Bad Cruz

by L.J. Shen

Yup. She went there. She actually mentioned Bear.

  A bullet of anger pierced my gut.

  “Well, if you were just a little bit prettier, maybe you wouldn’t have come in third on Miss America.”

  I smiled sweetly.

  Clearly, I was willing to go there, too.

  Gabriella’s eyes watered and her chin wrinkled and danced like Jell-O as she fumed.

  “I would like to speak to management!” she cried out.

  “Oh, you mean the big boss?” I asked. “The one in charge of this entire culinary empire?” I made a show of moving half an inch to turn to Jerry. “Management! Table three wants to speak to you.”

  Jerry rounded the counter, spitting his tobacco into a nearby trash can, already looking alert while I turned back to the happy couple.

  “Anything else I can do for y’all?” My silky smile was as big and fake as Gabriella’s breasts. “Maybe offer you some complimentary white truffle oil while you wait? Perhaps some foie gras?” I made sure to pronounce the ‘s’, to keep that uneducated bimbo label alive.

  I definitely wasn’t doing myself any favors. But dang, getting sexually harassed by a kid my son’s age and patronized by my baby sister’s friend just about hurled me to the breaking point.

  “Yes, actually. I can’t believe Trinity—”

  Gabriella’s scathing remark was cut off when a choking sound came from booth number five, the one occupied by Grabby McHandson himself.

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “Jesus! No!”

  “He’s choking! He is choking on the straw!”

  Karma must’ve heard my prayers and decided to intervene, because the guy who’d pinched my ass was now lying on the floor, clutching his neck, his eyes wide and red as he kicked his legs about, trying to breathe.

  The whole diner was in a frenzy. People ran back and forth, chairs toppled, women screeched. Someone called 911. Another suggested we flip him on his stomach. And one of his friends was recording the entire thing on his phone, as if we needed more reason not to put our trust in Gen Z.

  And there he was.

  Dr. Cruz Costello, running in slow-mo to the kid, his sandy hair swooshing about like a Baywatch montage.

  He performed the Heimlich maneuver on my assailant and made him cough out the piece of straw he was choking on, saving the day once again.

  The jukebox, on cue, started belting out Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long”.

  It wasn’t like I genuinely wanted the kid to die.

  Being a gasshole was not a sin punishable by death. But the fact that the entire diner glossed over the overt sexual assault I’d been subjected to was jarring, if not completely depressing.

  And then there was the fact that Cruz Costello was standing there, tall and muscular and alive, bathing in the compliments everyone around us showered upon him.

  “…saved the boy’s life! How can we ever thank you? You are an asset to Fairhope, Dr. Costello!”

  “…told your mother when you were three that you were going to become someone important, and whaddaya know? I was right again.”

  “My daughter is coming back from college next year. You sure you’re set on Gabriella, sugar? I’d love for you to meet her.”

  I leaned against the counter, narrowing my eyes at the scene.

  One of the teenager’s friends called his mother, who was going to pick him up. Jerry tried to calm everyone down by announcing everyone would be getting complimentary ice cream, and Gabby clung onto her boyfriend’s arm like she’d been surgically glued to it, fussing in his ear, urinating all over her territory.

  Cruz tried to pay Jerry, but Jerry shook his head exaggeratedly.

  “Your money’s no good here, Dr. Costello.”

  Luckily for Dr. Costello, his money was good and welcome in my pocket. I pushed off the counter and strutted toward him, stretching my open palm up.

  “I’m ready for my tip now.”

  Gabriella’s mouth fell open.

  Something mean was about to come out of it—the fact that my sister and she were best friends, that we were both going to be Trinity’s bridesmaids in less than two months, didn’t matter.

  Today had reinforced the notion I was fair game in Fairhope, and everyone had the agency, the God-given right, to be mean to me. But Cruz stopped her, patting her flat ass with a lazy, lopsided grin.

  He knew I loathed his golden boy act.

  “Go on and wait in the car, honey.”

  “But Cruuuuuuz.” Gabby stomped her foot, dragging his name out with a pout.

  “I’ll handle it,” he assured her.

  “Fine. But don’t be too nice,” she sulked, catching the car keys he threw into her hands, and sauntered out of the diner.

  Cruz and I stood in front of each other. Two cowboys waiting to draw their weapons.

  “Aren’t I going to get a thank you?”

  His whiskey-soaked voice stirred something warm and sticky and unwelcome behind my ribcage. He had that Justin Hartley kind of body you just wanted to feel pressed against you.

  “For what?” I mused. “Being alive, being a doctor, or being a royal pain?”

  “Saving that kid.”

  “That kid pinched my butt and took a picture of my panties.”

  “I didn’t know that,” he said evenly.

  I believed him, but so what? My hackles were so high up, I couldn’t even see past them.

  “Tip me or get gone,” I huffed.

  “You want a tip?” he asked tonelessly, his dark-blue eyes narrowing on my face. “Here’s one: get some better manners. Pronto.”

  “Sorry.” I pouted, making a show of examining my nails. “Fortune-cookie advice is not a currency I accept at present. Cash or Venmo work, though.”

  “You don’t actually expect a tip after your argument with Gabriella, do you?” He looked a little concerned for me. Like maybe on top of being a bimbo, I also possessed the IQ of a peanut butter sandwich. Sans the jelly.

  “I do, actually. She knows we don’t carry organic meat—or arugula. Why does she keep asking?”

  If he was going to tell me the customer was always right, I was going to add him to my ever-growing list of people to murder. Actually, he was already in the top ten for every time he’d run into me at social gatherings and pretended I didn’t exist.

  “Why don’t you give her a straight answer?” he quipped back. For a moment—for a small, teeny, tiny fraction of a moment—I could swear his good ol’ boy mask cracked a little, annoyance seeping through it.

  “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  I noticed his eyes dropped to my lips when I said that.

  I was aware I had enough makeup on my face to sculpt another life-size figure of myself and way too much pink lipstick for anyone’s liking. But Cruz being Cruz, he never said anything mean or demeaning about anyone. Not even me.

  I could see the nostrils of his straight Roman nose flare as he drew in a calming breath and tilted his chin up.

  “Very well, Tennessee.” That was the other thing. Everybody called me Messy Nessy. He was the only one to call me by my given name, and it always felt like punishment. “I’ll mind my own business. Let’s start now, shall we? Did you book our tickets for the cruise yet?”

  Ah, yes.

  Since my parents were paying for Trinity and Wyatt’s wedding, the Costellos—Cruz’s parents—had decided to invite both families to a pre-wedding cruise so we could all get to know each other better.

  Because the Costellos were frequent cruisers, they used their loyalty points to book Trinity and Wyatt the honeymoon stateroom and two-bed staterooms for themselves and my parents.

  My son Bear all but begged to room with my parents, who were going to have a private Jacuzzi and in-suite candy bar. Since it was his first ever vacation, I relented.

  But that meant Cruz and I still needed to book rooms for ourselves, and since Cruz had a “real job” and I had so much free time (my mother’s words, not mine), I was tasked with finding
us rooms for the cruise.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I hadn’t realized it took such effort to book tickets.”

  I patted my stiff, heavily-sprayed blonde mane.

  “Maybe for you it’s easy. But us feather-headed people take a long time to do things. Where do I book these tickets, anyway? The internets, yes?” I cocked my head. “It’s that thing on the computer? With all the little words and kitty videos?”

  His blade-sharp jaw ticked.

  Just once.

  But once was enough to spark unabashed joy. It was a well-known fact that nothing threw Cruz Costello off-balance.

  “Book those tickets, Tennessee.”

  “Yes, sir. Will you be needing the double bed or just the queen?”

  “Are you asking if I’m bringing Gabriella along?”

  “Or any other almost-underage woman of your choice.”

  That wasn’t completely fair, or the most extreme age gap amongst the dating pool.

  Gabby was Trinity’s age, twenty-five, and Trinity was marrying Wyatt, Cruz’s older brother.

  Cruz dipped his hand into the front pocket of his khaki pants. He wore casual exasperatingly well.

  “Try not to mess things up when you book it, will you?”

  Now that made my mask of indifference slip and shatter against the floor. Being the one who always messed up in this town might be the way I’d been pigeonholed, but in my opinion, I hadn’t earned it.

  “I’m perfectly capable of booking two cruise tickets.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “You know,” I mused, twirling a lock of blonde hair that spilled from my unfashionable updo, “you’re not even half as nice as people think you are.”

  “Been saving all this venom ’specially for you.” He tilted his ball cap down like a cowboy. “Any parting words, Tennessee? I have a date waiting in my car.”

  Right, right, right.

  His shiny Audi Q8 to go with his shiny girlfriend and his shiny life.

  To that question, I answered with my middle finger, taking advantage of the fact everyone around us was talking animatedly about what happened to Straw Choker to notice.

  It wasn’t my most elegant answer, but it sure was the most satisfying one by a mile.

  That evening, I was in danger of letting the waterworks flow.

  I tried not to dwell in self-pity, but some days were just harder than others.

  My son really wanted the new Assassin’s Creed game, but I couldn’t afford it. The worst part was he didn’t even ask me.

  I’d had to find out through my mother, over a phone call on my way home from work while my Honda Odyssey stumbled its way up my street like a drunken sorority girl after a block party.

  Apparently, Bear had offered to mow her lawn for cash to be able to purchase it.

  “I would buy it for him in a heartbeat, honey, you know, but those games are mighty violent, and I’m not sure he should be playing them anyway.”

  It was pointless to explain to her it was a Sisyphean battle to have Bear not play video games. That was what he and his friends did. It was the norm.

  At the same time, I felt depressingly inadequate as a mother. A true failure. I couldn’t even buy my son a video game.

  Maybe Gabriella was right.

  Maybe I needed to shut up, tell her the burger she had was organic, and suffer the occasional abuse for a nice, fat tip.

  I pushed the door open to the weathered rental bungalow. The exterior was pale blue. Bear and I had painted it ourselves to knock down some of the rent money the owner had asked for. The inside consisted of not much more than hand-me-down furniture from friends and family.

  But it was ours, and we were proud of it.

  I kicked my heels off at the door and dumped my jacket and purse onto the credenza, feeling bone-tired and weary.

  Weary of not being able to afford the things my son wanted.

  Of pimply, rude teenagers who pinched my butt at work.

  Of Gabriella and her slim legs and easy, fat-contracts life.

  And of Dr. Cruz Costello, who seemed hell-bent on hating me.

  I really needed to get out of this town, and was going to do so as soon as Bear graduated from high school.

  “Care Bear? You here?” I called out.

  Pans and utensils clattered in the kitchen, growing louder as I made my way through the darkened, small living room.

  “Mom? I made pasta. Sorry, I had a ton of homework and forgot to take the chicken out to thaw.”

  I entered the kitchen and pulled my son into a bone-crushing hug. After I took a step back from him, I took inventory of his face, before tugging at his velvety earlobes and smacking a wet kiss on his forehead, something he disliked, yet indulged me nonetheless.

  At thirteen, Bear was already a head taller than me. Not a huge surprise, seeing as he took after his father, who was a six-three tight end in high school.

  It probably should depress me.

  How Bear used me as a womb-for-hire and came out the spitting image of Robert Gussman. The same floppy chestnut hair, impish emerald eyes with golden flecks, deep dimples that popped out even when they talked, and slightly crooked nose.

  It should, but it didn’t.

  Because Bear was so much his own person, Rob had become nothing but a faded scar at this point. Like an old penciled letter, the words erased by time and nearly indistinguishable.

  “Pasta’s perfect.”

  I rose on my toes to kiss his cheek. For all his handsomeness, Bear, like other boys his age, smelled of socks, hormones, and farm goats.

  I pulled away, noticing he’d already set the table and served our dishes. “How was school?”

  We both sat at the table, digging into his extra al dente (read: completely uncooked) pasta, drenched in a suspicious supermarket sauce.

  “Pretty good. I mean, Mr. Shepherd is still pestering me about joining the football team, which is a drag, but other than that, it was nice.”

  “Don’t let him strong-arm you into anything. You are not Rob. You don’t have to play ball.”

  “There’s no danger of me becoming a jock. It’s so much effort for basically nothing.”

  “Anything else going on in your life?”

  Bear scrunched his nose, which made those dimples pop. “Not really.”

  Something inside me softened, turning into an almost-dull ache. He didn’t want to tell me about the video game. Didn’t want to worry me about it.

  “How was your day at work?” He looped a forkful of red pasta and scooped it into his mouth.

  Well, son, it was worse than Abraham’s on the day God spontaneously told him he needed to circumcise himself at the age of ninety-nine.

  Now it was my turn to lie. Or at the very least, give him an edited version of the truth.

  “Great. Jerry might be needing me for some extra shifts in the next few weeks. That means more money. We can splurge a little. Anything you need?” I hoovered pasta into my mouth.

  Thankfully, the stupid cruise was paid for by the Costellos, who weren’t exactly strapped for cash.

  “Nah, don’t worry ’bout me. You should spend that money on yourself, Mom. You never get yourself anything.”

  “That’s nonsense.” I waved my fingers, gulping air like there was too much of it in my airpipes. Holy sheet-balls, had he put Tabasco in this sauce? “I get myself these nails.”

  “Nice try. Auntie Gail does them for free. I’m not stupid.” He rolled his eyes.

  He was, in fact, the opposite of stupid. Bright and wise beyond his years. It was time I stopped lying to him about the small stuff just to make myself feel better.

  The rest of the evening was bliss.

  Bear and I watched American Idol together while eating pistachio ice cream in front of the TV. We laughed and passed judgment as if either of us could hold a note to save our lives. Then he kissed my forehead, wished me goodnight, and retired to his room.

  A few minut
es later, I heard soft snores down the hallway, escaping from his ajar door. That boy could sleep through the Kentucky Derby. Whilst being on a horse.

  I grinned to myself, shaking my head as I gathered our ice cream bowls and empty iced tea glasses, making my way to the kitchen. The doorbell chimed just as I began to rinse the dishes clean.

  With a soft sigh, I turned off the faucet, wiped my hands dry, and made my way to the front door.

  The doorbell rang again before I could reach it.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming. Sheesh.”

  Was it my mother, passing by on one of her nightly walks in a bid to lose weight to tell me she’d decided to buy Bear his video game after all? Or maybe my sister, wanting me to look over a last-minute change to the flower arrangements or the wedding menu?

  I flung the screen door open, and all the air left my lungs in one shocked whoosh.

  On my front porch stood Rob Gussman, my high school sweetheart and Bear’s no-show Dad.

  Thirteen years after leaving me pregnant at sixteen.

  “Messy Nessy.” He smiled. “All grown up and lookin’ good.”

  I slammed the screen door in his face.

  I could see through the glass that Rob loitered on my porch, his big athletic body shifting as he tried to figure out his next move. He stepped aside and stared at me through a side window, channeling his inner Ted Bundy.

  “Okay. I admit it sounded way better in my head as an opening line. Sorry. Sorry. My bad. Can you open the door, please?”

  I knew a few things about Rob, mostly from whispers overheard around town, seeing as he’d used his two working brain cells not to return to Fairhope, after leaving me high and dry in high school.

  He knew my dad, who’d served as the town’s sheriff for twenty years, would hunt him down with a rifle and I would finish him off myself, with my bare hands.

  I knew he’d taken a scholarship when I was sixteen and fled to Arizona, hoping to eventually get drafted into the NFL.

  Knew he never did get his shot to go pro, and he spent the last decade playing for amateur leagues and coaching on the side to make ends meet.

  I knew he’d been married—twice—and gotten divorced, but he had no other children.

  But the most important thing I knew about him was what a deadbeat he was. He’d never met his son.