by Maggie Bloom
“Have you been here before?” Sharon asks.
“Once,” I admit. “After a concert.” I leave out the fact that it was a Taylor Swift concert, as I suspect she’d mock any artist who’s popular with more than five people.
“I saw an interesting rockabilly-zydeco group last week.”
Suspicion confirmed. “Oh.”
“So, you must be wondering why I asked you here.”
I shrug.
She eases her coffee aside and shoots me a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. “I should just come out and say it.” Her smile—which is already so big and white it reminds me of those fake, windup teeth that hop around chomping, chomping, chomping—somehow enlarges. “I’m a big fan of your work.”
I’ve been at this job too short a time to have fans, unless you count the e-mail brigade, some of whom are—ahem—of questionable mental fortitude. I mirror her smile, minus ninety percent of the wattage. “Thank you. That’s nice of you to say.”
“There’s nothing nice about it. You’re a good writer; that’s a fact. I pride myself on being able to spot talent and . . .”
What? Get it blitzed on caffeine while dangling unexpected compliments in its face?
She straightens up. “What would you say if I offered you a new position—a better position—as an advice columnist at the paper? Is that something you’d be interested in exploring?” She pauses expectantly, at which point I realize: oh, it’s my turn to speak.
Too bad she’s shocked me speechless.
She goes on: “It would be a pay raise, of course. And it would increase your visibility. Build your brand, so to speak. Plus, it’d set you up for a shot at something national—international, even—since New York, London, Tokyo . . . they’ve all been known to poach from us. So, what do you think?”
What I think is: Would this “pay raise” be enough to get me out of Trent’s place? (I doubt it.) Because the sex pressure I’m under as a live-in girlfriend is getting unbearable. “You’re offering me a promotion?”
“Not yet,” she says with a laugh. “This is all hypothetical, until I can secure approval from the Board. There’s quite a lot of finessing I’ll have to do before they’ll greenlight a change like this.”
I swallow the last of my coffee, leaving a smudge of congealed grinds in the bottom of the cup. “Why would you do all of that?” I ask, the idea of my writing an advice column sounding iffy, even without the red tape she’d have to cut through to make it happen.
“Do you know what I wanted to be when I grew up?”
The nun in charge of discipline at a Catholic school? “Um . . .”
“A romance novelist,” she says with an entirely straight face. “Sort of a modern-day Jane Austen with a twist of Danielle Steel.” She rolls her eyes. “You should see the stack of spiral notebooks under my bed.”
I get a sudden twinge of empathy. “You’ve gotta do it, then,” I say, not just in hopes of getting rid of her, but because I’m a sucker for anyone with the courage to chase a dream—even if that dream is feeble by most people’s standards. “It’s not too late.”
“Yes, it is. Trust me, I’m horrible.”
Is she baiting me for an argument? “Oh, come on,” I say. “You can’t be that bad.”
“Listen, I’m not looking for anyone to blow smoke up my ass. I know I suck. I’ve got no imagination. What I do have, however, is an eagle eye for editing. And I’ve never edited anyone quite like you.”
I’m starting to believe she does like my work. “Well, thanks again,” I say. “I’m doing my best under the circumstances.” Of course, by “the circumstances” I mean the embarrassing (to say the least) exposure of my personal life, which I’m still not convinced Ms. Fleming didn’t have a hand in.
“What about the advice column, though? Are you in or out? I need to know before I start campaigning.”
It would be wise of me to ask: “What kind of advice? I mean, I’m not sure I’m qualified to . . .”
She glares past me at the teenagers who, although they’ve settled down a bit, are still conversing loudly enough to be disruptive. “Relationship stuff,” she says. “Like that call girl who slept with the governor.”
“Excuse me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Relax. I’m not calling you a hooker. I’m just saying that, like Ashley what’s-her-name, you’ve got your fifteen minutes of fame. You should take advantage of them. If helping you do that advances my career in some small way, so be it.”
When opportunity knocks, huh? “You know, I really like what I’m doing now. I didn’t think food was my thing, but . . .”
She pushes her chair back. “Whatever. Let me know if you change your mind. I’d be willing to revisit the issue.” She checks her watch and grimaces. “Ready?”
Chapter 21
I am becoming quite the liar. Or maybe I always had it in me, the identity of Angie’s father a secret I kept for nearly five years, going all the way back to that party at the police chief’s house.
“We’ll be done around three o’clock,” I tell Trent as I tie Angie’s furry hat under her chin and tug her mittens on. “Maybe we can have chicken for dinner?”
Trent glances around the still-sterile kitchen (I never did hunt down those oven mitts), a look of panic crossing his face. “You want me to cook?”
Yes, I do. Because 1) he hasn’t prepared a single meal in the three weeks I’ve been here and 2) it’ll keep him distracted and, hence, oblivious to my deceit. “Yeah,” I say, smiling encouragingly, “why not?”
“I’m hot,” Angie whines, preparing to undo my mitten handiwork.
“No,” I tell her, “keep those on. We’re leaving.”
“What kind of chicken?” asks Trent.
I check the clock and realize Angie and I are running late—ten minutes, at least—for the family date I’ve arranged with Mark. Trent, I’m ashamed to say, thinks we’re headed to a playdate with Angie’s friend, Xander.
“Surprise me,” I say. I peck him on the cheek, grab Angie’s hand, and, with a gutful of guilt, zoom out the door. Someday soon I will tell Trent everything. (He knows about Mark from all the press coverage, but he’s in the dark about the current “goings-on” between the father of my child and me.) If he loves me enough to forgive me, I just might marry the guy.
* * *
“Remember what I told you?” I ask Angie as I yank the heavy glass door of the skating rink open. “We’re going to meet a friend of M—”—oh, shit, I almost said “Mommy’s”—“mine and do a little ice skating? Won’t that be fun?”
Angie nods excitedly. Ever since Mom and Dad took her to see Disney On Ice, she’s been smitten with anything cold-weather related.
Five paces ahead at a small rinkside table sits Mark, tapping away at his cell phone. Probably some last-minute restaurant business, I assure myself. I adjust my coat, squeeze Angie’s hand, and march right up to him. “Hi,” I say, then wait for him to finish a text message to . . .
Dammit.
He clears the screen before I get a chance to examine it for juicy tidbits of information to which, as the mother of his child, I should be privy. “Oh, hi,” he says, standing to greet us. He wedges the phone in his pocket and kisses me gently on the side of the head.
Mother of God, not again. Why can’t I tamp down my attraction to this man? “Have you been waiting long?” I ask.
“Eh, a few minutes.”
During the pause that follows, I scan the rink and its surroundings. Truth be told, I am not an outdoor enthusiast. (Technically, we’re indoors, but you’d never know it from the temperature of this building.) “I think we get our skates over there,” I say, motioning at a rough-timber “box”—for lack of a better word—in the corner. A hand-painted sign above the box puts the price of rental skates at twelve dollars a pair.
Mark drops down to Angie’s level. “Hey there,” he says, smiling broadly, “what’s your name?”
Didn’t he use that line on her last time they met? O
h, well. At least he’s consistent.
Angie goes pigeon-toed, dips her chin, and twirls her hair. “Angeline Brooke Waters.” (For the record, I did not give my daughter a punny middle name on purpose; it was a flaky oversight on my part that I’ve now committed to liking.)
Mark extends a hand. “I’m Mark,” he says. “Your big sis’ and I are old friends.” He winks at me, and I tense up. I mean, Angie is very perceptive. I don’t want her picking up on anything until the time is right. “You think we can be friends too?”
Angie glances at me hesitantly.
“It’s all right,” I say.
In a small voice, she asks Mark, “Do you know how to ice skate?”
“Do I know how to ice skate?” he repeats, shaking his head and laughing. “Does a cow say moo?”
Angie’s eyes widen.
“Does a pig oink?” He wrinkles his nose and snorts comically.
She giggles.
I feel two things at once: gratitude that Mark is gifted with children and a touch of irrational envy. If this kind of performance continues, he’ll soon surpass me (not to mention Mom and Dad) as the parent of choice.
“We should get in line,” I suggest, the cluster of people by the rental window swelling.
After a ten-minute wait, we’re treated to the rattiest—and dullest, I suspect—skates on planet earth. But at least the rink owners have provided helmets (and knee and elbow pads, too) for those of us so unconcerned with our appearances as to not mind resembling dung beetles.
Mark laces Angie’s skates while I pad her arms and legs and strap the helmet into place on her head. “Lookin’ good,” I say once she’s as mummified as King Tut.
Mark and I suit up too, because, as Psychology 101 suggests, if we want Angie to exhibit safe behaviors in the future, we must first model them for her now. (See, I did get something out of college—other than a boatload of student-loan debt, I mean!)
We hobble our way to the ice, me guiding Angie by one hand and Mark supporting her by the other. At the last minute, he leans over and whispers, “You know what you’re doing, right?”
“Like skating, you mean?”
He nods.
“How hard can it be?”
Why, oh why, do I say the most sexually charged, idiotic things around this man?
Instead of responding to my slip of the tongue with a double entendre of his own, he nods at the rink, where children smaller than Angie have perfected the art of remaining upright on two thin blades of steel. “Good point,” he says. “They seem to be doing all right.”
“Well, you’re the expert,” I answer, poking fun at his boast from earlier. “I’m sure you won’t mind helping me if I face-plant into a third grader.”
He laughs, and my heart does a little flip. Something about Mark Loffel is so easy. Relaxed. Carefree, but not careless. “I hope it’s okay if I help the third grader first,” he says with a wry smile.
“Of course.”
At the edge of the rink, we pause and hatch a plan. “I’ll go ahead,” I say, steadying myself with the handrail and backing onto the ice. “Angie will be in the middle, and you can follow us.”
“I wanna do it my own self,” Angie proclaims. “Like the princesses.”
I knew I hated princesses. “All right, all right,” I relent. I roll my eyes, as if to say: Can you believe this sassy daughter of ours?
Mark’s smirk replies: I’ll see your “sassy” and raise you an “adorable.”
“Put your foot here,” I tell Angie, motioning at the section of ice between me and the edge of the rink, “and grab this railing.”
“I’m right here,” Mark adds, “if you need me.”
But she doesn’t.
With the confidence of a future Olympian, she lurches onto the ice, determined to master the surface with the ease of Thumper (clearly, we’ve seen too many Disney flicks of late) instead of the clumsy—though endearing—ineptitude of Bambi.
“Oh my God!” I blurt, spinning around to follow her. “You’re doing it!” I can’t look back without risking a spill, but something tells me that Mark has successfully trailed us onto the ice.
The three of us close ranks.
We’ve lost so much time together, I think, a mix of sadness and joy washing over me. I reach for Angie’s hand, and Mark takes mine. But that’s all in the past. Now we are a family—or something very much like one. And I must break the news to Trent.
Chapter 22
The scent of chicken blasts through my nostrils as I exit the elevator on Trent’s floor, the chicken in me wanting to flap back to Mom and Dad’s, where I’ve deposited Angie—exhausted and cranky after two hours of Roundabout the Rink—to avoid scarring her for life with my grownup problems.
“Oh, hi,” I say, surprised when Trent greets me at the door, a candy-cane-striped apron tied around his waist.
He steps aside and lets me pass. “Where’s Angie?”
Should I launch right into the truth or let it seep out naturally? “She was really tired,” I say, frowning. “I decided to take her home early.” Since Trent and I have been living together, Angie has spent weekends in his second spare bedroom. (His first spare bedroom is on permanent reserve for his grandfather, who, I’m told, is fond of unannounced visits.)
“Well, that’s unfortunate”—he ducks behind an island of cabinets and reappears with a cardboard box—“because I took the liberty of getting her a friend. I thought it would make her more comfortable around here.”
He did NOT just buy my daughter a puppy!!!
He pries the handles of the box apart and reaches inside, pulling out a fluffy white kitten that, I can predict with absolute certainty, Angie would’ve named Snowball. “What do you think?”
I think I’m going to throw up. “Can you return him?” I mumble. “I just don’t . . .”
“Her. It’s a girl,” he says, pushing the kitten at me.
I push it back. “She’s cute.” An uneasy smile. “I’m sure Angie would love her, but . . .” I wander toward the living room. “Can we, uh, talk for a minute?”
Instead of stuffing the kitten back in the box, he brings her along, setting her on the sofa between us. “Sure. What’s up?”
His tone is far too casual for the conversation we’re about to have. “Dinner smells delicious,” I remark, at a loss for how to begin. “What is it?” The kitten snuggles up to my leg, and I start petting her.
“You requested chicken.”
“Do I smell wine?” I ask, testing my nose. I mean, I am a food critic; I should be able to identify dishes by their aromas alone at thirty paces.
“Very good.” He winks at me. “It’s Marsala.”
That explains the slight charred-sugar smell. “Listen, Trent, um . . . there’s something I need to tell you.”
He makes a douchey finger-gun and points it at me. “Shoot.”
Maybe this isn’t going to be so hard, after all. I pull the kitten onto my lap. “I haven’t been completely honest with you,” I admit, my gaze unable to meet his, “about Mark.”
His eyebrows pull together. “How so?”
“Well, uh, the truth is, I’ve seen him a couple of times behind your back.”
“Behind my back?”
“I didn’t plan it, I swear.”
“You’ve been seeing him? For what?”
That’s a thorny question. “Mostly for stuff to do with Angie,” I say, which is technically true. “But then something else happened.” Not to be insensitive or anything, but boy was it something else!
“Sex? Are you talking about sex?” Curiously, he doesn’t seem enraged, though he’s probably just saving his anger for after I confirm the deed, which I do with a reluctant nod.
“Sorry,” I say. “There’s no excuse. You deserve a lot better.” The kitten sinks her claws into my thigh, agreeing that I am morally bankrupt.
“Damn right I do. You’re giving it to him and not me? That’s pretty fucking unfair, don’t you think?”
<
br /> “Unfair?” That’s a much milder word than I would’ve used.
“What’s wrong with me?” he asks, his jaw tightening.
“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing that I know of. I’m sure you’re very good. I mean, you’re in killer shape.”
He flexes his pecs, which are visible through his Egyptian-cotton polo shirt. “You want to go right now? I can put the chicken in the warming drawer.”
I must be hallucinating. “You want to have sex? With me? Now?”
He laughs. “Jesus Christ, I thought you’d never ask. You know, you’re the hardest nut I’ve ever cracked.”
Whoa, Nellie! Back away from the nutcracker! “You’re kidding, right? Didn’t you hear what I said? I cheated on you. You’re supposed to . . . You should . . .” I nudge the kitten off my lap and spring to my feet. “I cheated on you!”
“So?”
I’m starting to wonder if he has—I don’t know—smoked a fatty (or whatever the correct drug lingo is for taking in a large amount of marijuana) during my absence. I mean, what else could explain his unnerving level of calm? “You don’t care that I cheated on you?” I ask, the idea failing to register in my brain.
“Why should I? It’s not like we’re exclusive or anything. You’re entitled to yours.” He grins. “Live and let live, right?”
There’s no doubt about it: I have fallen down—very, very far down—a sexually twisted rabbit hole. “You asked me to marry you,” I say, scanning the condo for items I can shove into a garbage bag and toss over my shoulder when I make my now-imminent getaway.
“Absolutely. Why wouldn’t I? You’re perfect.” He reaches for my hand, but I recoil. “I’d be proud to have you as my wife.”
“But you’d still sleep with other people?” I ask, just to be sure I’m understanding him correctly.