Borrowing Trouble

by Mae Wood

  “No.”

  “Two and a quarter. Four weeks of vacation. And I’ll drive you to work each morning.”

  “The whole two miles. Man, that’s sweet.” I pushed out of his embrace and back into my own chair.

  “Why are you fighting me? It is sweet. Tell me this isn’t your dream job.”

  “It might be,” I shrugged and took our pint glasses to the sink, not caring that mine wasn’t finished.

  This is just too much. Every day with him. Every night with him. Won’t we fight? Won’t we butt heads? What if he wants to fire me? That would be a nightmare. Plus, I think the longest we’ve been in the same state since we started dating was what? This week? So, five days? This is fucking insane. All of it.

  “So take it.”

  “I can’t have all my eggs in one basket. Plus, I’m not sure I want you to be my boss. It’s one thing to be your person. It’s another thing to have annual performance reviews done by you.”

  “Your ‘person’? You don’t trust me. You don’t believe I’m serious.” Trip leaned away from the table, balancing his chair on its back two legs. “I’m also pretty sure you’d really like my performance reviews,” he said, playing with me again.

  I ignored his innuendo and rinsed out the glasses and loaded them in the dishwasher. “This is just a lot. Okay?” I finally replied, my voice shaking.

  “Hey, hey. Come on. It’s just an idea. You’re still your own person. Okay?”

  I nodded. “Can we just go to bed? I’m exhausted.”

  “No. We can’t go to bed. You have to draw for your prize and I have to draw for mine.”

  “Trip, I’m really not in the mood right now.”

  “Just come draw your prize, Marisa, and then draw mine.”

  I slunk back over to the breakfast table and stuck my hand into my pile of paper scraps and extracted one at random. I read it and sighed. “Bubble bath. But can I get a raincheck?”

  “Absolutely not. Now, draw my prize and I’ll go upstairs and fix your bath.” I swirled the torn pieces of paper and pinched one between my forefinger and thumb. I held it up to him. “Read it,” he instructed, leaning in with interest.

  Blowjob? Handy? Anal? I hope it’s not anal. I’m not sure I’m okay with that, maybe a little play but not full-on anal sex. He likes doggy-style. I bet it’s doggy-style.

  I opened the paper and was instantly confused.

  “SP One,” I announced. He pumped his fist in victory. “Seriously, that’s what you want? I give you carte blanche and you want that?”

  “Look and see.” He gestured to his pile. I opened the others. Bike ride. St. George weekend. Telluride. St. George week. New York. Business trip. St. Lucia. Lost weekend at home. Grizz game (good seats, not yours). SP Two. Grizz game (your seats). Greenline to Shelby Farms for a picnic. Lunch date. Nooner. Dinner at Paulette’s. Brewfest. Late night in my office. New Orleans. Show at House of Blues. Concert at Levitt Shell this summer.

  “There’s no sex.”

  “Nooner and my office are one hundred percent sex. Did I say it had to be about sex?”

  I thought back.

  Isn’t our relationship built on sex?

  “No, I guess you didn’t.”

  “So, what’s in your pile? What’s Miss Tanner’s wish list?” He made a grab for the stack and I swept them out of his reach, turning bright red with embarrassment. “Nuh, nuh, I showed you mind and I want to see yours.”

  “Fine.” I released my grip and he snatched the pile off the table before I could change my mind.

  One by one, he read the slips of paper and dropped them onto the tabletop. I remained standing, but shifted my weight back and forth between my feet as his eyes flitted between my body and the scraps. “My, my, Miss Tanner. I am a lucky bastard, but how did I get bubble bath,” he spat.

  “Well,” I said, clearing my throat. “It’s not just a bubble bath.”

  “I am a lucky bastard.”

  “Indeed you are. So, bubble bath and SP One?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  On Friday morning I went for a run. It was weird taking my normal route but with a different stop and start point. Trip cycled on his fluid trainer while I was gone. We dressed for work and ate breakfast together, but mainly played on our phones and flipped through the morning papers. I had completely ignored his job offer since he’d extended it during our Wednesday night negotiations.

  “Hey,” he said, looking up from his phone. “I’ve got a conference call regarding the dollhouse debacle with the forensic accountant and our CFO at eleven. I think it’s going to run through the lunch hour.”

  “That’s fine. I’ve got a lot to do today. See you tonight?”

  “You okay?”

  I nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “That offer stands. And I mean it.”

  “I’m not saying no.”

  “Then say yes.”

  “I think I’ve said yes enough this week already.”

  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that. Can I drive you in?”

  Soon we were bundled in Trip’s Rover for the quick trip into downtown. We pulled to the curb in front of my building and I hopped out just as John was making his way to the revolving doors. He paused for me while I hefted my bag and briefcase over my shoulder and made my way to the building. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

  “Morning, John,” I sang.

  “Mighty fine chauffer you have, there.”

  “He is,” I replied nonchalantly, entering the lobby.

  “Did you have a fruitful breakfast meeting?” he teased me as we crossed to the elevators.

  I punched the call button. “Yup.”

  “Intricacies of required language in pink slips? Compensation for meal and rest breaks? Diversity training?”

  “Nope.” The doors opened and we stepped into the empty elevator car alone. The door closed and he continued. “Negotiations regarding merging households?” I froze.

  He fucking knows. Who told him?

  “Just a guess, which, based on your reaction, was a good one. Jimmy and I have a wager going.”

  “You and Jimmy are betting on me?”

  “Well, not you per se. More like betting on Trip. I called New Years to expect an announcement and he took under. He should have taken over. While I have no doubt that Trip is literally charming you out of your clothes, Jimmy can’t even imagine the level of bullheadedness that his son will have to overcome.”

  “How much have you just lost, John?”

  His eyes sparkled. “No kidding. Round of golf in Scottsdale.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I put up a fight.”

  “Are you shitting me?” he asked, his eyes fixed on my face, trying to discern if I was indeed shitting him.

  “Perhaps. Guess you’ll just have to wait to find out with everyone else.” The elevator doors opened. John remained stock still, staring at me, while I stepped out onto the floor.

  “My office,” he announced.

  “Am I being summoned like an errant school girl?”

  “No, you’re being summoned because I need a report on the progress on the Priddy trial. You strike a jury in a month, right?” Without pausing, he walked toward his office and away from mine. I trailed him and set my bags on the floor while he settled into his big chair behind his desk. I made myself as comfortable as possible in a guest chair.

  When’s the other shoe going to drop? When is he going to continue our elevator conversation?

  We talked strategy. We talked witnesses. We talked about asking the judge to exclude certain evidence. We talked about our ideal juror, our nightmare juror. We talked about worst-case-scenario verdicts. Eye-popping numbers. We talked about jury awards Branco could live with. Still money, but money Jimmy could stomach paying out. We talked about the reams of papers I was preparing to file with the court. After more than an hour and several cups of coffee, we wrapped up our impromptu meeting and I found my offic
e.

  “Morning, Marisa,” called Jane. “You’re in late.”

  “Not really. I’ve been down the hall in John’s office. Miss anything exciting?”

  “Well, your phone was ringing off the hook, so instead of letting it roll to voicemail, I answered.”

  “How traditional of you,” I said with feigned surprise.

  Jane rolled her eyes. “Well, I thought I’d humor you. And I took down the messages on a stenopad and in shorthand.” I glanced around her desk, looking for the messages. “Seriously. I emailed you.”

  “Can I get a preview?”

  “Yes. Would you mind giving Bitsy, whoever she is, your cell number? She has called four times since I got in around eight-thirty. Keeps saying it isn’t important, but wants to make sure you’re at Pavo by three. Can’t believe I don’t keep your calendar. Can’t believe I don’t know where you are. Can’t believe I won’t tell her whether Pavo is on your schedule for this afternoon. What’s Pavo?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a salon in Laurelwood. And Bitsy is Trip’s mom.”

  “Oh, my goodness. I didn’t know. She didn’t say,” Jane stammered.

  “And she has my cell number, so I don’t know why she didn’t call that.” I fished around in my bag and found it. “Ah, I’d turned the ringer off again. Looks like she called me twice. Thanks, Jane. She’s a little intense.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m used to intense. Does she know?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Well, if she’s this intense and she doesn’t know, then you’re in for one hell of a ride.”

  I settled in at my desk and dialed Bitsy’s cell. She sounded a little frantic. “Marisa, I’m so glad to get in touch with you. I had to move our nail appointment to three o’clock?”

  Nail appointment?

  “Bitsy, what nail appointment?”

  “Oh, my God,” I heard Jane screech outside my office.

  Please don’t hear that, Bitsy. I don’t work in a looney bin.

  I pulled my door closed and the phone closer to my face, in a hope of muffling any more of Jane’s dramatics.

  “Today. To get our nails done this afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t recall this.”

  “I’m positive I told you. I know I’ve been caught up with things recently, but I swore I mentioned this at dinner on Tuesday.”

  I searched my memory.

  Nope. Definitely did not, but anything she wants, right? If I’m getting married in six weeks to make her happy, I can work in a mani-pedi.

  “Of course, it slipped my mind and didn’t make it on my calendar. It’s my fault. Three o’clock? Pavo?”

  “Yes, but I understand that it wasn’t in your calendar, so if you can’t make it, that’s fine,” she said, giving me an out that in terms of work, I knew I should take, but in terms of familial harmony, I knew I shouldn’t.

  There goes my afternoon.

  I ended the call and marched into Jane’s office. “What the hell? Why were you yelling? I was on the phone. And you know I was on the phone with Trip’s mom.”

  Instead of responding, she just grinned at me and pointed at her monitor. “This is him, isn’t it?”

  “This is who?” I asked, walking around to stand next to her.

  Facebook. She’s on Facebook again.

  “Him. Mr. July, er, Mr. Priddy. The hot fireman.” She clicked on a picture and suddenly a picture of a beefy shirtless man wearing suspenders, black boxer briefs, and a fireman’s helmet who was giving a visibly embarrassed woman a lap dance filled the screen. “This is from my cousin’s best friend’s sister’s bachelorette party last weekend. She posted a bunch of pics from the party. I swear that’s him.”

  “Where’s the calendar?” I asked, scanning her office’s shelves for the evidence file. She found it and quickly opened to July.

  Damn. He is hot.

  I couldn’t tell right off the bat. I grabbed the calendar and held it up to the screen, comparing the professionally staged picture with the slightly fuzzy profile picture taken by an inebriated party-goer.

  “Can you call your cousin and get her to send the rest?”

  “Sure.”

  “If he’s really a stripper on the side, we’ve got a shot at winning this case. We can say his boss wasn’t harassing him, but just inquiring about whether his side business was available for a party. Can you save this one so I can send it over to Carlos at Branco? He knows Mr. Priddy and should be able to tell us whether it’s him or not.”

  Jane nodded and then slightly sighed and we both stared at the screen a little longer than was strictly necessary.

  Chapter Thirty

  I settled into the beige leather massage chair next to Bitsy. The bubbles from the footbath swirled around my ankles, coaxing me to relax, but I couldn’t unwind.

  “Marisa, would you care for a glass of wine? I’m having one and hate to drink alone.”

  Day drinking with his mom. Again? Is this her thing?

  “Sure. Sounds nice. I do have to get out of here by five in order to meet my parents for dinner, so only one for me.”

  “And me, too. Doctor’s orders.”

  I quirked my head at her before realizing that one of us had nearly given the game away.

  Do I just ignore the comment about her doctor?

  “I’m not sure if Trip has mentioned, but I had a health scare a few years ago.”

  Well, I’m lying to her, but I’m not lying about this.

  “He mentioned it,” I said, nodding and completely happy for her to drive this conversation.

  “Anyway, let’s not dwell on that. I do have a little serious business to discuss while we soak our tootsies.”

  The woman just used the phrase “serious business” in the same sentence with the word “tootsies.”

  I nodded, anticipating one of the more awkward conversations of my life, which was saying something after the last few months I’d had. I turned up the frequency on the massage chair and took a sip of the chilled white wine I’d been graciously handed. I closed my eyes and prayed for her to begin talking about dinner parties, drama with her garden club, shoes, really anything other than Trip.

  As I began to relax, she spoke. “You’ll take care of him, won’t you?”

  “Who, Trip?” I asked, jumping back to reality.

  “Yes.”

  “He seems like a capable adult to me.”

  “Are you talking about my son? The one who completely disappeared from work for nearly two weeks to ride a bike across Iowa? The one who started growing pot in one of our vacation homes? The one who bought a remote cabin while hiking in Patagonia about six months ago? The one who decided to give it all up and become a mushroom farmer in Pennsylvania? Then decided that America was ready to ditch cars for scooters and invested heavily in a Vespa dealership? That one?”

  “So that’s what he did in Telluride?”

  Bitsy nodded. “Yes. The summer after he graduated Brown he turned a guest bathroom into some sort of grow room. Jimmy found it when he had some meetings in Denver end early and flew down to surprise him for the weekend.”

  My mind reeled at the thought of Trip growing pot, but what really put me over the edge was Bitsy’s use of the phrase “grow room.”

  She is always full of surprises. They all are.

  “He said he got in trouble a little after college in Telluride for ‘playing too hard,’ ” I said, sketching quotes in the air, “but didn’t say why. I just assumed it was a public intox charge or something like that.”

  I didn’t think growing pot, but he was what, twenty-two then? That’s so long ago.

  “Now, drinking, that we have experience with. Jimmy’s on his second DUI, which is why he doesn’t drive. Ever. If he wants to stay married. So, I suppose both my boys are more than handfuls. It’s like I said when I met you. You can’t let them bully you. You’ve got to keep them in line. Otherwise, they will get the best of you and ruin themselves.”

 
“They aren’t some naughty school boys.”

  “Oh, no, they are much worse.”

  “I’m not going to mother him.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re going to be his wife and will have your own children to mother, God willing.”

  I swallowed. Hard.

  Did Jimmy tell her? Trip said we wouldn’t say anything to either of them until I talked with my parents.

  “Oh, don’t worry. He’s smitten with you. And you’re good for him. You’ve got your own life and he’s got to keep his act together because he knows you won’t put up with his nonsense.”

  “To be frank, I have a hard time reconciling some of this with the guy I know. Sure, he’s impetuous.”

  Bitsy cut me off. “Impetuous is the right word for him. Can I tell you about his kite endeavor that Jimmy had to talk him out of? The business plan involved —”

  “Are you trying to scare me away?”

  Bitsy laughed. “Far from it. He’s spent too long with women into healing crystals, which isn’t his style, or those who don’t have two brain cells to rub together, which would only lead to a chain of Tex-Mex-Sushi fusion restaurants. He needs a partner.

  “And as sweet as my dear friend Laura Catherine’s daughter is, she was a terrible match for Trip. He needs someone to push him. To challenge him. I spoiled him. He doesn’t need to be catered to, and for some reason, he caters to you, not the other way around. That’s how it should be. He’ll be a better man because of it.”

  “He’s a wonderful man.”

  Bitsy reached across the small gap separating our massage chairs and patted my wrist. “He is and he will be. Promise me that you’ll take care of him?”

  I nodded and she continued. “Wonderful. I knew you would, but I needed to say it. Now, let me give you the rundown on who is at our table tomorrow night.”

  Bitsy and I chatted happily throughout our pedicures, never once again broaching the subject of my relationship with her son. After my manicure had set and I’d watched more reality TV than I had in a year, I shuffled back over to where I’d left my work pumps and stooped to slip them on. Bitsy was sitting on a banquette, fastening her watch and bracelets around her wrist. I looked up when I heard her gasp. She was staring at me wide-eyed with her mouth agape. I followed her eyes to my chest where the ring had slipped out from the neckline of my black work dress and dangled in front of me, catching the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the salon’s front windows. The ring shone like a beacon.