by P. Dangelico
After drowning my sorrows in a large order of French toast and two mimosas, I’m feeling marginally more optimistic. That’s why we decide to hit up the bookstore on our way back to her place. I’m in desperate need of guidance on how to resurrect my life from the ashes it’s presently in, and at this point I’m ready to try anything.
I’m busy scanning various titles when Amber hands me a book. I read the title out loud, “How To Reclaim Your Life And Your Orgasm.” If only that was my problem.
“I’m not looking for sexy times, dude. Look for a book titled ‘Your Husband Was A Crook, Your Life Is In The Shitter, This Is How You Fix It’.”
When I try to hand it back to her, my outstretched hand goes ignored. She pulls another book out by the spine. “I don’t have this one. How do I not have this one?”
My part bloodhound/ part Italian nose picks up a scent. “Ambs, you haven’t heard from Parker, have you?” Parker Ulysses Gregory, all around POS. Also her ex-fiancé, but that’s not my story to tell.
“Nope,” she answers without looking at me.
The orgasm book goes right back on the shelf. “If you have all of these, why don’t I just borrow them from you?” At the silence I’m met with, I glance her way.
“Have you officially lost your mind? If you end up losing or forget to return one, it will damage our friendship beyond repair…nope, can’t chance it.”
“Have I ever told you how weird you are?”
“All the time.”
Arms loaded with my new books, we get in line to pay. A middle aged woman with spiky red hair and dark burgundy lips struts by. She comes to a sudden stop and turns to face me.
“I know you.” The woman’s voice is loud enough that it garners the attention of everyone else waiting in front of us. Anxiety swamps me, a film of cold sweat breaking out over every square inch of my skin. I’m frozen in place while Amber starts inching closer. “You should go to hell for what you did.” I rear back as spittle flies out of the woman’s mouth. My face is suddenly on fire. She points a painted black nail at me. “Stealing all that money from those poor people––shame on you.”
Amber grabs the stack of books from me and plunks them down on a display table. Then she laces her fingers through mine. “Yeah? Why don’t you save us a seat when you get there, you decrepit bitch.” Then she takes my hand and drags me out of the store, empty handed but with a heavy heart.
“How do you feel?” A week later and Amber’s still wringing her hands and watching me with concern in her big eyes.
“Victimized––what else is new.” We grab our coats out of the employee lockers in the back.
“You want to crash at my place tonight?”
“No. I’m taking the ferry. I have Angelina’s Camry.”
“How is Ange?”
“Earning an Oscar nod for martyr, I mean mother of the year,” I reply with a sly grin. Amber chuckles because I don’t need to elaborate. She knows my mother well; she practically grew up in my house.
I don’t know when it started, this friction between my mother and me. Maybe it was when my father started spending all his free time following my softball career, maybe it was always there and steadily grew over the years. Regardless, my mother has always had a stealthy, passive aggressive gift for making me feel like I’m at fault for something, like I seem to constantly come up just short of her expectations.
“The bawls on him.”
I know exactly what she’s referring to. “Yeah, didn’t see that coming.”
Shaw actually looked remorseful the other night. These days I’ll take every single microscopic bit of satisfaction where I can get it. Watching that well developed ass squirm in discomfort was like early Christmas. We walk out the employee entrance and huddle closer, a blast of unusually cold March air chilling us to the bone.
“Aren’t you a little tempted?” Her hazel eyes are all over me, patient and kind.
I come from a long line of women that take stoicism to a whole other level. My parents never got to see how bad things really were for me. I tried as best I could to shield them from the worst of it. For them, I kept it together, while my deepest anguish, I reserved for Amber. She’s the only one that knows the magnitude of the damage inflicted. She’s the only one that knows about the anger and guilt I still carry around.
“Who wouldn’t be tempted by a hundred thousand…I could pay back my parents,” I say wistfully. “But how long would I have lasted, really?”
“I wish you would’ve let me have a little chat with him.” The devious look on her face makes me chuckle…and gives me pause. Amber knows no reasonable boundaries when it comes to protecting the people she loves.
At the street corner, Amber raises her arm to hail a cab. I’m about to walk in the opposite direction, to the bus stop, when a white Range Rover with black tinted windows pulls up in front of us. After exchanging curious glances, we both fish the pepper spray out of our purses. The black window slides down and my suspicion is confirmed.
“Can I give you a ride?” Shaw’s laser focused stare is directed straight at me, which feels like he’s digging into my brain with an icepick. I want to glare back. I really, really do. But I can’t hold the eye contact. Like the coward I am, I look away first.
“No,” I snap, bristling with irritation. “I told your boyfriend I need a few days to think about it.” With more courage than I’m feeling, my narrowed-eyed gaze returns to him. He looks confused. Whatever I just said seems to have gone straight over his head––too many concussions, obviously.
“I’ll give you a ride. It’s cold.”
As if I haven’t noticed the snotcicles hanging from my nose. Amber’s golden eyebrows nearly reach her hairline.
“Hey fucknugget, the cow said no.” Amber spits this out while hooking a thumb at me. I have to give him credit, I really do. While my eyes are as big as dinner plates, he doesn’t even blink.
I can see the momentum of where this is headed and it may or may not involve me bailing Amber out of jail, so I grab her arm and pull her closer to the corner. Cupping her face, I fight to keep her eyes on me while she tries to crane her neck in Shaw’s direction. “Amb––Ambs look at me. It’s fine. You did great. Now get in a cab before this gets ugly.”
“I can’t leave you at the bus stop with this guy lurking around.” She steals another suspicious, furtive glance at him. “I’m getting a murdery vibe from him.”
“He’s not dangerous, just annoying. I have my pepper spray and phone,” I assure her even though I know they won’t be necessary. Reluctantly, she nods and turns to glare one more time at the bearded man watching us intently from his car. He rubs his chin and does a little four finger wave at Amber that is sure to set her off. Just then, by some stroke of luck, a cab stops before us. As soon as the last passenger exits, I shove her in.
“Text me when you get home so I know he hasn’t cut you up into little pieces and stuffed you in his wall,” she shouts for all of Seventh Avenue to hear. I wave as the cab pulls away. Then I take a deep breath and walk over to the open driver’s side window of the Range Rover.
He’s removed his ball cap and his black hair is back up in that ridiculous bun again. Everything about this guy is a total turn off. I can feel a frown developing on my face as I stare at it.
“What do you want?” I do nothing to hide my exasperation. “It’s two a.m. I’ve been running around all night, and I’m tired.”
“I apologized three times,” he says, his jaw in danger of shattering. Yeah, real genuine. Somebody needs to tell this guy he’s not the injured party in this scenario.
“Because you want me to work for you. Because you’ve already run off every other qualified applicant in the Tristate area, and now I’m your last hope. Well tough noogies, Mr. Shaw. This time you don’t win. I win and you lose.” And I realize I’m beginning to shout. His eyebrows, two black slashes making his eyes look even paler, rise up. Then the most unexpected thing happens. Those cold, unforgiving eyes tu
rn into crescents and a burst of laughter explodes out of him.
“Tough noogies?” His laughter is deep and rich and it bothers the hell out of me, one more slight to my already bruised ego that I refuse to tolerate. My patience has officially run out.
Through clenched teeth, I grind out, “I don’t mean to be critical––but you’re an insufferable a-hole!” and walk away. I take three steps and feel a huge, warm hand grip my upper arm. In a knee jerk reaction, I wheel around and whisper-hiss, “Don’t you dare touch me.”
He instantly releases his grip and holds up his hands in surrender. Then he stuffs them in the front pockets of his jeans, and shrugs up his massive shoulders in a posture I’ve seen him assume when he’s uncomfortable.
Despite that it’s well past midnight and colder than a witch’s tit, the streets of the city are teeming with people. As they walk past us, they curiously turn to watch without breaking stride. It takes a lot more than a mountain of a man, famous or not, and a woman with smoke coming out her ears to get their full attention. One lingers longer than necessary.
“Nothing to see here,” I growl. My glare convinces the onlooker to skedaddle.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is soft, his tone earnest. My attention immediately returns to him. I almost can’t believe my ears. He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding mine. “I’m really, really sorry––I was havin’ a bad day.” A light southern twang hangs on the last few words. “I’m in a real bind…my nephew…” His voice trails off. His eyes are back on me, suddenly warm and searching. And for the first time since we’ve met, I may not hate his guts.
We stand there awkwardly, studying each other for ten agonizing minutes until he looks away. I’m freezing my butt off and I’m wearing a down jacket––all he’s wearing is a button down. Biting on the inside of his cheek, he says, “What if I paid you a hundred thousand up front––not in three payments. You can walk away any time you want, after three days or three months, and you still get to keep the money.” He doesn’t look at me, choosing to stare at the brick wall of the building next to us instead. I watch the warm air he breathes out form clouds around him as I mentally picture giving my parents back half of their retirement fund. My shoulders begin to sag under the weight of defeat, guilt eating away at the entrails of my pride. I don’t have the strength to turn him down one more time.
“You can drive me to the ferry on the west side.”
His head whips around and his eyes slam into mine, questioning if this is a tacit agreement to his offer––which it basically is. Without a word, I walk slowly to the passenger side of his car. I hear a thump, thump, thump right behind me and turn abruptly. Only to have my face almost crash into the wall also known as his chest.
“Jezus,” I say half horrified at the thought of touching him in any way, shape, or form. Surprisingly, he remains quiet, never taking his alert gaze off of me. Before I can reach for the handle, he opens the car door. I slide in and buckle up without looking or thanking him because part of me is bitter as all get out that I’ve lost once again. Not my best moment, I know, but I’m tired and cold and feel like I’ve just relinquished the last bit of my self-respect. I can’t be nice right now…I just can’t.
He gets in and starts the car. I don’t dare look at him. God forbid I find him gloating, the next phone call I place will be from county jail. The car is warm and quiet; a cozy, luxurious cocoon. And admittedly a much better way to travel than the ferry bus. Now that my nose has thawed, a subtle masculine scent hits me all at once. It reminds me of my husband.
My memories of Matt are complicated by the push and pull of conflicting emotions. How much I miss him, how mad I am at him, the guilt I still carry, the overwhelming amount of shame. Suddenly, I’m on the verge of tears and bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to break skin. Adding to my discomfort, he drives slowly down the West Side Highway. On purpose, I wonder? I certainly don’t put it past him.
“Sam likes you,” he blurts out. This is all he keeps repeating. But I get it. Sam seems to be the only thing we agree on––a safe topic.
“And I like him, which is the only reason I’m considering doing this.”
His bunned head turns toward me. “Then you’ll do it?”
No point in arguing further. “Against my better judgment, Mr. Shaw, I’ll do it.”
I notice his massive shoulders sag. He settles deeper into his seat, one big hand rubbing his thigh. “Good.”
“With some major stipulations.” I turn a little in my seat to watch his reaction. I find him staring straight ahead, his expression in deep freeze…clearly bracing for the worst. “One more insult, one more slightly off color remark and I’m gone.” He nods a little too quickly at this. I doubt he can last more than a day, however, I’ll let him prove me right. “And I want the full amount in my checking account the day I move in.” I expect him to give me grief about it, but get another short nod instead. “And I want to keep my Thursday and Friday night shifts at One Maple.”
“No.” No explanation, just a hard no.
“Yes. I don’t know how long I can last, considering your track record, and I don’t want to lose the only dependable job I have. I’m keeping those two shifts.” He blows out an exasperated breath. His grip on the steering wheel tightens.
“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. Wow, that looked painful. He must be seriously desperate to be agreeing to this.
Pulling up to the ferry terminal, he puts the car in park. I’m ready to jump out and tug on the door handle. It’s locked. Tug, tug, tug. Still locked. My eyes slide over to him. He’s tense. I would even venture to say a little nervous, though I could be mistaken.
“When can I expect you?” Is he planning on holding me hostage until I sign in blood?
“Day after tomorrow.” Now that the decision’s been made, why delay. I get another one of his brief nods. The sound of the doors unlocking prods me into action. Without a backward glance, I’m out in a flash. As I’m slamming the door shut, I hear a quiet, “Thank you.” I’m already walking away when I grasp what he’s said. Whatevs. I’m too tired and broken down to care.
“You have to live with him? But he’s a bachelor.” In confusion, I stare at Angelina across the kitchen table. For a moment, I wonder if she’s being serious. And then I remember. It took a full year for my mother to accept that my living with Matt before we were actually married was not a black stain on the family name. I load two more chicken cutlets onto my plate and dig in.
“I think so. I’m not sure…who cares.” I look at my dad for help. He doesn’t meet my eyes. Coward.
“I care,” she says.
“Don’t worry, my honor is not in jeopardy.” I have to forcibly stop myself from snorting. I have no intention of explaining the animosity between Shaw and me because my mother will somehow spin it as my fault.
“Why do you always have to be so sarcastic?”
“Ma, the house is huge. He probably won’t be there much, these guys travel a lot in the offseason. And there’s an eight year old boy living there as well.” And I intend to stay as far away from him as possible, which shouldn’t be too difficult knowing how he feels about me. That, I keep to myself.
“Have you met the boy yet?” My father finally decides to join the conversation. Welcome to the party, Tom.
“Yes, he’s lovely. Very quiet…shy. His mother’s in rehab.”
My mother’s eyes go butter soft and she tsks. “Poor baby, bring him over for dinner.” My mother is convinced that everything can be fixed with food. I can almost hear her thoughts as she considers what she’ll cook for him.
Angelina has been hounding me for grandchildren since the day Matt and I got married. We always thought we had time…and now I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. I push the baked eggplant around my dish.
Grief is uniquely tailored for every individual. For me, it lies beneath the noise of everyday life, cropping up at unexpected moments. And I’m not talking a gentle nudge either,
more like a blindsiding slap across the face…like right now. It just occurred to me that I may never have children and the pain is more than I can bear. Because falling in love again and getting married is so far from the realm of possibilities for me that I can’t imagine any scenario where that could happen.
“Sure,” I grumble. “I have a surprise,” I say desperate to change the subject. My parents look at me with sheer terror in their eyes. “Relax, it’s a good surprise this time.” Suspicion hangs around a little longer. “You’ll be receiving a check from me this week…for a hundred thousand dollars.”
They don’t look happy. You would think a hundred grand would put a smile on their faces.
“What kind of a joke is this?” my mother says.
“It’s not a joke. He’s paying me a hundred thousand up front.”
“To babysit?” she says, her tone riddled with skepticism. I briefly glance at my father and find him as still as a mummy.
“Good grief,” I mutter. Leave it to my mother to suck the joy out of this, too. “To take care of Sam and home school him. I’m a teacher, remember?”
“A hundred thousand,” my father repeats. I finally recognize the expression on his face…it’s relief. He’s relieved that he’ll get his money back. And in that moment, I know I did the right thing accepting Shaw’s offer.
“The job is only for three months.” They both look confused. “I’m assuming Sam will go back to live with him mom when she gets out. He won’t need me after that.”
“A hundred grand for three months work?” dad asks. His voice sounds far away, unmitigated bewilderment in his tone.
“Yup.” I watch my father take a small sip of his red wine, his face unreadable. “What are you thinking, Dad?”
Without missing a beat, he says, “That I just became a Titans’ fan.” That’s saying a lot. Dad has been a diehard fan of the other NY team all his life.