Milo and the other healthcare professionals tasked with visiting Nana here at home were only doing their jobs, but I felt like the egg whites, plain oatmeal, bland salads, and white chicken tended to crush Nana’s soul. Raising me, she’d taught me to cook with plenty of salt, sugar, and butter. To me, it was the way love tasted—the two of us working side by side in the kitchen, dusted with flour, laughing about something as we licked batter off of spoons.
Her diet was too clinical, and I treated her occasional pizza cheats as medicine for her soul—even if it wasn’t very good, physically speaking, for her heart.
I started running the shower, slipping out of my clothes in the bathroom, setting the phone down on the countertop for a brief moment before snatching it back up.
I had to figure out what all of this meant. I couldn’t ignore the fact that I’d just rebuffed an advance from one of the sexiest men alive. Nana would probably strangle me with frustration if she knew. The picture of Devon Ray I still had in my head, in spite of running into the real thing this afternoon, was one of his many movie-poster images, with his skin perfectly tanned, his teeth white and even, grinning at passersby, his arm securely around whatever young actress was in his latest film. Yes, turning down that Devon Ray would’ve been an inexcusable mistake. I would’ve strangled myself.
But the photo on my phone—I studied it now—was the picture of Devon Ray I actually needed to memorize to replace all the other ones, the false ones. In this photo of mine, Devon was just as ugly on the outside as he was on the inside, bewildered and angry and taken aback that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. Spoiled. Entitled.
A jumble of clothes was faintly visible in the background of the photo, covering nearly the entire surface of one of the beds. The flash on my phone illuminated the sparkling bottle of vodka on the table behind Devon, resting right next to the pizza. The expression on his face was one of anger and fear, in equal measures. It really was a terrible photo, but representative of what was going on in that hotel room. Despite all this, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for him.
According to him, he’d just broken up with his girlfriend. He was feeling alone. I’d never really had time for a real boyfriend before, but if I tried hard enough, I could at least sympathize. As much as I loved Nana and wanted to care for her, I occasionally wished I had a chance to socialize with people my own age…and maybe even fall in love.
“Ugh,” I muttered, locking my phone and putting it down. The mirror was already steamy from the hot water I was running in the shower. That’s how long I had stood there, pathetically contemplating Devon Ray’s situation and imagining I could understand it. I couldn’t understand it. He had everything. What I’d witnessed in that hotel room was a classic case of “poor little rich boy.” He was consumed with the problems created by his fame and fortune, even as thousands would’ve killed to be in his place. It was hard to be sympathetic to that.
The water was scalding. I forced myself into it, if only to try and purge everything that had happened from my mind. I let the spray wet my hair and push it down into my face, blinding me. It was just me and the water…and Devon Ray’s searing gaze.
I groaned a curse and whipped my hair out of my face, lathering and rinsing as quickly as possible. This wasn’t working. I couldn’t just wash away what had happened. It would take time to gradually forget that I’d ever run into Devon Ray in that hotel room. Months and years would have to pass, and then the vivid memories would become a quirk of conversation, something I would bring out at parties when there was a lull in other people’s talking.
“Did you know,” I’d state out of the blue, or perhaps tied in to the end of someone else’s story, “that one time, I delivered pizza to Devon Ray?”
“Devon Ray?” someone else would say. “That poor, washed-up actor? Isn’t he on some celebrity dating reality show now?”
“That’s the very one,” I’d confirm.
“Well?” someone else would prompt. “How was he? What was he like in the height of his fame?”
I could say anything at that point. All eyes at the party would be on me now, aware that they were just two degrees away from someone who’d previously been famous and had now become infamous through some disaster of mismanagement. I could tell them about the vodka and the pizza and the mess in the room. If I were feeling particularly daring, I could even tell them about him trying to kiss me, the draw I felt toward him, his effortless sexuality.
Instead, I’d smile enigmatically. “Even in the height of his fame, there were already shadows of his downfall, even then.”
I liked this scenario very much, I decided, as I stepped out of the shower and toweled off. I looked forward to the moment when the intensity of what had transpired with Devon Ray faded into a story I only brought out at parties—if I ever found the time or social circles to attend parties. I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt before wrapping my hair in the towel and rejoining Nana and Milo in the living room for the last part of the session.
“Almost there,” Milo coached her as she stretched out an oversized rubber band. She grit her teeth in concentration and effort. “Three…two…one. Done.”
Nana let the tension out of the rubber band with a long exhalation.
“Excellent work,” Milo said, taking the rubber band from her. “You’re improving your strength and stamina. I can tell you’ve been working with this regularly.”
Nana shot me a guilty look and I shook my head, pressing my lips together. She hated that damn rubber band. She was supposed to work out with it three times a day, but she only did it when there was a home healthcare provider present. Once per day or so seemed to be working out just fine for her.
Milo turned around and I smiled, leaning against the doorframe. “All done here?” I asked innocently.
“That’s it for today,” he said. “But seriously, June. No more pizza. It’s not good for her, and frankly, it’s not good for anyone.”
“I told you that it was me who smelled like pizza, not Nana,” I said. “Please don’t blame a little old lady for my stench.”
“I’m not old,” she protested.
“No more pizza,” Milo repeated, and left.
“He was so suspicious,” I said, shaking my head. “Would you like another piece?”
“He asked me to tell him the truth about the pizza, and I did,” Nana said, raising her eyes to the ceiling in a saintly gaze.
“Nana!” I shrieked, laughing. “Why’d you let me lie to him?”
“Because it was funny,” she said solemnly. “Now, heat up the rest of that pizza. I’ve done my work today. I deserve a treat.”
“You’re in charge of lying to Milo next time,” I muttered, smiling as I went to the kitchen to get us the pizza and some drinks.
When I returned, Nana was turning on the television.
“What’s tonight?” I asked her. “I forget. What show are we watching?”
“I’m more in the mood for a movie,” she said. “You’ve still got me all excited about Devon Ray.”
I stifled a long sigh and laid our pizza out on the coffee table by the couch. “I bet I can guess which movie we’re watching.”
“You know which one I like,” Nana said, pressing play on the DVD player.
It was her favorite Devon Ray movie, and one of his earlier works. I’d seen it so many times that I could mouth the words along with the actors, but it didn’t seem to bother Nana. For her, watching it again was just as good as the first time. I had a hard time putting my finger on what she thought was so special about this movie. Devon was pretty young, and his chest hadn’t popped with all the heavy muscles yet. It was a love story, like the majority of his other movies, and the female lead was just a slip of a thing. Somehow, the plot led them to a secluded island, where they shook off the trappings and expectations of modern society and embraced simpler things, like their love for each other, their appreciation for nature.
It was very pastoral.
/> I tolerated it because Nana liked it so much, but I couldn’t help wondering if the Devon Ray who acted in this movie had any idea, at that point, how life was going to twist and turn. Did that version of himself ever suspect he’d crouch in a darkened hotel room, drinking vodka alone in the middle of the day?
God help me, but the thought of it softened my heart toward him, toward what had happened. I felt bad for the hand of cards that had been dealt to Devon Ray, even if all he ever amounted to was a poor little rich boy.
Chapter 3
“Now that we’ve got that out of the way, we can get down to business.”
“I like this kind of business,” I confessed, trailing my fingers down a bulging bicep.
“Show-and-tell business,” he said, kissing my forehead. His lips were hot enough to burn.
“I wanted this,” I told him, lifting my face to him. His face was too bright to gaze upon. “I really did. I didn’t, but I did.”
“I knew you did.” Then, his lips were on mine, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my sweatpants, touching me exactly where I wanted him to. His other hand seized mine, guiding it to his crotch. I felt the bulge there, evidence of just how badly he wanted it, too.
I was distracted by a happy sigh across the room. Nana was sitting among all the piles of clothes on the bed, beaming at me.
“This is my favorite part,” she revealed, and I woke up with a gasp.
“What the hell,” I croaked, switching my bedside lamp on. That was what I got for watching that damn movie with her right before bed. I checked my phone—I’d jolted awake a full hour before my alarm was set to sound, but I couldn’t go back to sleep now.
What a twisted dream.
Did my subconscious really think I wanted to hook up with Devon? I wasn’t interested in lounging around in bed long enough to find out.
Thoroughly disturbed, I moved around, cleaning my room. It hadn’t really changed in all the years I’d lived in it. Nana had taken pity on me in high school and let me trade in the frilly pink bedspread of my youth for something a little more demure and grown up, but everything else remained, for the most part. My college textbooks took up an entire row on my bookshelf, but the rest of it was peppered with some of my favorite childhood books. If I cared to excavate underneath my bed, I’d find a plastic box full of my old stuffed animals and dolls. Nana hadn’t let me throw those out, saying that one day, I’d maybe want to give them to my own children.
The idea of me having my own children was just as surreal as almost kissing a movie star in a hotel room.
I started some laundry, trying to be as quiet as possible. I sometimes found that the best way to redirect my thoughts was through good old manual labor.
Once every available surface was wiped down, mopped, and swept—and I was sweaty and in need of another shower—I felt marginally better. I checked on Nana in her room.
“Good morning,” she said, surprising me.
“Did I wake you up?”
“I heard you moving around, but I was already awake,” she said. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter. Just getting ahead on some chores.”
“Uh-huh. You have a bad dream?” She knew me too well.
“Not…bad. Just weird.”
“You can tell me about it, if you want.”
“That’s okay, Nana. I’m sure I’ll forget about it in a few hours.” Not likely.
“What’s on the menu for breakfast?” she asked. “Leftover pizza?”
“Yeah, right,” I laughed. “Not when you tattle on me to Milo. You can kiss pizza good-bye.”
I helped her out of bed and into a housecoat, wheeling her into the kitchen to keep me company as I cooked.
“Doesn’t an omelet sound good this morning?” I asked her, pushing her to her preferred spot at the kitchen table.
“I suppose I could consider an omelet,” she said, which was her lofty way of saying “hell, no.”
“It’ll be a good omelet. I promise. Let me get you the paper and I’ll get started.”
Times had certainly changed. When I was younger, it was usually me hunched over the kitchen table, finishing up some neglected homework while Nana bustled over the stove, making breakfast for us. Of course, back then, breakfast was a much more delicious affair—golden waffles, fluffy pancakes, and never-ending plates of bacon or sausage. Now, she occupied herself with the stories in the newspaper while I prepared an approved recipe from her list of acceptable foods for her diet. Today’s omelet consisted of tasteless ground turkey I tried to liven up by sautéing it with mushrooms and onions, sprinkled with hot peppers and fragrant herbs. I chopped up a rainbow of bell peppers, tossing them like confetti among the rest of the ingredients. I added some roasted dried tomatoes for an extra punch of taste, then poured egg whites over everything. I let that cook for a while before attempting to flip it, and cursed softly. The omelet broke apart in the skillet, spilling the contents. It had been so pretty.
“I heard that,” Nana said mildly.
“How do you feel about loaded scrambled eggs this morning instead?” I asked her.
“I like loaded scrambled eggs about as much as I like omelets,” she said. Translation: I don’t care, June, just as long as you feed me.
“Excellent.” I stirred quickly, mixing the rest of the ingredients up. They would still be colorful, at least. I poured us some orange juice and stared longingly at the dusty coffeemaker. I’d wait until I left for work to grab coffee. I probably should’ve gotten rid of that thing. Nana couldn’t have coffee as one of the stipulations of her diet, and that damn thing just reminded her of the delicious beverage she’d lost access to.
“You can fix yourself a pot, you know,” she said, not looking up from the newspaper pages spread across the table. “I don’t mind.” It was Nana who ignited a love for coffee in me, splashing just a little into my morning milk when I was younger, gradually increasing the ratio of coffee to milk as I grew older, until, in my estimation, pure, black coffee with just a splash of milk was the best drink you could get. I knew how much she loved it and how much she missed it, but that caffeine was just too hard on her heart. I fixed her some decaf one time, but she refused, saying it was a poor substitution and would just make her sadder.
“I don’t need it, Nana,” I lied. “Orange juice is fine. Look. Order up!”
I put the plate of steaming hot eggs in front of her, along with her glass.
“Well, June,” she said, smiling. “This is downright colorful.”
“I told you it would be a good omelet…well, loaded scrambled eggs, anyway.”
After breakfast, cleaning up the kitchen, and another shower, it was time for me to go to work.
“Nana, I’m leaving,” I told her. I’d wheeled her into the living room after breakfast. There, she had access to the television and our small library of movies, as well as a bookshelf with books that I tried to refresh from time to time from the discounted offerings at the library, which tried to jettison some of its older volumes by selling them for cheap.
I always felt guilty leaving her, even if we could use the extra money from the delivery gig. She had the television, books, social media, and the phone at her disposal, but I knew she preferred human contact. And I was her most preferred human contact.
“You have a wonderful day,” she said. “I hope you get to deliver pizza to Devon Ray again.”
“I doubt that’ll happen,” I said, laughing uneasily. “You want me to drop you off at the senior center, Nana? It’s on the way to the pizza place.”
“Are you calling me a senior?” she asked, giving me the eye.
“No,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure it’s bingo day, and I know how much you love that.”
“No amount of bingo would make me want to hang out with those old idiots,” she sniffed. “Senile, the lot of them. They all tell the same stories over and over again. You’d think only one thing happened to them in their entire lives.”
&
nbsp; I had a brief but vivid vision of myself at a senior center, old and gnarled, telling anyone who’d listen about the time I almost kissed Devon Ray. I shuddered.
“Okay, Nana. I’ll see you tonight, then. Who’s coming this afternoon?”
“It’s my free day,” she said, grinning. I felt even worse that she’d be alone until the end of my shift.
“Well, you enjoy yourself,” I said. “I better not find out that any of my coworkers are delivering pizzas here today.”
“I’m smarter than that,” she retorted. “I call the rival pizza place.”
“You traitor.” I gave her a kiss and left the house.
Getting to work, I discovered that I wasn’t in too much trouble with my manager for skipping the rest of my shift the day before.
“There wasn’t anything I could do,” I said, shrugging. “I was sick. What did you expect? That I’d traipse up and down sidewalks, puking while carrying people’s meals to them? That wouldn’t reflect very well on the company, now, would it?”
“The pizza that you failed to deliver,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That customer was waiting for delivery for more than ninety minutes.”
“I said I was sorry. It was an emergency. I’m back, though, and ready to work. Let’s set some sales records today, right?”
I grabbed an order that was already set to go and practically ran out the door. I’d learned the trick to working my manager within a couple of weeks of starting my job. Disagree quickly, and then beat it. He couldn’t argue with me if he couldn’t find me, and as long as I was making deliveries efficiently, he wouldn’t bother too much.
I was surprised that he hadn’t tried to deduct money from my pay as retribution for the lost pizzas.
The day passed like most of them did. I counted exactly five naked people peeking out from behind doors as I delivered their meals, no more than usual. My routes took me past the hotel where everything had taken place yesterday, and I wondered if Devon was still there. I supposed I could always swing by and at least shake him down for the money he owed me. If things had gone differently, maybe he would’ve given me a huge tip.
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