by P. Dangelico
“No, thanks. I’d rather not have both of us end up in jail. That’s really sweet of you, though.”
She shrugs. “The offer stands.”
The Grim Reaper’s done enough damage. I’d like to put the entire ordeal behind me as soon as possible, but the truth is I can’t stop thinking about it. My feelings are still bruised and that’s nearly impossible to accomplish.
I thought we were getting somewhere, striking up a friendship of sorts, and to be humiliated in front of the hospital staff and doctors like that was…devastating.
Then there’s Maisie.
I guess I like kids more than I was prepared to because taking care of her was more a pleasure than a job. The one takeaway from this entire cluster is that I’m looking forward to having some of my own one day.
With who, though?
Extra large pie in hand turning cold by the minute despite the humidity and heat, I walk back to my place toe dragging my Air Jordans. I’ll have to throw these out tomorrow. Every time I look at them, I’ll be reminded of you-know-who and I can’t have that.
I climb up the stairs, push open the front door––even that feels like hardship––and drop my messenger bag on the floor.
“I’m home!” I grumble rather loudly. It’s an exclamation and a threat. Approach at your own risk! I’m rarely in a bad mood and this one qualifies as a doozy.
“I’ve got a cold pizza if you’re interested.”
A peal of laughter drifts out of the living room in what is surely my mother’s voice. Like…wtf? The carefree joy feels like a personal insult. Someone laughing in my own house? No. Problem is, my mother doesn’t laugh. Not generally. Not since I’ve known her. This anomaly needs immediate investigating, so I don’t pause to drop the pizza in the kitchen. No, I march directly into the living room…
Where I find Bonnie James sitting on the carpet I bought on Etsy, legs crossed, playing with Maisie, huge smiles stretched across both of their faces.
On a personal note, I don’t have any recollection of my mother playing with me when I was a kid. Not a single memory. And yet, here she is teaching Maisie how to play patty cake.
The stench of sulfur reaches me, wafting over from the other side of the room. Metaphorically speaking or whatnot.
Sitting in the corner, lurking like an evil specter from Hell, the Grim Reaper stares back at me. Bent forward, elbows on his knees, he immediately sits up and slowly stands, his shoulders dropping. His dark dress shirt is wrinkled, sleeves rolled up, his hair messy and not in a stylish way. He looks like meatloaf left out in the heat for a week. Good. His suffering pleases me. More, as Maisie would say.
“How many souls did you steal today?”
“What?” Grim replies, expression puzzled.
“What’s going on here?” I demand to know.
“Rie!” Maisie screeches, noticing me standing at the edge of the room. Her tiny hands go up. “Pick up!”
Dropping the pizza box on the console table on my left, I walk over, pick her up, and plant a big kiss on the chubby folds of her neck. Nothing smells as good as a toddler…when she doesn’t have a dirty diaper that is.
Most importantly, she looks healthy and happy. A sense of bone-deep relief comes over me.
“Down,” she orders. I give her back to my mother.
“Mr. West said he needed to speak with you urgently so I told him to wait. I tried calling you.”
She means my personal phone which I had to cancel today due to lack of funds thanks to the man staring at me from across the room.
“Hmm,” is my reply to that. My dignity can’t take another hit right now.
“Can I speak to you?” Grim says in a quiet voice.
“My pizza is getting cold, so no.”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
“He’s been waiting an hour, Rie,” the traitor who birthed me says. “Just speak to the man.”
The fit of pique I’m about to have is going to blow my head off and possibly put a hole in the roof. “Speak.”
The sheepish look, the way he stuffs his hands in his pockets––I don’t know why, but his lack of emotion, any real emotion, makes me madder. Then he has the gall to make demands. “Can we do it somewhere private?”
I turn on my heels and walk out, back onto my front porch. If I’m going to blow, I can’t do it in front of the baby. Jordan follows moments later, closing the door behind him. He looks off. Searching for what? My money is on a sign from Satan himself.
Exhaling, he faces me again. “You’re not fired.”
Mmmwhat? He can’t be serious. “Come again?”
“You’re not fired.”
He can’t be this thick.
“I would like for you to come work for me again.”
Yes, he can. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Or call a paramedic. He needs to have his head checked. The arrogance of this man is on a level I would call delusional.
“This is what you came all the way to Staten Island to say to me…this? I’m not fired. Not an apology. Not an, I’m sorry I humiliated you in front of two dozen people. I’m not fired?”
“I apologize for humiliating you,” he says, voice low, jaw firm in that arrogant manner of his.
“That’s the best you can do?”
He makes a pained face. Yeah, buddy, feel the pain. He’s lucky I’m not making him tattoo the apology on his forehead.
“Well?” I persist. He’s not getting off that easy.
“What would you like me to say?”
I take a deep breath and exhale. “For a smart guy, you sure don’t have any answers.” I know I’m going to regret this later, but right now all I see is red. “I need you to leave.”
“Riley…,” he murmurs in a genuinely remorseful voice. Now we’re getting somewhere. Now that it’s too late. He can unfire me, but he can’t unhurt my feelings.
“You need to leave, Jordan. As much as I love and miss Maisie. I can’t––”
“Look, I’m sorry. I am. I shouldn’t have treated you that way, but I was…” He stops, blinking down at me as if he doesn’t know if he should say more.
“You were worried. I get it. But might I remind you that neither of us knew she had food allergies. You blamed me, a stranger, for not knowing she was allergic to peanuts when you yourself, her godfather, had no idea.”
His chin tips down. He stuffs one hand in his pocket, the other sifts through his hair. “You’re right…I’m sorry. Can you please come back now?”
He looks genuinely sorry. And yes, I need the money desperately. But who’s to say this doesn’t happen again?
“You can’t treat me that way again.”
He glances up, a hopeful spark dancing in his tired green eyes. “I promise.”
“I mean it, Jordan.” I cross my arms, suddenly feeling vulnerable for whatever reason. He has a way of getting inside of me, sneaking in when he’s being sweet, that legitimately scares me.
“Let me prove it to you…” He steps forward, only half a dozen inches separating us, and does something he’s never done before…he touches me. He reaches out and tucks a stray piece of my hair back behind my ear. My breath gets caught in my throat.
I don’t think it’s a conscious decision on his part because he stalls, pausing long enough to decide whether to continue. His fingers linger on my ear and slide down my neck and I freeze. Because it feels good. It feels right in the wrongest way possible. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before, a strange mix of excitement and fear.
Inside, Maisie laughs and the spell is broken. It’s a bucket of cold water, shocking us back to reality. His hand falls away and he steps back.
“It’s your last chance,” I tell him because as much as I love Tommy, there’s only so much I am willing to sacrifice and my mental health is not one of those things. I won’t stand for being abused.
“Deal,” he says quietly.
I look up and ironically find Jordan looking more relaxed than I ever have before. Like a weight
has been lifted.
“Will you come back to the city tonight? I’ve been having a hard time getting her to sleep.”
I can see the evidence all over his face. I nod and one side of his lips lifts into a rare smile. For him, that is. For most everyone else, it’s a resting face.
Twenty minutes later, after I’ve packed and Jordan and Maisie are waiting for me in the Audi parked in the driveway, ready to drive back to the city, my mother cups my face.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, hoping and praying she’s not having one of her episodes.
Bonnie stares into my eyes, the smile Maisie put on her face long gone. I miss it already.
“Don’t get your hopes up, baby,” she says, rather cryptically.
I snort, somewhere between finding this amusing and terrifying. “What are you talking about?”
“That man…” She drops my face and points to the front door out of which Jordan and Maisie left a short while ago, “…has nothing left to give.”
An uncomfortable foreboding parks itself in my gut. “I have no idea what you mean.” Partly…also partly, I don’t want to know what she means.
“He gave it all away already––a long time ago.”
“Mom, he’s my boss. There’s nothing going on between us. ”
“Maybe not––but I know my chickens.”
“Your only chicken says you’re imagining things.”
Leaning against the wall, she crosses her arms and watches me grab my bag off the floor. “Mark my words, Riley, you’ll end up with a broken heart.”
The words hit me hard, get stuck in the places I haven’t shored up yet. Like you? I want to say but don’t. I can’t hurt her the way she flagrantly hurts me sometimes. I know she doesn’t do it willfully but it hurts regardless.
“Love you. See you soon.”
Kissing her, I leave and let the resentment go the minute I step out of the house. I’ve gotten remarkably good at it. Because I learned a long time ago you never know what life has in store for you. Or when time runs out. Never let a chance to tell someone you love them slip through your fingers. Words may be cheap, but regrets are expensive.
Chapter Nine
Riley
“You wanna get together tonight?” my BFF asks. I check my iPhone screen. The time reads 8:30 p.m.
I’ve finally mastered the art of putting Maisie to bed at the same time every day. Huge win. And I’m learning to make small meals and plan ahead so I’m not constantly having to wonder what to feed her. Smaller win but just as important.
Maisie’s soundly asleep in her crib while I’m parked on the goose down sofa in the living room. I’ve got popcorn, a cold Dr Pepper, and Home Town on HGTV playing on a flat screen television big enough to double as a home theater. I’m good here.
“Can’t. Jordan’s at a business dinner so I’m staying over. Besides, I’m watching Home Town and Ben and Erin are renovating a home struck by a tornado and the elderly owner started crying when he saw the damage. It’s so sweet that they’re helping him.”
“Wow, you’re livin’ the dream,” she deadpans. “I hope Jordan doesn’t get food poisoning. What’s the name of the restaurant he’s at?”
“Vern…”
“I’m not ready to forgive him. Don’t ask me to.”
“Fine. I’ll give you another week.”
“You should take his ice cream out of the freezer and hide it in the oven.”
My best friend, ladies and gentlemen. “Savage.”
“He deserves worse.”
Revenge plots are Vern’s specialty. She loves it in her fiction novels and in real life. Best not to stoke that fire. Better to change the subject. I won’t bother explaining to her that he’s more than made up for it in the past two weeks since I was unfired. Like there’s always Dr Pepper in the drink fridge. And the food I like. Or that he’s always checking to see if I need something. And that he actually smiles at me sometimes. This is serious progress for a man who couldn’t look at me without his face going completely idle a few weeks ago.
“What happened to the corporate suit you went on that emergency date with?”
“Brandon? He’s gone, kicked to the curb for excessive sweating.”
Snort. “’Scuse me? What does that mean?”
I’m not even sure I want to know. Every time Veronica tells me about her dating nightmares, an angel loses its wings. If she can’t find someone to love, then I don’t stand a chance.
“It means that he sweats so much during sex that––and I’m not making this up. I mean, I wish I was, but I’m not––his sweat dripped down his face and onto mine”
“No,” I say, horrified.
“Yes. Some of it even landed in my mouth.”
I nearly choke on the Dr Pepper I was sipping. “That’s the most horrible thing I have ever heard in my life.”
“At one point he threw a towel over my face and kept going.”
This is why I don’t date. This is enough to keep me celibate for the rest of my long life.
“What about Jordan?” she says, skipping onto the one topic I’m trying to avoid.
“What about him?”
“What’s his deal?” she continues. “Does he date?”
Good question. It’s been on my mind since I wandered…drifted…with purpose––purposefully actually––into his bedroom a few days ago. It took me a while to drum up the courage. This is after I found a room in his suite which is always locked. Always. I try the handle every time I’m here.
“Did I tell you that I found a locked room? One that’s always locked.”
“Yo, are you teasing me right now?”
“Nope. For real.”
“Based. He’s full-on Christian Grey.”
“Doubt it. It’s Jordan we’re talking about here. It’s probably the closet where he keeps his cape and sickle.”
“You better hope it’s not a closet full of fifty-gallon drums filled with body parts.”
His bedroom, however, was predictable. It looks exactly how you would imagine. Bland and boring. Dark gray linens, honey maple furniture. Style contemporary––like the rest of his home. Free of anything too personal outside of his clothes, of course.
The only items of any interest were the books stacked on his nightstand: a Winston Churchill biography and a book on nutrition––something about eating clean or whatnot. And a black and white photo in a simple silver frame.
The photo? Three people in their twenties on a sailboat. On the right, a tall man, really tall, and built like a Viking with a short beard to match. He’s handsome and smiling broadly, and the feeling I get from him is one of pride. He has his arm around the willowy young woman in the middle. She’s Asian, or maybe half Asian, with long hair whipping in the wind. She’s beautiful, smiling broadly too, and her face is slightly tipped in the direction of the Viking.
On her left, there’s Jordan.
His smile is not as broad. Not as bright. And as handsome as he is, the incandescent light coming from the other two casts a shadow over him.
I’m assuming the woman is Maisie’s mother and maybe the tall guy is Eli. Pure speculation on my part since it’s easier to get a straight answer out of the CIA than one from Jordan.
“He’s my boss. Nothing more. I don’t ask personal questions.”
“Yeah, right, and I’m J-Lo. This is sooo Billionaire and the Nanny.”
I snort. “No, it really isn’t.”
“How old is he anyway? A little old to be singlemaybehe’sgay,” she says in one long run-on sentence.
“I think he’s thirty-five? Thirty-seven maybe?”
“Thirty-three,” comes from behind me in a deep male voice. My stomach drops. Swiveling around, I find him standing in the doorway.
Busted.
My skin feels like I dove headfirst into a volcano. I’m absolutely certain my face is an unnatural shade of neon red.
“How long have you been standing there?”
�
�Since thirty-five.”
He sits next to me on the couch even though this oversized monster could easily sit ten people, the only thing separating us an innocent bowl of popcorn.
Jordan takes a handful and stuffs it in his mouth, watching me closely. There’s a smile in his eyes. It makes me wonder what it would take to make him smile, really smile, to make him drop all that heavy baggage he carries around each day and just be joyful for once. At least for a little while. I’ve seen his anger, indifference, fear…what about the opposite end of the spectrum?
“You think I look thirty-seven?”
I pinch my lips together to stop the smile pushing my cheeks apart. “You act like you’re eighty so let’s split the difference.” He makes a face and turns his attention on the television. “V, I gotta go. The boss is home.” She’s in the middle of firing off another question when I end the call.
“Thirty-seven, really?”
I grab a handful of popcorn and pop one kernel in my mouth at a time to hide my amusement. Jordan is never talkative and never playful. This is new territory for us. “Are you fishing for a compliment?”
He thinks about it. “Yes.”
“Here goes––but only because you pay me. You ready?”
“Hit me.”
“You’re the youngest-looking thirty-three-year-old man in the universe…Does this please you?”
“You could’ve said something about me being extremely handsome.”
“Extremely? That would require a raise. I can throw in a very for free though.”
“I’ll take a very.”
This brings us to a very awkward moment where I’m smiling like I’ve got oatmeal for brains and he’s staring at my lips.
“How was Maisie?”
He asks me that every single night he can’t be with her for dinner. It makes me melt a little, that this man with a shell a thousand miles thick has one weakness, a two-year-old girl with an easy laugh.
“She ate her dinner like a good girl.” We fall into a comfortable silence watching TV. The type old friends might share. But we’re not old friends. We’re not even new friends. We’re two people thrown together by circumstance, by a strange twist of fate.
