Scared of Beautiful

by Jacqueline Abrahams

  I take a breath and decide to bring up the Shana subject. May as well just say it. “So,” I start slowly, “I found Shana.”

  Jade looks up, holding a butter-covered knife over her croissant and stares at me. “Oh,” she says and continues to butter the croissant haphazardly.

  Jade was hurt when Shana left without so much as a goodbye. They’d been inseparable as friends, so as much as she wants to know everything that I know, she doesn’t want to ask, either. She’s clearly still mad. So I continue, saving her the mental torture. “A P.I. I hired found her. Not because I wanted her back, but because I needed closure to come here. Jade, he found her and a little girl.”

  Jade’s knife falls to her plate with a resounding clank. “What?” Her jaw has dropped and she’s staring at me in disbelief. “Is she yours?” she asks.

  “How should I know?” I answer. “She definitely looks the right age, but I don’t know. I didn’t call her. I have her number.”

  “Give it to me,” Jade says pulling out her phone. Jade’s going to call her, there’s no reasoning with her about this. I can see the sheer determination in her face, but her eyes are clouded over with anger.

  “Jade, it’s not a good idea, just leave her be. She doesn’t want to see us, either of us, or she would have called.”

  “No!” Jade’s voice echoes through the Bean, and a few students turn in our direction. “Who the hell does she think she is, running off and having your child without so much as a ‘hello, just thought you may want to know’?”

  I sigh. “Let it go, Jade.”

  “No! I can’t, and neither should you. She owes you an explanation, at least!” I hold my phone facing Jade as she saves Shana’s number. She grabs her bag, leans down to slam a quick kiss onto my cheek and storms off.

  I rub my temples in frustration. I knew that was a fucking bad idea. I look up to see Maia staring down at me.

  “What’s up with Jade?” she asks concerned.

  I shake my head twice. “Jade can be a bit melodramatic sometimes.” I decide against telling Maia why Jade is so mad. The last thing I need is to have two chicks walking out on breakfast this morning. “Thought you had a class?” I ask casually, taking the opportunity to change the subject as Maia sits down. Her hair falls over her right shoulder and her skinny jeans and tank top look as though they’re painted on. Nothing like a visual of early morning sex to brighten a man’s mood.

  “Cancelled. Turns out my Comp Lit professor took a leave of absence after offering candy to the students,” she shudders.

  “Really?” I ask, laughing.

  “Uh huh,” she grins. “They’re trying to find a replacement.”

  “Suits me fine,” I tease as she plops down on the couch next to me.

  “So, I have a favor to ask,” she looks at me sheepishly. “My mom needs to move some stuff out of our apartment. It’s long story, but she’s moving out. Can you help us?”

  If my mother were leaving my father, I sure as shit wouldn’t be smiling the way Maia is now, I’d be depressed as hell. But she seems pleased. Another question for another day, I decide. “Sure,” I smile, putting my arm around her shoulder. “But what do I get in return?” I grin at her suggestively and she laughs slapping my chest.

  “What happened to good old-fashioned gentlemen?” she shakes her head in mock sadness.

  “The gentlemen you read about never had the pleasure of being tempted by someone hot as hell, sitting an inch away from them.” I lean in and kiss Maia gently. “Besides,” I say grinning, “I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman, more of an opportunist, really.”

  “It shows,” she laughs.

  Jade’s right. Maia doesn’t laugh enough, but it’s melodic when she does. May have to work on that, too.

  Chapter 9

  Maia

  Talking to my mother this morning was less than pleasant. My father’s been harassing her, calling and telling her that without him, she’s nothing. But to her credit, it doesn’t seem like she’s hearing it anymore. What a fucking joke. Aunt Megs called me as well, to say that she’s worried that my mother is wearing down with all of his phone calls. And the fact that he cancelled her credit cards and froze all of her bank accounts. He changed the locks on the apartment, but a courier delivered me a new key. Did he really think that I wouldn’t help her get her shit? I feel bad asking Jackson to help us move her stuff, but truthfully, and though I would never admit it, I need him there. I need him to remind me that I am likeable without my money or social status. The fact that he doesn’t know much about my past and doesn’t care is reassuring.

  After lunch, I introduce him to my X5. I laugh as he grabs the keys like an excited schoolboy when I ask him to drive. First stop, the Bronx to pick up my mother at Aunt Megs’ place. Jackson doesn’t flinch at the neighborhood at all; in fact, he smiles at the kids playing and skipping on the sidewalk. My heart warms a little when I see it.

  “My parents grew up in a neighborhood like this,” he says. “Places like this are good for the soul.” I’m surprised at how deep he is. “Except at night. At night, this shit’s bad for your health,” he deadpans.

  Aunt Megs lives in a walk up, with paint flaking off the walls on the stairwell and molding carpet on the floor. We head up to the second story apartment. I could have called my mother to come down, but Megs would kill me for being so rude. I’m nervous as hell about Jackson coming so far into my world. Surprisingly though, this impoverished neighborhood is not what embarrasses me. It’s my life in Manhattan that does.

  Aunt Megs flings open the door as we knock. She never changes, this woman. “Maia!” she yells and pulls me into her large bosom in a suffocating hug. Her tall and wide stature is deceptive; she’s a gentle giant. Her warm, brown eyes give her away, and her cocoa colored skin seems to pop amidst her always colorful outfits and wide grin. “You’re too much of a stranger these days,” she scolds. She turns her attention to Jackson and I hold back a giggle, waiting for her assault. “And who is this strapping young man!” she exclaims, pulling him into a bear hug. I damn near collapse into a fit of laughter as Jackson flails around in her embrace.

  “Jackson Jones, nice to meet you, ma’am,” he nods when she finally releases him and he can breathe again.

  “And he has manners!” she nods at me approvingly, and Jackson grins like he’s just been given a lollipop. “Come in,” she scolds as if we were standing in the hallway by choice. Megs’ apartment is as colorful as she is: red tablecloths with purple sunset curtains being her norm. Yet it feels homely, even if it does hurt your eyes sometimes.

  My mother in a grey pants suit is the only thing that looks out of place in here. She glances up from pawing through her handbag as we enter, and walks over, offering me a long hug.

  “Hi Mom,” I say, “This is Jackson.” She smiles at Jackson and holds out her hand. “Jackson this is my mother, Celia.”

  “Lovely to meet you,” he greets her, taking her hand. My mother smiles warmly at Jackson. Even though she’s been a socialite for the past two decades, she’s never been shallow. Any other Manhattan mother would have asked immediately about his lineage.

  Megs makes us chai tea, which Jackson politely accepts. but doesn’t drink. I notice that my mother’s eyes are red rimmed again. She engages in the conversation, but seems so distant. Then again, that’s nothing new.

  The ride to Manhattan is uneventful. Jackson offers a brief history of himself and his family. I stare out the window, dreading each turn of the wheel that brings me closer to my old life. We pull up outside the apartment on the block opposite Central Park, and the valet races to park the car. I politely decline and say we would prefer if it stayed on the street.

  “Wow,” Jackson doesn’t hide his astonishment at the luxury block. My mother and I have the same fearful look in our eye.

  “Are you sure he’s away?” I ask her.

  “Magda said he would be for the next two days,” my mother answers.

  Magda is my fathe
r’s P.A., my mother’s friend, and my father’s mistress. Has been for the past 12 years. Talk about a convoluted fuck up. Jerry, the doorman, smiles as we walk past and into the elevator. My mother presses P and we ascend to the top floor of the building.

  Jackson is clearly in awe of the apartment, from the extravagant flower arrangements that adorn the expensive hall tables, to the baby grand piano in the foyer, to the imported Italian leather lounge suites and marble tiles. I hate the extravagance, hate every square inch of this place, and every memory it recalls in my mind. My mother walks purposefully to her bedroom, ignoring her surroundings.

  “I need to grab a few things as well,” I say to Jackson, leading him to my old bedroom.

  My bedroom is Queen Anne and shabby chic through and through. My father paid a designer a small fortune to cater to my every whim, mainly because the daughters of other families would see it. I don’t stay for the reminiscing, and instead walk straight over to my walk-in closet. The wardrobe is bigger than our whole dorm room at Brown. Jackson follows me in, and all of a sudden I am ashamed of the sheer amount of expensive shit that surrounds us. The shoe rack is lined with rows and rows of Christian Louboutins and Jimmy Choos. The handbags hung neatly on the adjoining shelf cost nothing less than $1000 each. The racks look like the inside of a designer clothing store.

  I pick up a Louis Vuitton overnight bag and throw in some sentimental pieces of jewelry. Next, I grab a box that’s filled with paperwork, and shove everything to do with my investment portfolio into the bag and reach up for a small shoebox and place that in as well.

  “Can I help?” Jackson asks.

  I’m so focused on taking our shit and getting the hell out of there that I forgot that he was behind me. “I’m good, got everything I wanted,” I smile and stand on my toes to kiss him slowly on the lips.

  The sound of breaking glass shatters the moment. I grab my bag and race towards the hallway, with Jackson in tow. My father holds my mother by her hair. Hearing Jackson’s and my footsteps in the hallway, my father turns and flings my mother to the side like a rag doll.

  “You!” he yells pointing a finger in my direction. “I should have known you had something to do with this, you ungrateful little bitch.”

  Jackson tenses beside me and I place my hand in his firmly. To the left of us, in the corner stands who I presume is a high-class hooker, trembling in her stilettos. As my father approaches, I notice that his eyes are glazed over. He’s drunk, extremely drunk. He stalks over and grabs my wrists my wrist.

  “How many fucking times have I told you that disobeying me is not a good idea!” he yells. His breath reeks of whiskey and cigars.

  Jackson steps between us. His jaw tenses noticeably and he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. “Let her go,” he says, low and threatening.

  “And who the fuck are you? Trailer trash has no right to tell me what to do in my house, with my wife and daughter. Walk away, asshole before you find yourself locked up.” He tightens his grip, and I wince as he twists my wrist. There’s a moment of brief silence.

  “She’s not your daughter.” My mother’s voice comes out soft and trembling from the other side of the hall.

  My father twists my arm, causing a small whimper to escape my throat. Jackson’s right fist comes up and connects with his jaw with a sickening thump. My father staggers back. “You’ll regret that you little punk,” he says rubbing his jaw.

  “Doubt it,” Jackson says as he grabs all of our bags and the three of us leave the apartment.

  We situate my mother into the back seat of the SUV and haul the bags into the trunk. Jackson walks around to open my door and as I go to climb in, a familiarly irritating voice echoes in my ear. “Well, hello angel.”

  And just when I thought the day was a fucked up as it could possibly get. I hate the fact that I have to turn around. “Bryce.” I stare at the pompous idiot with complete indifference. His grey suit and Technicolor tie remind me of how tacky he truly is.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” he says, practically inhaling me as I stand there looking for an escape.

  It makes absolutely no difference that Morgan, my ex-friend and his replacement girlfriend is standing right next to him. Bryce’s hair is slicked back and greasy, but then, Bryce has always been completely greasy in general. How he was the “it” guy of the Manhattan social scene and why I bothered to get involved with him, I’ll never truly understand.

  “I live here, Bryce,” I deadpan. “Morgan,” I say nodding a pretend smile in her direction.

  “Honey, you look well! The casual look really suits you,” Morgan replies in a sickeningly sweet singsong voice. “Or do we have this fine young man to thank for your glow?” Morgan reaches for Jackson arm, and he not so subtly pulls it away, as if she’s got scabies.

  “Jackson, meet Bryce and Morgan.” My reluctance to introduce them is glaringly obvious. Jackson clearly shares my sentiments, because he nods at the two, barely even looking in their direction.

  “Look at you, all grown up,” Bryce continues. “Shame I didn’t think more carefully about my choices,” he finishes, licking his lips. Morgan looks like she’s about to stab something, and Jackson’s jaw tightens in annoyance.

  “You ready to go?” he asks me, smiling.

  “More than ever,” I reply, and we drive off, leaving Bryce and Morgan to have it out over his comments on the sidewalk. Truthfully, I would have loved to see Jackson dislocate Bryce’s jaw, but I notice as he drives that his knuckles are already swollen and bruising, and I care about him far too much to have him break a hand over that fool.

  Megs is less than impressed when she sees Jackson’s hand and my mother’s head. After cleaning my mother up and applying some gauze, Megs gives her some tea and aspirin and tells her to lie down. She can barely look at me when she exits to the bedroom. Jackson and I are about to leave when Megs stops us. “Not so fast. You sit. I need to talk to you.” Megs sounds angry. She’s not a nice woman to piss off to, so I’m a little scared.

  “I’ll wait outside,” Jackson offers.

  “Stay,” I say, my eyes pleading with him not to leave. He’s been introduced to the very worst parts of my life, all at once. The fact that he’s still here at all says something.

  “I assume by the look on your face, Maia, that your mother told you some kind of truth, which was it?” she asks.

  What, the fact that my father is not my real father is only one of the lies? I explain the events at the apartment to Megs, and she’s quiet as she listens. When the story ends, she looks up and grabs my hands.

  “I’m sorry honey, sorry about all of that and all of it before. But I’m glad you know. Your real father was a waste of oxygen, true story. He was a fool, who ran around doing all kinds of wrong shit. Your mother worked as a secretary for your grandfather’s firm. The man who has been your father all these years took an interest in her on the first day she started there. He was doing an internship, learning the ropes. He treated her nice. She lived with us from the time she was fifteen, and she was determined not to stay here forever. Why she got the job in Manhattan to begin with.” Megs sips her tea and continues. “By the time she met him, she was already pregnant. She didn’t want to lie, wanted him to know the truth. I talked her out of it. Told her that it was too good a chance to pass up. He loved her. And he did, he wasn’t always an asshole. When he took over his father’s firm, the money and the power went to his head. By that time she was in too deep. You were five before he showed his true colors.”

  Megs looks up at me with a stern expression. “But she stayed for you. Took every single damned beating for your sake. And you act like you couldn’t give a damn whether she lives or dies. I see her dialing your number over and over. I know you see those calls. Like it or not, that woman is your mother, so you better start acting right or so help me. You’ll have to answer to me. She needs you to get through this. You think it’s easy to leave over 20 years behind?”

  Tears sting my eyes. I ha
te the fact that she’s right. I was behaving like the spoiled bitch I always refused to be. It was selfish of me to leave my mother behind, just because I needed to escape. Jackson puts his hand around my shoulder as if on cue. “I should talk to her,” I say, standing.

  Megs puts a hand on my shoulder. “No, not now, she needs rest. I need to talk to her and you need to sleep on it. When she calls you tomorrow, answer your phone.”

  I reach for my bag and open my wallet, handing Megs my spare bankcard. “Whatever you need, please,” I say handing it to her. She shakes her head and I look at her pleadingly. I lay the card onto the side table and scribble the access number on a piece of paper, before Jackson and I leave.

  “Dinner?” I ask Jackson as we leave the Bronx.

  “Sure,” he replies, “but can we stop for some Gatorade? Cold Gatorade, I need it for my hand.”

  He winces, and I notice that the bruising on his knuckles is darkening. After the day we’ve had, I plan on buying him several beers. I think a drink may be a great idea. I don’t drink often, but given that Jackson deserves some kind of an explanation, a few drinks to loosen up before I have to start talking may not be a bad thing.

  Chapter 10

  Jackson

  Talk about a damn crazy day. I have to admit that I now understand why Maia keeps her past so closely locked away. Those people are fucking bananas. Although Maia is nothing like them, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s trying her damnedest not to be. My parents fought a little when I went off the rails a few years back, but nothing that involved violence like that. I hope to God that that’s not what Maia grew up with, or so help me I’ll find that asshole who I punched and likely finish the job.