Accept Me

by J. L. Mac

  I haven’t seen much of Grams. I’ve spoken to her twice, both times cut short by my lacking intestinal fortitude. I made an excuse to hurry off the phone because talking to her just hurt too much.

  Hemingway is the only one who doesn’t mind my wallowing. Brian dropped him off that next morning after Damon kicked me out. Hemingway is just happy that I’m almost always home. I pop into work for the things that I have to be there for, but otherwise I avoid the store. It hurts even being there. It hurts knowing that it was the very place where I met Damon for the second time. Walking into that place is the equivalent of walking into a burning building. I hold my breath and run in, do what I have to, and make my escape before the flames consume me.

  Noni doesn’t seem to mind. She hasn’t said much about anything except for the occasional “I’m here if you need to talk.” Other than that, she’s been doing a fine job of working her tail off to get things ready for the grand reopening that I’d prefer not to attend. She deserves a raise. I figured the least I could do was give her the keys to Captain’s house. She insisted on paying rent, but I told her that she was free to stay there as long as she paid the taxes and managed the expenses for maintenance and upkeep. She agreed and ditched her old apartment in the dodgy part of town the next day with a promise that she’d find a way to buy the property off of me one day. I told her that she was doing me a favor by moving in, but she still thinks that I was being too generous. She’s crazy.

  The extent of my social life has consisted of fast food with Brian and chatting with Howard, the security guy, on my way out to walk Hemingway. I’ve bumped into Handy Andy almost every day when we’re out on a walk and I’m starting to see that it’s no accident. He’s been kind and understanding that I’m a heartbroken train wreck right now, and his flirtation has been kept to a minimum. Thank God. He walks his black lab, who I named Chaucer. We meet in about the same place every evening and sometimes we let Hemingway and Chaucer off their leashes for a run in the dog park. It’s been a nice distraction.

  I haven’t heard from Damon since the note he left on the kitchen counter fourteen days ago. He sends messages via Brian and that’s it. No phone calls. No texts. No emails. Nothing.

  He gave me the store, the Volvo, Hemingway, and use of the penthouse for as long as I want. I told Brian to go cram Damon’s settlement agreement up his ass. I don’t want his fucking money. I want him. I want our lives together. He’s taken that, the most valuable thing to me, so throwing money at my wounded heart doesn’t do anything but insult me. Brian says that Damon is only trying to help, but I’m not in any kind of mood to entertain his magnanimous efforts.

  Hemingway groans beside me on the couch, getting my attention. I set my book down and look down to the little monster.

  “What’s up, Hemingway? Need to go potty?” His loud yip is a resounding “yes” in Schnauzerranian. I would know. I speak Schnauzerranian fluently now thanks to an intensive two week long immersion course courtesy of my breakup with Damon.

  I kick off my pajama shorts and slip into a pair of denim capris that fit a little more snugly thanks to my recent binge on everything processed and high in fat content. I can’t help but roll my eyes at my own petulance. I slip on my flip flops even though it’s a little chilly with the sun low in the sky and scoop up Hemingway for the trip downstairs. I’m thankful for Vegas weather. My wardrobe is pretty much the same year round. As long as the sun is up I can get away with sandals nearly every month except January.

  “Hey, Howard,” I greet as I walk passed the security desk.

  “Evening, Miss Josephine.”

  “Are you ever going to call me Jo?”

  “Probably not,” he says, and the stony-faced bastard actually cracks a smile.

  I’m as shocked as a person could possibly be and I can’t help but smile back since it’s such an occasion. “How is your evening?”

  “It’s okay, I guess.” Howard’s moment of lightheartedness quickly fades. His eyes drift and though it may be unwelcome, I offer an ear.

  “Something wrong?”

  “It’s nothing, Miss Josephine.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind talking for a bit.” I step closer to the security desk and lean against the counter.

  “It’s just some bad news I got today. My dad has Parkinson’s and the medication isn’t helping much anymore. He can be put on a new group of medications but it’s just too expensive for me and my brother.”

  “Howard, I’m so sorry to hear that. If you’re anything like your father, I’m sure he’s a sweet man who doesn’t deserve this.”

  Howard nods and gives a polite smile signaling that he’s done talking about the subject. I imagine he feels terrible that he can’t help his father. If I were in the position to do it, I’d give him the money he needs.

  “Well, I hope things work out for the better. Let me know if there’s something you need. I’ll be back later, Howard,” I offer as I back away from the counter and step out into the cool evening breeze.

  I set Hemingway onto his furry feet and start out on our normal route, stopping at all his favorite patches of struggling desert grass. Andy and Chaucer come into view just as I’ve come to expect. We walk toward each other, our respective dogs leading the way. Hemingway dances around, excited to see his walking partner.

  “Hey, Jo,” Andy says, his smile showing off his dazzling teeth and dimples.

  “Hey to you too, snazzy dresser!” I give him a once over, marveling at how nice a suit looks on his hefty frame. “What the heck are you doing walking your dog in a suit?”

  “Ah, well I was hoping a walk could butter you up first but, since you asked… I have this dinner reservation. My date bailed on me so I was kinda hoping…” His blue eyes survey me cautiously.

  “Oh, um, I don’t know, Andy,” I reply quickly. “I’m not dressed and I’m not in the mood for real food. I—”

  “Come on, it’s just friends taking advantage of good food at a nice place that has the waiting list from hell. Come on. Please?” He steeples his hands in front of him and mocks begging, even puffing out his lower lip.

  I tilt my head to the side, contemplating how much effort it would take for me to get presentable and pretend I’m not doing battle with a shattered heart. “Oh what the hell,” I resign, tossing one hand outward. How bad could it be? I’ve got to start living again at some point. No time like the present. “Just friendly, platonic, dinner,” I say sternly and Andy nods his head as I speak.

  “You got it.” He beams another Handy Andy panty-dissolving smile and I roll my eyes at him. “I’ll come get you at 7. Dinner is at 7:30.”

  “Sounds good. Just have Howard, the security guy, buzz me and I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby.”

  “Okay, see you at seven, Jo.”

  “See you then.”

  I showered and dried my wavy brown locks in record time. I didn’t bother shaving my legs, given the obvious. Picking out something to wear hasn’t been as simple. Two outfits looked entire too sexy to be worn on a dinner date with a friend. Another outfit was too damn tight but this one is perfect.

  I examine my reflection in the full length mirror and give myself a thumbs up. The gray sheath dress looks great. It isn’t too sexy or too tight and it isn’t pajamas—a win in my book. Coupled with nude patent leather peep toe pumps that aren’t Jimmy Choo, the dress looks ideal.

  I hurry and line my eyes, coat my lashes with mascara, dust on some eye shadow and blush, spray on some perfume, and I’m out the door. I toss my waves over my shoulder in the elevator on the ride down to the lobby, feeling the tiniest bit human again.

  The elevator chimes, coming to a halt, and the doors slide open. I step out to see Andy chatting up Howard at the security desk. Howard eyes me like I’m public enemy number one. I ignore his obvious disapproval. He’s clearly being loyal to Damon, but that’s just uncalled for. I’m not the one who ended our relationship, and besides, I’m going to dinner with a friend. He’s no different
from Brian. Well, minus the whole gay thing and the striking difference in physical appearance, I guess.

  “There she is. Nice to meet you, man,” Andy extends his hand to shake Howard’s and we leave the lobby. Andy motions for me to take his crooked elbow.

  I look at him hesitantly. “Um, should we take my car or yours?” The discomfort rings loud and clear in my voice.

  “Neither. The restaurant is just down that way.” He points down the block.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Come on.” He urges me to take his arm and I just stand here like an idiot, unsure of how to act. My experience with platonic dates with extremely attractive straight men is… nil. “It’s nothing, Jo. Promise.”

  I sigh deeply and slip my arm through his for the walk.

  Ga Tan is the name of the place. The restaurant is nice. Really nice. I’ve seen the place but I’ve never been inside. It’s upscale French-Vietnamese fusion with fresh floral centerpieces, pressed linen, crystal glasses, and waiters that know their stuff.

  We’re seated immediately and scan over the limited menu that doesn’t even have prices on it. That’s when you know you’re in a pricey joint. No prices=expensive.

  “What do you want to drink?” Andy asks, looking up at me from his menu.

  “Um, I’ll stick with water for now.” I really would love a drink, but I probably shouldn’t. An alcohol-soaked brain is the last thing I need. That would have one night stand stamped all over it.

  A bow-tied, gilded waiter appears and Andy is quick to wave him over. “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks and my date would like water, thank you.”

  The waiter nods and scurries away to retrieve our drinks.

  “She must’ve been some catch if you made a reservation at this place,” I say, leaning forward, whispering discretely in the intimate atmosphere.

  Andy smiles tightly and shakes his head.

  “What?” I ask, my voice no longer so quiet.

  “I made this reservation for you.” He cringes, obviously waiting for my reaction.

  He’s right to cringe, because my first instinct is to leave his ass here, but how could I possibly be mad at the guy? It’s no secret that he has thing for me. He’s made it clear since we met at the old folks’ home that he’s interested and he flirts incessantly, so it’s not like I’m entirely surprised that he would go so far as to trick me into a date with him.

  I just stare at him while I toss around this information in my muddled head.

  “Please don’t be mad. Can you blame me for wanting a shot with you?” he asks, looking downright pathetic. Not pathetic in a bad way, more like pathetic in a sad puppy kind of way.

  “I’m not mad, Andy,” I admit. “I’m just—I don’t know what I am,” I grumble.

  “Look, no pressure. We’ll just have dinner and leave it at that. I’m not trying to rush you, Jo.”

  “Okay.”

  It’s the only thing I can say right now. What am I supposed to say? Andy, while I’m flattered that you’d go so far as to trick me into having dinner with you, and you’re definitely fuckworthy, you’ll never be enough because I’m still hopelessly in love with a man who doesn’t want me. That response is most definitely not on my list of things to say. Ever.

  Ordering food is a game of Russian roulette that I happen to do well at. I don’t know what the hell I’m ordering because the menu was in some sort of strange French-Vietnamese melded language (neither of which I speak nor read), so I picked at random. Turns out, I chose divinely, and being that it’s the first real food that I’ve had in two weeks, I savor every morsel.

  “Gosh, that was good.” I sit up straight as a board in an attempt to ease my full belly.

  Andy’s gaze drops to my breasts. His eyes drift back to mine and something unspoken lingers in the air. He wants more. He wants all of me. Any other red-blooded American female would take him up on his nonverbal offer. He’s tall and handsome. He’s rippled with muscles. He’s got a gorgeous smile and beautiful blue eyes. He has a job. He has a job. He even has a Labrador retriever, for God’s sake!

  I wait a moment to see if the purely female part of me is inclined to reciprocate his silent offer, but nothing. Apparently, even the purely female part of me is still hung up on Damon.

  “I’m going to go to the bathroom,” I say, suddenly anxious. “Be right back.” I slip from the table before he can even respond. I can feel him watching me as I nearly run to the ladies’ room.

  I shut the bathroom stall door and latch it. I don’t really have to pee but I absolutely need a breather. With my palm pressed to the back of the door, I close my eyes and work at calming my nerves. This is bullshit. I can’t act like this every time a man who isn’t Damon Cole makes a pass at me. If this is what’s in store for me for the rest of my life, then I vow to never date again. This is misery personified and I’m about full up on that particular emotion.

  After a brief reprieve, I smooth my dress and slide the lock on the stall door. I step out of my current nightmare and right into another.

  Creamsicle Carrie is standing at the bathroom vanity smearing on a terrible shade of pink lipstick.

  I step up to the sink and begin washing my hands. Creamsicle catches my glare in the mirror and about falls over. It’s a nice reaction that has me inwardly adjusting the scoreboard again.

  “Carrie,” I greet curtly.

  She does a decent job rebounding because she turns to face me with a limited smirk on her Botoxed face. “Heard about your bad news,” she says, feigning sympathy.

  “I’m sure you did. Everyone knows.” I shrug, pretending that I’m not dying of a broken heart.

  “Yeah, Damon told me all about it,” she adds and it feels like a blow to the gut.

  Bitch! I reach for the plush hand towels that are so nicely stacked for patrons and a visual enters my head that includes me wrapping this hand towel around her scrawny neck and twisting it like a bread tie until her stupid head pops off like one of those robot toys. It’s an appropriate comparison when you think of the plastic and/or artificial ingredients ratio. She has about the same amount of organic material left in her as the robot. Both completely manufactured. Fake boobs, fake tan, fake hair, fake nails, fake jewelry, fake designer clothes, fake teeth—her name is probably fake too!

  The mental picture is a great method of distraction, because a slow smile eases across my face, exposing my own pearly whites. “Nice to see you, Carrie. Let’s do it again on the tenth of never,” I reply, tossing the towel her direction and walking right past her.

  Her face contorts in an attempted show of displeasure and I take a second to enjoy it.

  I’m making my way back to my table when I feel eyes on me; it can’t be Andy because he isn’t even in view yet. I stop in my tracks when I realize that the only other person who has ever made me feel their gaze is a certain tall, dark, and handsome man with a predisposition for breaking hearts.

  I turn in place and lock eyes with him in all his screwed up glory. Instantly, a lump forms in my throat and even though my brain is screaming for me to run, I can’t. I’m maybe four feet from his table and caught up in his molten honey gaze.

  “Hi,” is the only thing that comes out.

  “Josephine,” he says just as curtly as ever. There isn’t a trace of emotion in his eyes and it’s like a knife to my heart.

  I break our staring contest, looking over to the man he’s sitting with. “Hi, I’m Jo.” And I’m stuck on stupid.

  The bald man extends his hand to me and I take it. “Mike,” he says warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

  Brian’s description of Mike Passarelli comes to mind and I make the connection. Bruce Willis. Die Hard. I must admit that Brian nailed that one. The description, not the man. This is Damon’s personal snoop, as Brian referred to him. I look down at their table and see something that taps the nail into the coffin.

  There it is, like a big, fat middle finger. A wine glass with a lipstick stain in the shade of hideous. Carrie.<
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  I could kill him right on the spot. I could strangle him with my bare hands. How dare he? Carrie? Of all the bimbos traipsing around this town, he has to pick her to rebound with? My eyes linger on the stupid glass for a moment as I fume. I look back up at Damon and do my best to look unaffected but it’s no use. My inner heathen has won this one. Game, set, match. I lean forward, coming dangerously close to him. My lips are a hairsbreadth from his ear and I let loose.

  “Fuck. You,” I whisper as if it was an offer rather than an insult, but Damon knows better. The syllables are fortified with pure venom concentrated by weeks of lonely nights and bleak days. I hope that it cuts him deep, but it likely won’t. I right myself, turn on my heels, and march right back to Andy with Damon’s penetrating stare burning holes through my back until I’m out of sight.

  “Let’s go,” I demand like a criminal making a run for it.

  “What?” Andy’s blue eyes are confused. Poor guy.

  “I want to get out of here. Now.” I snag my purse from the back of my chair and sling it over my shoulder. He had better move or I’ll leave him here. I can’t stay in this place. Just breathing the same air as Damon right now is upsetting.

  “Uh—all right. Is everything okay?” he asks nervously, tossing money on the table.

  “Yep. Peachy. Damon is here.” I walk ahead of him out of Ga Tan and into the night air. I inhale deeply through my nose, allowing it to fill my lungs from top to bottom.

  Andy stands beside me, watching dutifully and giving me a moment to shake off my unpleasant exchange with Carrie and Damon. Just thinking of her grubby fingers all over Damon makes me want to hurl and break something and claw out her eyes and kick him in the nuts then inhale a spread of comfort food like it’s a medicated balm to soothe my wounds.

  We walk arm in arm back to the penthouse in silence. He doesn’t asked for details and I haven’t offered them.

  Andy tugs my arm, bringing me to a stop on the sidewalk just before the penthouse. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he probes.