by P. Dangelico
One of the cocktail waitresses sends me in the direction of the Polo Club house. I’m about to enter a stall when Joan comes out of another.
Of course. Just my luck. Any good feelings I was holding onto after meeting Beau and Jordan’s father fades like a retro Polaroid picture.
“Riley.”
“Congresswoman West.”
No joke, she insists on making me call her that. She called my iPhone once, looking for Jordan, and I called her Mrs. West and she corrected me. So here we are.
Joan looks around, pushes all the doors of the stalls open very obviously making sure no one is within earshot. Then she gives me her full attention.
“Look, sweetie,” she starts, hands clasp in front, “you’re a really nice girl and you seem to have your head on straight. You have a lot going for you…”
“Thanks Joan.”
She makes a face. I probably shouldn’t push her buttons but I can’t help myself right now.
“Whatever you think you feel for my son––it’s sweet but…” A sigh. “…it’s never going to work.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I was young once too,” she continues as if she didn’t hear me. “I was a hopeless romantic. I know what you’re feeling… And then I woke up and realized the world is a ruthless place.” She steps closer. “What I’m getting at is that my son is a brilliant man. He will make history. Change the course of humanity. In some ways he already has––”
Take a break from the helium hits, lady, I want to say. I can’t though. I have to let her say her piece and hope it ends here.
“I think you’re getting the wrong impression.”
The last thing I need is for her to tell Jordan I have a crush on him. I don’t think I could survive that kind of humiliation.
She gives me a fake sympathetic smile. “I see the way you look at him. He’s not for you Riley. He’s meant for bigger, better things. His children will be senators one day––maybe even president of the United States.”
Overlords of the Galaxy!
“Ma’am, with all due respect. I’m only the childcare provider. I don’t know where all this is coming from but I need to get back to Maisie. Are you done?”
Her eyes narrow; her dark-red-painted lips press into a straight line. “I’m done.”
I leave without using the toilet. Because having my bladder explode is more appealing than having to stand here and listen to her rant for another second.
12
Chapter Twelve
Riley
“Wait a hot second…” Veronica’s eyes widen. “I know that guy from Tinder.” She jerks her chin toward someone at the end of the bar…a guy with his wife. Yeah, it’s definitely his wife. He’s clearly wearing a wedding band.
“He’s married?” She makes a face of utter disgust. “Men are pigs.”
“You’re in a good mood tonight.” Hiding my amusement, I take a sip of my Dr. Pepper.
She sucks in a breath, “I know that guy too,” pointing to someone across the room. “Motherfuuu…” The word fades away as the cute bartender looks her way and winks. Veronica immediately flashes him her best smile.
I promised I would meet her for a drink after she got out of work. The location was her choice: Monkey Bar on 54th. Time was my choice: after Maisie went to bed. For Jordan’s sake; he’s been working long hours lately.
“Wait, you’re on Tinder?”
“Purely for research,” she tells me. “Like recon, I need to know what’s on the market.” I laugh. “So what happened at the polo thing?”
The polo thing…
Otherwise known as the day I found out Jordan had cancer. I’ve been living with that dark cloud hanging over me for the past five days and I’m pretty sure he’s noticed.
“His mother happened. It was straight out of a Spanish telenovela. She cornered me in the bathroom and went full-on Cersei.”
“You never go full Cersei.”
“She thinks Jordan’s a cross between Thomas Edison, Elon Musk, and a unicorn all rolled into one hot package.”
“At least you didn’t get slapped in the face,” she points out and takes a sip of her cosmo. “That usually happens in telenovelas.”
“There’s something to be grateful for. I’m sure she’s saving it for next time…I met his brother and father. They live in the Keys. Probably thanks in part to his mother.”
“What’s the brother like?”
“Hot––not your type of hot. He’s all G.I. Joe Navy Seal or something…He’s really nice.”
I can’t tell Veronica about Jordan being ill yet. It feels personal for some reason. I’ve been feeling stupidly protective of him since the news.
“So…,” she starts in a conspiratorial tone. Finished with the cosmo, she places the glass back down on the bar. “Straight into my veins. What’s happening on this week’s edition of Billionaire and the Nanny.”
Some things are impossible to keep from her. She knows me too well. “I’m in trouble.”
Her face puckers. “Oh no, no, no, no, noooo. Have I taught you nothing?” She gestures with her hands. “You do not fall in love before they do. That’s like…rule number one. This is unacceptable behavior. You’ve been a very bad student. F, you’re getting an F for the semester.”
“What do I do? How do I stop it?” She gives me a face that says you poor schmuck.
“You can’t. It’s too late. You gotta go with it.”
“You would tell me if you thought the case was hopeless, right? Cersei said I’m no good for him.”
“Fuck Cersei.” My best friend––I love this girl. “And why would you even say that? Why would you even think it? It’s not like he’s royalty.”
“Because…” A bout of longing hits me. My voice dropping. “Because I barely finished high school and he invents things...that like…benefit humanity. I’m way out of my league here.”
“You know what my grandmother used to say?”
“What?”
“Imma tell you…”
“Say it already.”
“People are people everywhere.”
“I love your grandmother.”
“Yeah, me too.”
My phone dings with an incoming text and I glance at it.
Grim: do we have ibuprofen in the house?
I still have PTSD over the peanut incident. So it’s no surprise that I’m immediately alarmed, every hair on my body standing on end. Now I know why most parents are either overly nervous people, or so fried from years of exhaustion and lack of sleep that they have the motivation of a slug.
Me: yes. Why? Is it the baby?
Grim: no. me. I don’t feel well.
It’s a direct shot to the heart. I jump off the bar stool and sling my messenger bag overhead.
“V, I gotta go. Jordan doesn’t feel well.”
And because she’s my best friend and no explanation is ever necessary she waves me off. “Go. I got this.”
I run twenty blocks home.
For a long time, I thought everyone was going to die. I was a kid and my father died after I was told repeatedly that he was going to, “make it,” and he was going to, “beat it.” Those were two “incontrovertible” facts. And yet he died anyway.
At the time it seemed perfectly legit to me. Why would all these people lie to me? Well, because I was twelve, that’s why. So for a long time after that, I believed two thing: everyone lied, and everyone died.
It took me a long time to get over that. And the only reason I did was not so much for myself, but rather because I didn’t want to become a shell of a person like my mother.
You can try and rationalize that feeling away. You can go to therapy for years. But a small version of it will always remain. Like a wart waiting to come out to remind you that as long as you’re alive it’s still there, needing to be eradicated. That there will always be work to be done.
I run home in a frenzy, the wart making its presence felt. Wh
en I get there, I find Jordan on the couch in the living room wearing gray sweatpants, a white thermal shirt, and a blanket wrapped around him. He looks tired and pale. Immediately, my mind goes to the worst possible conclusion.
“How do you feel? Have you taken your temperature?”
“Mmm,” is his articulate reply.
I run into the kitchen and fetch the thermometer and a bottle of Pedialyte. When I return and approach him, he stops me. His hand comes up.
“I don’t want to get you sick. One of us has to stay alive to take care of Maisie.”
“I take zinc and vitamin D every day and you should too.”
“I do,” he nearly growls. He makes a face. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
No words necessary. I race to the kitchen and return just in time with a clean trash can. Bending over it, he empties the contents of his stomach and it’s violent. This isn’t a mild anything. The cold and the flu don’t even hit the stomach that quickly. My suspicion grows.
“Did you go out for dinner tonight?”
“Takeout at the office.” He throws up again and I run my fingers over his scalp, pet his back. Anything to make him feel better right now. I feel terrible for him. Empathy is an actual burden.
“You have food poisoning. I’m almost positive.”
He moans or growls or something.
I’m so busy having a pity party for him that I almost miss a good sign. His body is rejecting the contaminated food quickly. It means his system is working properly and he’ll recover faster, something my father’s home nurse taught me.
“The quicker you throw up, the faster you’ll feel better.”
His body reacts accordingly. “Uhh, shut up.”
I bite down on my lip to stave off the giggles and take my hand back. “Don’t stop that,” he pleads in a low, weak voice. “Don’t ever stop please…” I go back to sifting my fingers through his hair and he exhales roughly.
An hour later I’ve managed to move him to his bedroom. “I’ll help you change your shirt.”
“Dresser. Bottom left drawer,” he grunts.
Turned on his side, he hangs onto the edge of the bed for dear mercy with a couple of clean buckets below him. His expression is a portrait in misery.
I approach the bed holding a clean T-shirt and he sits up, then hunches over. Slowly, I take the hem of his shirt, damp with sweat, and pull it over his head. Jordan is such a singular, self-contained unit that it feels unnatural to be in control. He’s letting me do anything I want without argument, and for a man with so much pride, I’m sure that’s hard.
I smooth the T-shirt into place, my palm coasting down the curve of his back, and he sighs. There’s a water bottle and Pedialyte on his nightstand, a pack of wet wipes. He’s set up for the night––I’ve seen to that––but he looks so miserable I can’t make myself leave. He isn’t exactly pushing me out the door either.
Once again it makes me wonder if Jordan is lonely. I’ve already established he doesn’t have many friends. I know his work keeps him busy, and he has tons of relationships through work. But those relationships are based on a transaction, something in exchange. He’s never mentioned any woman he’s dating. What about friendship? What about love?
Who would’ve taken care of him if I hadn’t been here? The thought of him being here sick and alone hurts my heart.
From where I’m standing on the side of his bed, my eyes follow the natural path to the black and white picture.
“That’s Lainey and Eli…in the picture?”
He’s back to lying on his side again. His eyes blink open. He gives it a quick glance and nods. “The weekend they got married.”
“Were you the best man?”
“I gave the bride away. Her father had passed.”
More crumbs. I tuck them into the back of my mind to examine later, compare them to all the others I’ve collected, and piece the story together.
“You were really close.”
It’s more of a statement than a question. I guess what I really want to ask is if he was in love with her, but I don’t have the guts for that.
He nods once and closes his eyes again. Crawling onto his bed, I lay down behind him and brush my hand across his back. He doesn’t stir and doesn’t ask me to leave. Just the opposite, he sighs like the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders.
“Jordan?”
“Mmm.”
“Do you feel better?”
“Keep touching me.”
Fortune favors the brave, I remind myself. At the club, he asked about love and I gave him a coward’s answer. “I’m gonna stay here tonight.”
“Mmm.”
“Tell me if you need anything. Wake me if you feel worse.”
“Come closer,” he murmurs in that deep voice of his that gets inside of me and stirs up trouble.
My hand stalls. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, I move closer, close enough that I can brush my fingers over his back and through his hair. He shivers and sighs, and settles into me.
Twenty minutes later, caught between dreams of him and the reality of sleeping next to my boss, the same man I’m falling in love with, I hear a whispered, “Thanks, baby.”
But it’s late, and I’m tired, and I’m half asleep. I must’ve imagined it, I tell myself. I’m fairly certain I did.
Days roll by, fall nipping at summer’s heels with no sign of Eli. Jordan is beginning to worry in earnest now. I can see it now and again when he plays with Maisie. Like Eli is in the room with us––a specter haunting us.
“Eli?” I ask when he walks into the kitchen tugging on the dark tie that matches his dark shirt and pants. It’s past nine p.m. and he looks tired.
Tired but…good. Dare I say he looks happy? He definitely looks more settled lately. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I’d like to think Maisie and I had something to do with it. That we helped smooth out all the rough spots and sharp edges in his life.
“Nothing,” he tells me. Grabbing a beer out of the fridge, he takes a seat at the counter and watches me cook like I’m the greatest show on earth.
We’ve got it down to a science, behaving as if we’ve been married for a decade. Without any of the perks of marriage of course. Like…sex.
The fantasies had not abated. If anything, they’ve ramped up. I spend most of my nights here at his place under the pretext that it’s easier for our schedules and the commute’s a chore. On the flip side, it’s torture having him across the hall. So close and yet so far. I find myself awake in the middle of the night, tangled in sweaty sheets and restless. I’ve burned through four erotic romance audiobooks this week alone. It’s dire straits and I don’t know what to do about it.
“You don’t think he would…you know…”
“Hurt himself?” Jordan breaks the stalemate, speaking for both of us. He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He cares too much about Mais.”
“So much he left her with you for three months?”
He tilts his head and examines the vegetables I’m chopping on the cutting board.
“What are you making?”
“Pasta with veggies.”
I’m freezing it in small containers for the week. No more scrambling for last-minute meal ideas. Slowly but surely, I’m developing the planning skills of a five-star general and food is my battlefield.
Do you know what it’s like to feed a two-year-old three times a day plus snacks? Allow me to unveil the mystery––it’s a freaking torturous process. I’d rather pour a foundation for a two-story house on my own. Anyone who tells you stay-at-home mom isn’t a real job should be taken out back and shot.
“Smells good,” he murmurs, his heavy-lidded eyes meeting mine.
He’s got me locked into that green gaze. When what I really want to do is walk up to him, run my hands around his neck, and pull him down for a kiss. This attraction has reached maximum level crazy on my part. Yeah, it’s pretty bad.
Turning off the gas, I push the po
t full of blanched vegetables to the back burner to cool off. I need to cool off a little too. “Can you taste that sweet potato mash and tell me if there’s enough nutmeg?”
Thank you YouTube. I point to the pot I have cooling on the kitchen island.
“Nutmeg?” Jordan repeats and makes a face. I’m not sure if it’s a curiously delighted face or a disgusted one though.
“Don’t make that face. Just try it.” I scoop some up in a table spoon and make my way to the other side, the one he’s leaning against.
“No thanks.”
“It’s delicious. Just taste it.” I hold up the spoon much in the same way I do when I feed Maisie, but Jordan grabs my wrist before the spoon can reach his mouth.
Mistake. Big mistake. It launches the contents of said spoon––a big orange glob of sweet potato mash––into the air and onto his cheek, near his eye.
Whoopsie.
We’re both shocked at first. But then…then I can’t stop laughing. Grim is mad. Hooded eyes narrow, and his mouth lifts in a sinister smile.
“That wasn’t me!” I slowly back away from him, laughing. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do that! You did it to yourself.”
He wipes the orange stuff off his face and smears it on my face. I’m in shock. But then…then I can’t stop laughing. Jordan grins. It’s a wolfish grin and… sexy. So sexy it’s indecent. The man I work for should not be this sexy. His eyes fill with a new, shiny brightness. I wipe the mash off my face and lick my fingers clean. His gaze drifts to my mouth and time…just…stops.
Then it happens. A nuclear reaction on a subatomic level. Two people that have been teased into madness.
One minute we’re staring at each other, and the next he has me pinned against the kitchen counter with the edge of the marble digging into my butt and he’s devouring me, holding my face and kissing me like it’s the last kiss of his more than ordinary life.
My dirty dreams have nothing on the reality of him. He feels good, he smells good, he tastes good. He’s so hard I can feel him press into my stomach. There’s so much good stuff to go around it turns into sensory overload. I don’t know up from down anymore, right from wrong. And the thrill far outweighs the cost. Frankly, I don’t care if this kiss gives me permanent brain damage––and there’s a good chance it may.
