bus. “Time to go, Mike,” he said, his tone making it clear he had heard everything. When I didn’t respond, he grabbed at my elbow, tugged. “Let’s go, man.”

  We had barely turned on our heels when he spoke again, his voice oddly hushed. “Don’t push her, trust me.” He stared ahead, avoiding my glance as he continued. “I’m learning from experience: some questions are best left unanswered.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Aimee

  I was sitting on my love seat, deep in thought, when Michael walked through the door.

  He paused in the foyer, staring into my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said, shrugging. “Actually, there’s a lot that’s good. I’m probably delusional, but I feel l
ike I knocked the Oprah interview out of the park.” The Big O herself had invited me to meet with her in the Presidential Suite at Sofitel Water Tower. Our interview would run as part of a larger special on her cable network. Helen, who was now officially my manager, and both Sydney and Tara had been on hand to cheer me on.

  Michael took a seat on the nearest arm of the love seat and began kneading my shoulders like a masseuse. “I still think I should have been there.”

  Helen and Dr. Lott had suggested that Michael steer clear of the meeting; they feared his presence would embolden Oprah to ask more prying questions about the significance and maturity of our relationship. Helen’s list of mock interview questions had revealed that, while Michael and I were definitely serious and definitely exclusive, we hadn’t quite defined when we’d be ready for wedding bells or to even to share the same address.

  Before I could feel any more guilt about his being excluded, Michael leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Forget I said anything. I’m glad to hear you knocked things out of the park. Did you get some good plugs in for Put Yourself First?”

  “Yep,” I replied, caressing his nearest hand. Thanks to initial funding from supporters and fans, along with partnerships with like-minded organizations, my Put Yourself First nonprofit was finally ready to shift into gear as a full-service operation offering counseling, temporary housing and small group support meetings for women ready to make smarter relationship decisions. My only misgiving about it was whether we would ultimately have enough capital to keep it going; we really needed to stand up a development team to keep donations coming in.

  The impressive sounding revenues generated by my web properties, e-book and speeches were being quickly consumed by the expenditures necessary to make them all possible. I was barely able to draw enough of a salary to cover my rent and my lovely Obamacare health insurance. That was the only reason I was seriously considering selling out and joining the “Chicago Housewives” show. I might not respect myself in the morning, but it beat sleeping on the street.