by Edie Danford
“I get what you’re saying, Mom.” I want to point out that if I spent time making an amazing home in a place I buy and am totally responsible for, I might not have huge amounts of free time. But I have to pick my battles. “I like my current job. I also like helping you with the jewelry thing, but I don’t want to make it my full-time gig. Because it’s your thing. And, although I know you don’t think so, housekeeping is rewarding for me.”
Her gaze travels quickly to the table beside us where a couple in bespoke-looking businesswear had just been seated. They exude “I’m very important” vibes. The opposite of my vibe, which is flavored with sleep-deprivation, dish detergent, and exam worry.
Mom leans forward and says, “You can’t blame me for wanting my son to be something more than a housekeeper. That word sounds…yuck. Old-fashioned. Matronly. Not like you at all.”
I snort. “Well, Gywneth Paltrow’s housekeeper is called a ‘house manager’—and he’s a guy from Chicago too. Would it make you feel better if I called myself that instead?”
“No.” She laughs. Shakes her head, eyes twinkling. “For real? She calls him a house manager?”
“Read it in the Times.”
She giggles some more. I join her.
“Goop,” she snorts. “Conscious uncoupling.”
This sends us into more gales. Neither of us is a fan of Gwynnie. Except Pepper Pots in the Iron Man movies. Pepper Pots is awesome.
“My point is,” I say after we’ve caught our breath. “I don’t care what you call me. I’m going to do this kind of work no matter what. Just like all those summers and after-school hours in high school when I was working for Dad and Tracy. When ‘assistant’ sounded so much better to you than maid or pool boy?”
She sighs. “You could’ve quit doing that stuff for your father any time. It would’ve been fine. And it would’ve been fine if you’d done a half-assed job with all that bullshit he gave you to do. I don’t know why you thought you had to work so hard—”
“I wanted the spending money, Mom. And—I can admit this now—I wanted the time with Dad. I wanted to impress him.”
Her blue eyes glisten as she stared at me. Every time this subject comes up, it seems to break her heart in some new and fresh way.
“Your dad is an ass,” she says. “He thought he was instilling a work ethic in you, I think.”
I smile crookedly. Fact was, my poor dad hadn’t known what to do with me. On the few hours a day he wasn’t CFO-ing Tracy’s family’s sporting goods company, he liked to golf, play squash or tennis, and talk sports and the stock market. Our interests hadn’t ever meshed.
His way of handling it? He gave me tasks to tackle at his home office and on the property. In his defense, I think he’d thought we might do some of the work together.
Don’t want to take your short, wimpy, non-athletic kid on the white-water rafting and hiking trip you booked with the new family? Ask him to stay home and tend your roses!
Embarrassed to take your attention-starved fourteen-year-old on the romantic summer trip to Europe your new wife arranged? Have him organize the files in your home office!
He’d sort of forgot that the shit he wanted me to do got handled by the hired help and not himself. So I’d ended up spending more time with the staff than with him.
I would never have admitted it as a teen, but I’d liked the jobs he’d given me. No surprise given my choice of work now, but I’d gotten along great with his gardener and his PA and the women who came to clean a few times a week.
I give my mom a half smile. “Funny how a work ethic was something Dad didn’t actually need to instill in me. Figuring out good ways to relax would’ve been much more useful.”
“Yes.” Her smile is rueful. “And maybe your father realizes this. Which brings me to the second part of my news.”
I raise my brows.
Mom flashes me a brilliant smile. “Tracy and your dad are planning to give you one of the lofts in Jeremiah’s new investment building in the West Loop. You won’t have to worry about rent or a mortgage or assessments. All you’ll have to worry about is continuing to get back on your feet and completing your degree.” She leans forward and whispers, “It’s valued at seven hundred thousand.”
My breath makes a whack-a-doodle sound when it punches out of my lungs. And I’m sure my eyeballs have a similarly whacky vibe. “Oh my God,” I mutter.
“I know, right?” She beams at me. “Your father will be in contact with you soon about all the details.”
I shake my head—the idea isn’t sinking in, and likely it will take a while to do so. But still. I know. “I don’t want it,” I say firmly.
My mom’s smile is fading. “What?”
“I don’t want it. For real. It would be a very, very bad thing for me to get a fancy-schmancy loft right now.”
“It’s not exactly fancy-schmancy compared to the places your stepbrothers live in.” She gets all bristly. This is always a big deal for her—her baby should get just as good as Tracy’s babies. “It’s waiting on finishes. You’d have an opportunity to decorate it any way you’d want. And if you don’t want it, then have fun doing it up as only you could do, then sell it for a big profit. Think of what you could do with that kind of money.”
“I am thinking of it,” I say. My thoughts are taking me right back to the kid I’d been in high school, the player I’d been in WeHo. What can I buy, buy, buy to make myself happy? How can I put myself in the best light to make people like me?
Her perfect, unwrinkled brow becomes imperfect. “Peter. Honey. I know things have been rough for you. I know you’re trying your best to get over that ridiculous stint in Hollywood. But there is no reason under the sun for turning your nose up at that gift.”
I sit back carefully in my chair. “I want—no, I need—to keep things on an even keel in my life right now, Mom. A fancy place downtown, or a big injection of cash would…be bad. That much money would change my goals, my plans.” I take a deep breath.
“What are your goals and plans?”
“To keep my head down. To work and feel good about working.”
“I feel like you’re punishing yourself for what happened in Hollywood.”
I glance at her. Shrug. We’d been over this before.
“I wish you would consider seeing a therapist—”
“I wish you would consider letting me live my life.”
Her fingers clench the base of her glass tightly. I take a breath and say, “I’m sorry, Mom. You know how I feel about this shit, though.”
“I do know. But I want you to be happy. Keeping your head down and being a housekeeper doesn’t seem like happiness to me.”
“Different definitions.”
She sighs. “Yes. Okay. But ‘considering’ the idea of getting therapy isn’t asking the world.”
“I will consider it. I am considering it.”
“In the meantime, you should jump on this offer of the loft. You could rent the place out and put the money in savings. It would be a brilliant rainy-day fund.”
The waiter delivers our meals at that moment, giving me a little time to regroup. And to realize that, no, I am not overreacting to this loft idea. I still want independence, even though my first attempt hadn’t gone so well. I want to prove to myself that I’m making good choices by keeping things low-key. Yes, I might still make mistakes, but they will be ones I can own up to. As well-meaning and generous as my parents are, seven hundred large would give me the means to fuck up spectacularly again.
I pick up my fork. Stare down at my spanakopita. “I know turning it down sounds crazy—”
“Turning down seven hundred grand sounds fucked in the head,” Mom huffs.
I laugh. “Okay. That too.” I sink my fork into the flaky phyllo. Steam rises from the fragrant spinach mixture. I don’t think I’ll be able to swallow the bite I’ve cut. Maybe in a minute or two.
Mom hasn’t looked down at her salad. She’s staring at me.
I have
to give her something, so I say, “I’ll consider the loft offer too. All right?”
She takes a big breath. This is something she’s getting better at. Giving up on a topic when I ask her to. She tries on a smile. “All right. Now why don’t you tell me about how your class is going?”
I tell her about my class and try to conquer the task at hand: eating at least three bites of lunch.
Over coffee and baklava (it goes down easier than the spinach), we spend several minutes looking through Austin real-estate listings on her phone. I don’t mind doing it. One, I like looking at houses. Two, if I can convey my enthusiasm for her move, it will maybe push her a baby step toward actually doing it. The change would be amazing for her.
After lunch, Mom drops me off at the UIC campus with a “talk soon” and a kiss.
Studying for the next few hours is a good thing for my potential grade and for pushing away worries about the future. My philosophy for the day is turning out to be: The hurdle directly in front of you is the one you need to get over first.
The test happens without me passing out, dying, or barfing. Yay me.
When I finish, I text Mar as promised. A single word is all my thumbs and brain can manage. Done.
A few seconds later he sends back: Congrats. Don’t move. Will pick you up in three minutes.
I stand in the entryway of the math building. Outside it’s cold and dark. I make note of the time as I wrap up in winter gear. Yep. Exactly three minutes later, Mar shows up in the Beemer.
I’m so happy to see him as I slide into the passenger seat, I forget to holler at him for taking time out of his evening to pick me up. He must’ve been parked somewhere close by waiting for my text. When I click my seat belt and look over at him, the smile he gives me is so fricking amazeballs, I lose all my words.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.” My fingers tighten on the seat belt. I want to grab him.
“How was it?”
I shrug. “Hard to say. I answered everything. We’ll see if I got any of the answers right.”
I expect him to give me some of sort of stat or formula on the ratio of study time to exam-passing—odds or something. Instead, he says, “I missed you.”
Oh, man. I smile for the first time in several hours. “I missed you too. Did you work on the shrink-ray today?”
“I thought about the shrink-ray. My ideas for implementation, though…they are still gelling.”
“Ah.”
His lips twitch. “May I kiss you before we get the hell out of here?”
“Um.” I press my lips together. “Yes. A fast one.” What I want is to climb onto his lap, put his head between my hands, and make his mouth mine. Probably not a good thing to do on this busy campus street in front of the math building.
He reaches over the console and puts his hand on the back of my neck. I hold my breath.
The lights from the street and the cars are funky—his eyes seem navy instead of their regular turquoise-y slate. They come closer as he leans forward, his fingers putting gentle yet firm pressure on my neck. I exhale slowly, feeling my own eyes close as our mouths come together.
I’m probably only imagining that the little hitch I hear in his breath, the soft moan when he pulls away, the blood rushing in my ears, means something more than a simple kiss hello.
An alarm beeps somewhere close by. “Glag,” Mar mutters, putting the car in gear. He’s a slow, careful driver, and so he pulls the car slowly and carefully into traffic.
“You want me to drive?” I ask. My voice is breathy, my heart beating as if I’ve been dancing for hours at a club.
“No. I’m good. You rest.”
“You know what? I was crazy tired before. But now…not so much.”
He glances at me, smiling. “No?”
I smile back. “I’m glad you picked me up.”
“Me too. This means you will get home more quickly. And you can see your surprise.”
“Surprise?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what it is.”
“I know what the word surprise means, Pete. It does not mean ‘something you blab about because someone cute asks you to blab about it.’”
“Are you sure it doesn’t mean that?”
“Positive. Put on some music.” He waves his fingers at the dash. “Try to take a small nap or something.”
I put on some music, but the nap isn’t going to happen. My brain is bouncy and I find myself asking him about a question that had stumped me on the test. And maybe it’s because of the bouncy thing. Maybe it’s because Marek was literally a genius—a genius with a sense of humor I fricking adore. Or maybe it’s because I’m head over heels in love with him and can’t get enough of hearing him talk. But I don’t get bored or feel the urge to make rude remarks about stupid formulas and theorems and analytics—I’m into the idea of discussing statistics.
When we pull into the garage, he says, “You get your coat. I’ll take care of your bag.”
“Awww, man. You’re gonna carry my books for me?” I grin at him over the top of the car.
He gives me a quizzical look. “Well. Yes.”
As we head up the walk, I say, “It’s a sign that you like someone if you offer to carry their books. That’s not a thing in the Czech Republic?”
“Mmm. Not that I’ve heard.” He gets keys out of his parka’s pocket and unlocks the back door. “But I do like you very much. And I will carry your books for you whenever I have the opportunity.”
As he holds open the door for me, I rise and plant a kiss on his cheek. I hear him suck in a breath, and when I look into his eyes, they’ve gone that deep navy color again. Damn. Showing Mar affection is very rewarding.
Tonight the idea of fighting against feeling good seems totally messed up. It’s my night off. And if I want to make Marek feel good because he deserves to feel good, then that’s how I’ll spend my time. He’s sweet, he helped me pass my test, and he came to pick me up because he knew I’d be tired and wanting company—and those are only three tiny reasons why he’s deserving.
And, while the new rules we’ve set don’t cover all the issues we face, they are rules, and we’ve talked about why they’re important. Marek listened to me, and I listened to him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, smiling faintly as he shuts and locks the door behind us.
“You make me happy,” I admit.
His smile goes big. “That’s serendipitous.” He hangs up my bag on the hook by the door.
“It is?”
“Yes.” He helps me off with my coat, hangs it up, then takes care of his own coat. “Because tonight I have made an agenda…” He takes my hand and pulls me into the kitchen. “…of happiness.”
With his free hand, he gestures at the small, round table under the windows. It’s set for dinner. Really set. He’d found a tablecloth. And candles. There are plates and gleaming silverware. And a bouquet of flowers—red and yellow tulips.
My gaze shoots to his face. “You did this?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“Yes. I had some time and it is your night off and you had your exam and I wanted to—” He clears his throat. “I, uh, feel… I thought maybe I can begin to show you…”
“I get it,” I say, taking pity on him. “Totally.”
“Good. Now we can eat. Sit while I get the food.”
I sit and watch with interest as he putters around, retrieving covered dishes from the oven’s warming drawer and the fridge.
“Thai?”
“Yes. Zoe took the delivery and put it in the drawer. I made the fruit salad earlier.”
He puts the big bowl of fruit down in the center of the table with a proud flourish.
“Mmm,” I say. “Mandarin oranges and mango.”
“Of course.”
I smile. He knows they’re my favorites. Just like he knows Tom Kha Kai is my favorite dish from the local carryout place.
“You are
a fucking hero. Thanks, Mar.”
The pink on his cheeks makes his eyes seem super-dreamy. “You’re welcome.”
I’m practically drooling by the time he sits across from me. My belly is telling me that it has been weeks since those bites of baklava. I pick up my fork, ready to dig in.
“A toast first.” He picks up his beer, pointing it at my water.
“Oh. Okay.” I raise my glass and tap it against the longneck.
“To happiness,” he says, his eyes sparkling as his gaze snags mine and holds on.
My heart thumps crazily. Because damn. That’s what this feeling—this fizziness happening in my belly, this lightness happening in my brain, this beat pulsing through my veins—is. Happiness.
I’m sober. I’m tired. I’ve done a loop-di-loop on the parental rollercoaster today. I’ve taken an hour-and-a-half-long exam on shit that confuzzled the heck out of me. The January Chicago day has been cold and eight zillion shades of urban gray. I probably look like utter hell as I sit in the kitchen I scrub for a living.
Life is confusing and hard to get a handle on. But, right here, right now, I am happy.
Tears well in my eyes. Marek’s eyes narrow in concern.
“What?” he asks.
I want to tell him. Want to admit out loud that I’ve turned a big-ass corner in my life, but the urge to let the moment ride is stronger. Plus, I’m hungry as hell. So I just smile at him and start eating.
We talk about easy things. Zoe’s reaction to his haircut. Harry and the Hungarian Horntail. The snow that’s in the forecast.
Marek watches me eat my last shrimp and then asks, “Dessert?”
I flash my eyes at him. “What kind?”
His smile is crooked and adorable. “Any kind.”
I lean back in my chair and give my belly a pat. “I don’t think I can eat anything else.”
“Okay, then.” He nods as if deciding on something big.
He stands and comes around to my chair, offering his hand. Static snaps as I touch his fingers. We both laugh. “The force,” he says. “It is powerful between us.”