Until Next Time

by Claudia Burgoa

“What do you know about them?” Persy turns her attention toward me.

  “She’s twenty-eight. I don’t understand how she has a six-year-old daughter, though.”

  “It’s pretty simple, but after so long, it seems like you forgot,” Eros says, grabbing two pens and rubbing them together. “When a mommy and a daddy get together—”

  I glare at him. “I don’t need that kind of explanation.”

  He grins, and the rest burst into laughter.

  “I liked the kid. She reminds me of Leah,” Persy mentions her mini-me.

  I gesture toward one of her family portraits where she carries her daughter. “The little toddler who has an attitude just like you?”

  “Yes, maybe that’s why I couldn’t hang up. It’s endearing that her daughter is concerned about her happiness.”

  “I cried,” Liv says. “Who wouldn’t be moved by her words?”

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I wonder if there’s something I can do for them. The only thing left to do is agree, “That does make for a great story.”

  “Also, a lawsuit.” Nyx’s warning voice bounces through the walls.

  I tap my chin. Unfortunately, she’s right. This can’t air unless they have the right documentation. I doubt Autumn would sue them, though. The Wickertons are good people—even their father, who is in jail.

  “I wonder if they’re still in financial trouble,” I say out loud. “The last time I saw Aiden was during high school graduation. We were close until the thing with his father. Once he went to jail, our friendship wasn’t the same.”

  “What did he do?” Nyx’s concern makes me talk more than I want to.

  “He was accused of insider trading and stealing money from a lot of families who sent their children to our school.”

  “Edward Wickerton?” Ford asks.

  I tap the arm of my chair, unsure how to respond. I like Ford, and we get along well enough, but I’m not as close to him as I am to Eros. I don’t want them to think that just because the father made a mistake that his children are just as bad as him.

  “You know him?”

  “No. I’ve heard of him.” He clasps his hands together, putting them on the back of his neck and stretching. “A person close to me lost money because of him.”

  I’m intrigued by his statement. Any other day, I’d ask more about it, but this doesn’t concern Edward Wickerton. “Autumn needs a break. How can we help her?”

  Persy shrugs but says, “Financially, we can do some advertising. We need to figure out how she sells her crafts and jewelry.” She turns to look at Ford. “Someone could try to find her a job in his company.”

  “As soon as we figure out what she does for a living, Nate and I will try to figure that out. I promise, babe.”

  I want to jump into the conversation and offer Autumn a job, but Persy has other plans. “Let’s continue taping the show.”

  This day couldn’t get any weirder. I wasn’t ready to be a part of this show. How could I forget that Persy likes to add sex to her segments?

  I let out a frustrated breath. This will teach me to ask before I agree to be a part of this circus. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, but really, sex and coffee?

  “So…next time you need to pair espresso with sexo, find someone else.” At least I learned how to say sex in Spanish.

  She grins. “It was a fun segment.”

  “If my sister listens to it…No, when she listens to it, she’s going to share it with my brothers.” With a groan, I point at her and narrow my gaze. “I don’t think I like you.”

  “I’m your favorite Brassard.”

  “Uncle Zach!” Nova and Leah come running toward me. Nate, Nyx’s husband, is right behind them.

  “Those two are my favorite Brassards.”

  “They’re Chadwicks,” she corrects me.

  “It’s all the same.”

  “Hey, little ones.” I pick them up and twirl them. “I have a few presents for you.”

  Nova’s eyes open wide. “Did you bring us candy?”

  “Chocolate, cookies, and even a couple of cupcakes.”

  “They shouldn’t be eating sugar,” Persy complains.

  I smirk. “Well, you know what they say about payback, and I’m going to be here for a week.”

  After spending a long week with the Brassards, I fly to Boston. I meet with the managers of Café Fusion and with the manager of Archer’s Eat Good restaurant. After three successful days at work, I go back to Seattle. When I arrive home, Burke isn’t there. I text him.

  Zach: Where are you?

  Burke: You’d know if you had been home.

  Zach: I need your help.

  Burke: Can you wait until Monday? I’m in a business meeting.

  I stare at the phone. It’s Friday.

  Zach: It could, but why aren’t you coming home?

  Burke: I lost the coin toss against Seth. I get to attend a conference and several meetings.

  Zach: Good luck!

  He can’t help me, but his texts give me an idea. Seth Bradley is like family. We go way back. He’s been friends with Archer since they were in preschool. Seth was our roommate during college. He and Burke attended MIT while I went to Boston College.

  He also works for his father, who owns a high-security intelligence company. If someone can run a background check or find Aiden Wickerton, it’ll be him. I call him right away.

  “Should I be concerned about this call? Did your brother send you to San Jose? I think you two are too old to switch places.”

  I laugh. “We haven’t done that in years. I doubt he’d let me touch the company.”

  “True. That leaves us with…you need something from me. What is it?”

  “You offend me.” I feign hurt.

  “Cut the bullshit, St. James. I’ve known you for too long to play games. I’m guessing you need something weird…or maybe you’re ready to date. I can hook you up with a friend, but there are dating apps available.”

  “Har, har. If I wanted to date, I wouldn’t need your help. You’re a womanizer like Burke.”

  “Not really.”

  “Anyway, let’s not deviate. I need to find a friend.”

  “I’m not a P.I. nor the Yellow Pages. Have you tried the internet? It’s pretty easy to use.”

  “You’re a cocky asshole.”

  “Mmm, no, I’m not. I’m just trying to figure out your angle, St. James. You never call me, but you trust me enough to ask for special favors. I just like to give you shit. I’m bored. So, you found a hot woman and forgot to write down her number?”

  I laugh. “That’s ridiculous. I’m searching for Aiden Wickerton.”

  “You can friend him on social media. Oh wait, you don’t do social media. After they catfished you on MySpace, you declared it evil.” He laughs.

  “The MySpace story is like Fight Club.”

  “Nah, it’s not. Burke and I will never stop talking about it. In any case, let’s start with what you want with Wick.”

  “I want to catch up with him,” I say.

  “Really?”

  “What’s with the twenty questions?”

  “First of all, I’m not in the business of giving away information about my employees.”

  “He works for you?”

  “Yes, in human resources,” he confirms.

  “What company are we talking about?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “No. I think you want to know about him because his niece called a certain podcast to talk about little Autumn Wickerton. Mr. I’m-going-to-save-the-world wants to save Matilda and her mom.”

  “What are you talking about?” How does he know?

  “My sister and mom are fans of Life with Persy. They’ve been talking and texting about it nonstop.”

  Okay, so Persy went ahead and aired the call.

  “You don’t need to confirm. You were in the same show, so you know what I’m talking about. So…espres
so and doggy-style, huh?”

  “Fuck, I forgot about that.”

  “Pairing sex with coffee seems like a dangerous trade. I mean, it’s hot…unless you’re into that kind of thing. I’d choose wax instead of hot liquid, but who am I to judge you.”

  “Kill me now.”

  “You should ask Burke about Aiden. No, wait, he doesn’t give a shit about his employees. I bet he can’t remember the name of his new assistant.”

  “So, Aiden works for Range Communication & Consulting?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Why are you so cryptic?”

  “Because I don’t give out information about my employees. It has legal repercussions. You know I’m a stickler about that shit.”

  “You wouldn’t have any information on his sister, would you?”

  “Listen, I’m usually okay with giving out some data but not when it comes to people who work for me. Also, stay away from Autumn. She’s having a tough time. Adding you to the equation won’t be fair to her or her child. My family is doing the best they can to give her a hand.”

  I’m not sure if he’s warning me or just telling me he has everything under control. I choose not to push him anymore. There are other ways to get to Autumn.

  “So, how’s the coffee business going? I heard you’re expanding to Canada. They have Tim Hortons. Why would you want to do that?”

  I chuckle. “I’m not sure where you got that information, but it’s wrong. The expansion is going well. I’m trying to convince Teddy to work for me.”

  “What’s little Theodora doing these days?”

  “I’m not in the business of giving away information about my sister,” I repeat some of his words. I know he has a thing for Teddy.

  Vegas was a long time ago, but I still remember seeing them kissing. If I hadn’t been so wasted, I would’ve said something. The day Archer died he wouldn’t leave her side.

  He laughs. “Fair enough. See you around, Zachary St. James.”

  Chapter Seven

  Autumn

  “Think of this as hashtag Wellness Wednesdays,” Miranda said last night.

  I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if one day is enough to erase the chalky skin, purple circles under the eyes, and brittle curls.

  Aiden suggested a vacation. I wouldn’t mind if I could afford it. I don’t have time or money to do it. I guess Wellness Wednesday has to do the trick. This is the only day when Matilda is at school, I don’t have classes, and I don’t work at the bar. I usually dedicate a few hours to my online orders and clean the apartment during my breaks. I have an alarm set to prepare lunch and a second one for two o’clock when I head to the bus stop.

  It’s only eleven. I could put some coconut oil on my hair to revive the curls. I search through the fridge to see if I have any cucumbers. I recall my aunt Polly telling me they helped with the dark circles. If they don’t, I can chop the rest and add salt and lime. Yum. I have no idea what to do with my skin. It doesn’t matter. I look fine.

  Six years ago, when Matilda was a baby, I was a walking disaster. At least she doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night anymore, puke in my hair, or cry because it seems like I’m having an easy day, which isn’t allowed when you have a newborn.

  Maybe when she turns twenty-two, and I don’t have to pay her college tuition or any other child-related expenses, I’ll go to a retreat to finally take a breath. For now, coconut oil and getting back to my workout routine will have to cut it for Wellness Wednesday.

  Later tonight, I have an assignment from Range Communications & Consulting. This is one of my favorite jobs in the world. I get paid to hack into systems to identify, mitigate, and remediate security risks. It pays well enough that I’m starting to pay down my credit card debt. Maybe by the time I finish my degree, I’ll be able to have just one job.

  I should reconsider Mom’s offer to move back to Silver Lake. The cost of living there is a lot cheaper than living in Seattle. As tempting as it is to pack my things and leave the city, I can’t. Matilda loves her school, her friends, and the apartment where we live. I refuse to move my child around. If needed, I’ll get another job.

  When I’m done applying the coconut oil, I pile my hair into a messy bun and wash my hands. At that precise moment, my phone rings. I pray that Matilda is okay and that she didn’t try to set the school on fire or start a revolution. Last week’s standout taught me that my child could be very persuasive. She convinced her entire class to march because the food served in the cafeteria that day wasn’t edible—I sent her lunch. I’m thankful the principal let her go with a warning.

  “Yes?”

  “Is this Autumn Wickerton?” The voice sounds familiar, but I don’t recognize her.

  “Yeah?” I answer, hesitantly.

  “Hi, my name is Persy Brassard.”

  I check the caller ID. It says unknown. I should’ve looked before I picked up the call. I never answer a call if I don’t know the person, but the only calls I receive at this time come from Matilda’s school.

  “Sorry to sound skeptical, but who are you again?”

  “Persy Brassard, from Life with Persy,” she repeats, and though I don’t want to believe her, I recognize her voice.

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “I’m taking it you haven’t listened to my show for the past month,” she says.

  Well, isn’t she a little self-absorbed? And how does she know that I haven’t listened to her show? Does she keep track? This is weird. I stare at the phone, wondering if this is some kind of joke or maybe it’s a contest. I won a trip to the Caribbean with all the expenses paid. Doubtful.

  “I’m probably not interested in whatever it is that you’re selling or…Why don’t we save ourselves some energy, and I just hang up?”

  “Well, this is about Matilda,” she says.

  All the calls I receive are about my child, so why did I think this would be different? Wait, Persy is a podcaster. Why is she involved with my child? My eyes bulge.

  “Matilda, my kid? You want to discuss my daughter?”

  “She sent us an email asking for advice.”

  She did what?

  I freeze. This has to be a nightmare. I look at my attire to make sure I’m not naked or wearing ridiculous pajamas—just a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt. There’s no audience. I’m not in the middle of the New York subway, nor am I stopping traffic because I look ridiculous. After going through all my nightmares, I realize this is live.

  Oh my fucking God. That’s it. I’m disowning that kid. She’s no one to me. I take a deep calming breath because I don’t want this woman to know I’m losing my shit.

  “So, you’re telling me that my child asked for advice from a sexologist?”

  “No.” She coughs, trying to cover her laugh. “She called me because, according to her, I’m a love expert. She needs advice on how to find you a husband.”

  “Is this some sort of prank? A new segment where you call your listeners and…what’s the deal?”

  “This isn’t anything new. We always receive emails from our audience, and sometimes we discuss them on the air. Matilda’s request sounded special. It is special.”

  “Please tell me we’re not live.”

  “No, but we’re recording. It won’t go live unless you sign a release. Matilda is concerned about you and your happiness.”

  This nonsense sounds like something my daughter would stir up. I’m shaking with anger. How can she email a stranger to ask for advice? It’s the two of us, not Matilda, Mommy, and the rest of the world.

  “My former daughter is officially grounded until her eighteenth birthday. She’s going to spend some time with her grandfather. In jail. No. I’ll just take away her cell phone rights…even when she doesn’t have a phone yet.”

  I gasp. What am I saying? “Sorry, I didn’t mean all that. Now you’re going to call social services and take my child away, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all. You sound like my mom w
hen my brother and I misbehaved. I hope you know that she did it because she loves you,” she assures me.

  “She has no right to call you and air out my problems.”

  “All she wants is for her mom to be happy. I’m sure your happiness isn’t about having a man, but maybe being able to spend more time with Matilda or having free time to take a long bath without having to worry about work, school, or your daughter. Three jobs must be exhausting.”

  “Wait, how do you know I have three jobs, and I go to school?” I wish my child were here so I could glare at her.

  She is in so much trouble.

  “Matilda told us about it.”

  “Of course, she did. Who else would be airing my life on national radio?”

  “It’s a podcast, and it airs internationally.”

  “Joy, I feel a lot better learning that seven billion people know my business. Why are you calling me again?”

  Am I so unhappy that my daughter had to email a stranger to discuss my life? I don’t have time to be disappointed. I’m busy trying to build a life for the two of us. I’m trying my best. Apparently, I’m failing so much, she felt the need to call someone to help me with it.

  “Well, every week, we’ve been talking to Matilda so we can get a sense of how we can help you and her. She mentioned you create jewelry, and we’d like to have you on the show. Maybe you can talk about your creations, how you balance motherhood with work, and the things you’d like to do if there were more hours during the day.”

  I like that she’s not judging me or shoving me a husband from Hunks “R” Us. However, I’m not comfortable discussing my life with her.

  “Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but I have work to do.”

  “We understand. Could we schedule you for another week or month? According to Matilda, Wednesdays are your days off. Though, you should take into consideration that the holidays are almost here. Maybe you could do it and get some promotion for your online shop.”

  “This is…helpful but also not right. I’m not sure how to feel about this conversation. This is so…”

  “Unpleasant?” She finishes my sentence, and I’m still unsure if that’s the right answer.