by Hunter Rose
Of course, I know that I’m lying to myself every single time.
Oh, I’ve gotten together with plenty of women after I returned from the service. I’ve even had relationships with a few of them. But nothing that’s ever lasted very long. Nobody has ever been able to hold my interest or make me feel the way Scarlet did. It seems insane to me that all these years later, a few weeks spent in the desert with her has left such a profound and lasting impact on me. And yet, it has.
Every woman I’ve seen since I got home, I’ve compared to Scarlet. And every single one of them has come up well short of the standard she set. It’s not something I set out to do intentionally. It’s not like I go out on a date with somebody intending to measure them against her. But when I’m out with somebody, I inevitably find myself stacking up their qualities against Scarlet’s – and find them wanting.
I head back to my office and shut the door behind me. I drop down into the chair behind my desk and lean back, closing my eyes and try to relax. I just need a little bit of downtime to myself. I’m the Chief Trauma Surgeon at St. Agnes’ – St. Aggie’s as we call it – in Los Angeles, which means that I’m putting all the skills I learned overseas to good use.
My peace and quiet is disrupted by the bleating of my cell phone. I sigh and grab it, checking the display screen, and groan when I see the number. I connect the call and put the phone to my ear.
“Hi Mom,” I greet her.
“How are you, sweetheart?”
I can’t help but smile when I hear her rich, cultured voice. I’ve always gotten on well with my mother. She’s always accepted me as I am and has never tried to make me something I’m not. She was always the one I went to when I had problems or needed to talk. And she was always the shelter I ran to when things with my father were rough – which was often. She’s my rock. Always has been, and always will be.
“I’m doing okay,” I respond. “How about you, Mom?”
“Well, I’d be doing better if you weren’t living half a world away.”
I chuckle as we follow our usual script – the same exact script we’ve followed every time we talk on the phone for the four years I’ve been out here. While she’ll never outright guilt trip me about moving away, she never fails to get at least one shot in to let me know she isn’t crazy about the idea of me living in California. I haven’t told her that my original idea was to move to Europe or maybe Japan – when I left, I wanted to put as much distance between my father and myself as I could. Being just a four or five-hour plane ride, California seemed like a decent compromise.
“You should think about coming out here, Mom,” I offer. “It’s always sunny, the winters don’t suck, and there are a million different charities you can get involved with.”
She laughs. “Maybe one day, dear,” she says. “I think I might enjoy all of that beautiful sunshine.”
“Well when you’re ready, I’d love to have you stay with me,” I tell her. “So, what’s up, Mom?”
“Nothing,” she responds. “Do I need a reason to call my son?”
“Of course not. You know I’m always happy to hear from you.”
“I was wondering, though…”
And here we go. She doesn’t always have an ulterior motive. Sometimes she really does call just to check in with me. But there are other times when I know she’s got an agenda. I can hear it in her voice, like a different tone or something, and I always know when she’s got something on her mind.
“… if you were going to come back home for my birthday? I would really enjoy it if you did, sweetheart.” she finishes.
I glance at the calendar on my desk and frown. Her birthday is still a couple of months away, which gives me some time to put off answering right now to come up with a plausible excuse. By throwing her birthday into the mix of the usual attempt at trying to patch things up, she’s trying to play on my guilt. It’s a subtle manipulation tactic. But it’s one I know comes from a good place. It comes from a place of love and a desire to make a fractured family whole again.
But as much as I love my mom and would like to spend time with her, the idea of going home fills me with dread – for reasons that have nothing to do with her. She knows what they are, but she never stops trying to smooth things over.
What she doesn’t know is that there isn’t any way to smooth things over. From where I stand, there is no way of patching up the hole that’s been blown into the relationship with my father – a hole he blew up. The two of us are like those rams who stand on a mountaintop and slam their heads into each other again and again. We always have been. I don’t see that being a situation that’s going to change anytime soon. Probably never will.
She remains hopeful that the damage can be repaired, but I know it’s about as likely to happen as me going out with Marisol. We’re lying to each other, and we know it, but it’s one of those lies that makes us both feel better so it’s okay.
“What do you have planned for your big day, Mom?”
“Well, nothing yet, but I’d love for you to be here for whatever we do,” she says. “It would make my day really special.”
“I know, and I’ll try to work it out so I can be there,” I tell her another one of those familiar lies between us, but my mom, being who she is, remains hopeful. “Anyway, how is all of your charity work going?”
“Oh, it’s wonderful,” she gushes. “We’ve started working on an initiative to build housing for the homeless. It will help hundreds, if not thousands of people.”
“That’s great, Mom.”
My mom does a lot of philanthropic work back home. It keeps her busy, keeps her engaged, and around friends. She enjoys the work she does and often says it gives her life meaning.
“If not for my birthday, I’d really love it if you came back for the opening of our new shelter when it’s finished,” she says.
I can hear in her voice just how much it would mean to her if I was there, and it sends a lance of guilt through me. I haven’t been around much over the last three years – I think I can count the number of times I’ve gone home on one hand and have fingers left over. I even find reasons to avoid going back on holidays. In my defense, I am a very busy guy. But on the other hand, I know I don’t make as much of an effort to get back home as I could.
We spend the next half hour catching up on each other’s lives. My mom, of course, makes a point of asking me about my love life – and whether or not she’s going to have any grandbabies to spoil anytime soon. It’s always an uncomfortable portion of our conversation to have, but one that comes up every time we talk. I know my mom wants me to find somebody to spend my life with. Somebody to raise a family with.
She has this whole white picket fence idealized image of my life in her head. And I hate to put a pin in that particular balloon and blow it up. So I never disabuse her of the notion, but I never go out of my way to encourage it either. I guess that’s just yet another one of those comfortable little lies we tell each other.
“He loves you,” she finally blurts, out of the blue. “You know that, don’t you?”
She doesn’t have to clarify who the ‘he’ she’s referring to is. I don’t actually believe it, but I know it will hurt her if I give voice to that belief, so I remain silent, not wanting to add to the pile of comfortable little lies we already tell each other.
“I know things between the two of you are rough. You butt heads. You’re both so strong willed,” she goes on. “And I know he doesn’t show it, but he really does love you, Roman.”
“Okay, Mom.”
She sighs loudly. I hear the pain and frustration in her voice. But there isn’t anything that can be done about it. Not now, and maybe not ever. Not unless my father can find it within himself to repair it himself. This isn’t my mother’s problem to fix, and she shouldn’t have to try.
She drops it, and we talk for another ten minutes before we say our goodbyes – though not before she extracts a promise from me to do everything I can to come home soon. Afte
r I disconnect the call, I drop my phone down on my desk and lean my head back, letting out a loud groan. Talking about my father is the last thing I wanted to do today.
After rotating home, I grudgingly went back to Chicago out of a sense of familial obligation and worked with my father at Northwestern Memorial – a posh hospital in downtown Chicago. Or rather, worked under my father – a fact he reiterated at least once a day. He was hard on me. In my opinion, he was unreasonably and unfairly hard on me. At first, I tried to justify it by telling myself that he was doing it because he knows what I’m capable of and was just trying to bring out the best in me. I tried to tell myself he was pushing me to be great.
It didn’t take long for that illusion to shatter and blossom into outright resentment on my part. I realized he wasn’t trying to push me to be better. He was just pushing me. He was just reminding me that I was a disappointment and inferior to him in every way. Basically, he was just being the asshole I’ve always known him to be.
After about a year of putting up with my dad’s shit, I’d had enough. I quit and moved out west, putting down roots in L.A. and taking a job at St. Aggie’s. And I’ve been here ever since. Much to my mother’s chagrin.
I’ve come to love it out here. I’ve built a life for myself. And most importantly to me, I’ve gotten out from under my father’s shadow.
“You alright, man?” he asks. “You seem broodier than normal.”
I look up from my drink and into the grinning face of Elliott Devers. I met El shortly after I moved to Los Angeles. He’s a lawyer and makes a living defending the rich and spoiled in the City of Angels. Though, he’s more of a problem fixer than he is an attorney anymore. His client list reads like a who’s who of A-list celebrities – actors, athletes, musicians. El is something of a minor celebrity in L.A. himself – one of the perks of rubbing elbows with the rich, powerful, and famous. Or one of the drawbacks, depending on how you look at it.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I tell him.
“You sure? You seem off tonight,” he insists. “You’re even saltier and grimmer than usual.”
I chuckle and give him the finger. “Kiss my ass.”
“There he is,” El laughs. “My little ray of sunshine.”
The music is thumping in the bar, and the bodies are crushed together on the dance floor, undulating and grinding against one another. Despite the smoking ban in L.A. establishments, the smell of weed is still thick in the air. That’s another one of the perks of being rich and famous – the laws of men apparently don’t apply to you.
Glass is the latest trendy night club to grace L.A. It’s the place where celebs go to see and be seen – and apparently, to get high. There is as much coke and weed being sold in Glass as there are overpriced drinks. And there is no shortage of hot chicks wearing next to nothing. Although he doesn’t do the drugs and doesn’t really drink all that much, El loves the spotlight, as well as the frenetic energy and celebrity of his lifestyle. It’s a party all the time in El’s world – I just tag along from time to time.
El is leaning against the bar next to me, a wide smile on his face as he surveys the landscape of young, scantily-clad flesh milling around the club. Why I didn’t cancel tonight is a mystery to me, since I’m totally not in the mood for this. Personally, I’d rather be at home having a quiet drink by myself. I’m not all that social on good days. On days like today, I would rather not be anywhere near humanity at large.
“You know what you need?” El asks.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Pussy,” he announces loudly. “Fresh, tight, young pussy.”
I can feel the heads turning to look at us. El never has been a master of subtlety, but he’s got the sort of electric personality that makes people overlook his – eccentricities. It’s one of the things that makes him such an effective and well-respected lawyer. He can win over practically anybody.
“Pretty sure that’s about the last thing I need right now,” I tell him.
“Come on, there is nothing a little pussy isn’t going to fix,” he presses. “It’ll chase away the blues in no time flat.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Is there anything you don’t think getting laid will solve?”
El cocks his head and feigns the appearance of thinking hard. He looks back at me and smiles wide.
“No actually. Not a damn thing,” he laughs again and pats me on the shoulder. “Be right back.”
I watch El melt into the crowd then turn back to my drink. I glance at my watch and decide I’ve had enough. It’s time for me to go home. I throw some cash on the bar, slide off the stool, and as I turn to head for the door, El appears in front of me with his right arm wrapped around the waist of a blonde and his left around the waist of a brunette. Both of them are in their twenties and are absolutely gorgeous. They also both look vaguely familiar. Knowing El’s clientele the way I do, I’m sure the both of them were probably in a movie or something.
“And where do you think you’re going, Doctor Wheeler?”
He obviously threw in my profession for my benefit, thinking it’ll score me points with the women on his arms.
“Heading home,” I respond. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”
The brunette gives me a pouty face and looks at El expectantly. He gives me a disapproving frown.
“No, you’re not going anywhere just yet,” El beams. “Not until you get to know Eve here a little better.”
The brunette takes a step forward, giving me a wide smile as she bats her eyes. She’s beautiful; I can’t deny that. Dark hair, stunningly blue eyes, long legs, full breasts, and a figure that won’t quit. El knows exactly how to tempt me. The bastard.
“I’m Eve,” she purrs, running a finger down my chest.
“Roman,” I say. “And I really do have an early morning.”
Her smile is seductive, and there’s a sultry light in her eyes. I take in all of her curves – the swell of her hips and the way her breasts strain against the fabric of her dress – and despite my best efforts to resist temptation, I feel my cock stiffening in my pants. I give her a smile and pull her closer to me. Her eyes widen, and her smile grows bigger as she grinds herself against me. She bites her bottom lip and gives me a long, lingering look as she leans forward.
“Why don’t I come tuck you in and tell you a bedtime story?” she whispers in my ear.
I clear my throat and return her smile. “That might help me get to sleep, actually.”
El grins and flashes me a thumbs up. “Atta boy.”
With my arm around her waist, I turn and lead Eve out of the club.
12
Scarlet
The sun is shining, and the air is warm as we walk down the street. Tyson is beside me, and Kinsey is holding my hand as we enjoy a day of shopping. Well – window shopping, anyway. It’s not like I can afford the things I’m looking at.
We pass a store window that’s filled with brightly-colored toys. Kinsey’s eyes widen with delight, and a smile crosses her face.
“Mama,” she calls, pointing to the window.
It breaks my heart that I can’t give Kinsey everything she wants in this world. I want her to have the best of everything. But between working a job that doesn’t pay a fortune, and all of the bills I have – raising a child isn’t cheap, after all – I don’t have a lot left over for extravagances like all the toys she wants. And that kills me.
Tyson casts me a sympathetic look and purses his lips. I know he’d go in and buy the toy she’s pointing to in a heartbeat if I said the word. But we’ve been over this before. He knows that I won’t let him. I can’t afford for Kinsey to get used to getting everything she wants when she wants it. That would just be setting me up for failure. It would be setting me up to be the bad guy.
She’s too young to understand things like bills and budgets. We have food on the table, clothes on our backs, and a roof over our heads. We get by. Maybe it’s not glamorous. Maybe we have to struggle sometimes. But all of our ne
eds are met.
“Hey, how about some ice cream?” I offer.
Kinsey squeals and jumps up and down, the toys in the window forgotten. She grabs hold of my hand again and practically pulls me toward the ice cream shop a couple of doors down. Tyson is smiling wide, so I grab his hand and pull him along with us.
“Ice cream,” she squeals when we’re not moving fast enough.
“I’m getting mint chip,” Tyson says. “How about you, kiddo?”
“Chocolate chip,” she replies, though it comes out sounding more like ‘choc-o-wat ship’.
I laugh, my heart swelling with love for this little girl. For all of the heartache Roman caused me, for all of the pain and regret I carry for opening myself up to him the way I did, all I have to do is look at my baby girl, so beautiful and perfect, to know it was all worth it.
I may cry myself to sleep sometimes and feel utterly alone other times, but then I look at Kinsey. I hear her laughter, feel her tiny little body pressed to mine, and all that sadness is forgotten. When I look at my daughter, I’m filled with nothing but the purest love imaginable.
“What about you, momsy?” Tyson chimes in. “What’s your poison?”
“Peanut butter and chocolate of course,” I say. “Need you even ask?”
“I should have known,” Tyson grins.
“Of course you should have,” I laugh.
We step into the ice cream shop, and the cool air inside feels amazing on my skin. Kinsey skips up to the counter, her eyes growing wide as she surveys the tubs of ice creamy goodness behind the glass. The girl behind the counter – a bored-looking teenage girl with pink hair – puts her phone down and looks at Kinsey.
“What can I get you?” the girl asks.