by Amy DeMeritt
Chapter Eight
After Hannah left last night, I had to wipe down with a washcloth to get the sticky pie feeling off before I climbed into bed. I actually had considered leaving a small smudge that was still on one of my left ribs as a way to try to induce sweet sexy dreams, but I decided I better not so I wouldn’t stain my sheets with the small drop of caramel. Besides, she left a couple hickies – those are all the reminder I need of the pleasure she gave me.
One of the hickies is on my neck just where my work blouse collars typically reach. I had to try on every blouse I own to find the one with the tallest collar to try to hide it. I don’t have any meetings with any clients today, so I didn’t bother with makeup to try to cover it. I’ll just be careful and hopefully no one will notice.
I had sent Hannah a text while I was getting ready for work with a picture of her handiwork – the one on my right breast. She had responded quickly with a promise to give me a matching one on my left breast. I can’t wait to get home and see her.
“Coffee?”
I look up from my computer to see Felicia is standing in front of my desk with her hands on her hips.
“Yeah, I’m ready. ”
I reach down to grab my wallet out of the bottom drawer of my desk and Felicia gasps as she reaches forward, moving my shirt collar off of my neck. Damn, I hadn’t considered the “above” angle of being able to see this.
“You little minx. Who you messing around with?” I laugh and shake my head. “No one.”
“Uh huh. I’ve seen the pathetic vacuum cleaner hickies on girls in school and that is not one of them. So, either you had one wild night with a stranger last night, or you are a piece of shit friend that hasn’t told me she is dating someone.”
She looks at me sternly, but also with a small grin. I stand up and start walking for my office door. But she grabs my elbow to stop me.
“I don’t think so. You get your little ass back over here. What’s the story?”
“Not in here. I’ll tell you on the way to get coffee.” She smiles really big. “Damn, this must be juicy.”
As soon as we exit the building, she nudges me in the ribs.
“Spill it, Brooke. Who’s the girl that was sucking on your neck last night?”
“If I tell you, will you keep it quiet? It’s kind of a delicate relationship.”
“Shit, you’re dating a client. Who is it? Don’t tell me it’s that middle aged butch at the Jukebox that’s always hitting on you.” I laugh and shake my head. “No, it’s not Marisa. And leave her alone; she’s a sweet woman. She’s not exactly a client, per say. She just works for one.”
“Well, that’s a little less dangerous. But I’m done guessing. You have too many damn clients and I don’t know every employee, so…”
“She works at the Bamboo Spa.” She laughs hard. “Damn, she must be hot and aggressive. They’re a very new client so this must have happened fast. You don’t typically move so quickly on your own and you get hit on all the time without biting the bait.”
I just smile and she shoves my shoulder playfully.
“Lucky bitch. Well, I’m happy for you. Do I ever get to meet this sexy seductress?”
“Eventually. But I’d like to be selfish just a bit longer and keep her all to myself.”
“Ah, haven’t had sex yet, huh? Ok, after you make her a real woman, we’ll hang out.”
“There is something seriously wrong with you.”
When we walk in the coffee shop, Felicia freezes, making me walk right into her.
“What are you doing?”
She’s looking around very disappointed. I look up at the counter and realize the reason for her dismay; Belinda’s not here.
Felicia slogs forward to the counter with slumped shoulders and heavy feet. Seriously, this “straight girl” crush is getting ridiculous. These two have been so extreme in their flirting the past couple weeks that it’s been making me blush just to listen to it.
Just as we’re walking out the door, we hear, “Hey, baby, sorry I missed you.”
Felicia spins so quickly that she almost knocks my coffee right out of my hand. Belinda is just getting out of a car carrying a couple grocery bags with what looks like cartons of milk. Felicia is still stunned speechless, so I fill the void for her.
“Hey. Did they send you on a milk run?”
She smiles and nods. She looks directly at Felicia with a happy affectionate smile.
“I was worried I’d miss seeing you.”
Felicia smiles and pushes her coffee towards me. I take her cup, and what she does next makes me almost drop both coffees. She walks over to Belinda, grabs the sides of her face, and kisses her, full on the mouth. I hear Belinda let out a small surprised sound, but then she lifts the grocery bags in her hands and embraces Felicia.
That is not the kind of kiss that flirty straight girls share. This kiss looks like they feel this deep in their hearts, in their cores. This is also lasting quite a while. Oh, my god, this is not good. I should really try to politely break these two apart. There are customers coming and going, staring at them. I’m sure her coworkers can see this through the windows. And the longer this lasts, the louder and wilder the kiss looks like it’s becoming. I guess a year or so of heavy flirting will cause a lot of sexual tension to build up inside, even if they didn’t realize it till now.
I look towards the coffee shop and there’s a couple of customers gawking out the windows. The employees haven’t taken notice yet. I walk over to stand between them and the window to try to block them. I clear my throat to get their attention. Nothing. I do it again. Nothing.
“Girls, you are drawing attention to yourselves.”
Still nothing. Belinda pulls Felicia in closer and they both moan. Oh, no. I carefully stack the two coffee cups I’m holding and gently grab Felicia’s shoulder and shake her.
Felicia slowly pulls out of the kiss and looks at me dazed and confused.
“What?” I laugh and shake my head. “Uh, public sidewalk, in front of Belinda’s place of employment while she is on the clock.”
This seems to snap them both into focus. They look around and release each other. Belinda looks torn.
“What just happened?”
“I kissed you and you kissed me back.”
“Is that ok?”
What is it with women? Why are we so uncertain about whether or not it’s ok to act on our desires? Men don’t seem to have this problem. Lucky bastards with all their confidence they just naturally have.
“I don’t want to take it back.”
Belinda smiles and places her grocery bags on the ground. She takes Felicia’s hands and pulls her in close again. They give each other a small kiss and then Belinda releases her again.
“Me either.” She turns to look at me and asks, “How does this work with a girl? Do I ask her out or wait for her to ask me out?” I laugh and shake my head. “Well, I think you just asked her out since you asked me that right in front of her. And she accepts. Felicia, give her your number and you two work this out. This is long overdue.”
These two are just too adorable. They both pull their cellphones out and exchange numbers. They send each other a text and giggle. I can only imagine what they are saying to each other. These two are not shy about saying some pretty erotic things out loud to each other with others watching and listening; I know damn well it will only be a matter of time before they are “sexting” every chance they get.
After they give each other another hug and kiss, Felicia and I start walking back to work. She’s grinning so wide it’s almost comical.
“You couldn’t just let me have my moment, huh? You just had to go get yourself a girl just because I have one now?” She looks at me in a shocked nervous way, but seeing that I’m smiling, she laughs hard. “I was not planning that. I just saw her face and I just, I don’t know, I wanted her. It’s like something finally clicked in my head or something.”
“I noticed.” She laughs and exhales i
n a nostalgic way. “That felt really good. I hope I don’t screw this up. I’m terrible in relationships. If I have questions, you know like how things work, can I ask you? ”
“Of course, but I can’t guarantee I’ll have the answers. There’s no perfect formula or anything. I have plenty of my own failed relationships to prove that.”
When I get back to my desk, I start plowing through a bunch of paperwork and emails. I have been so busy with on-site calls with clients this week that I haven’t been able to give my in-office tasks much attention. Felicia has helped as best as she can, but pretty much all of this mess is stuff I have to handle.
Just as I’m getting to a point that I don’t feel so overwhelmed looking at my inbox anymore, my cellphone chimes with a text.
Mom: What are you doing?
I hate when my mother texts me this question when she knows damn well that I’m working. Why can’t she just get to the point?
Me: Working
Mom: Have you had lunch yet?
Me: No and I don’t really have time to leave for lunch today.
Mom: Nonsense. You always have time for your mother. Meet me at Ernie’s in half an hour.
Me: Mom, I’m swamped. I don’t have time to leave the office.
Mom: Do you think I had time to spend 9 months carrying you and 39 hours in labor with you? No, I didn’t, but I did it.
I exhale hard and my hands form angry crawls as I shake in frustration from my mother’s ever demanding inconsiderateness .
Me: Why is it so urgent that I have lunch with you today?
Mom: I have news and I’d prefer to tell you in person. I’ll see you at Ernie’s. Don’t be late.
What the fuck! God, she is so damn aggravating. She’s always like this. “No”, or “another time”, is never acceptable for her – it always has to be her way, her rules, and her say, every time.
Me: Whatever
I’d love to have some kind of clever comeback that would throw her off her self-made throne, but I don’t. Middle school vernacular is all I can manage when it comes to dealing with my mother.
When I get to the restaurant, my mother is sitting with her legs crossed in one of her many pastel skirt suits that she wears every single day – weekends included. Her straight shoulder length dirty blonde hair is crisply flat ironed and sprayed, without a single flyaway. Her beige makeup is perfectly applied with her signature baby pink lipstick sharply defining her thin lips. My mother is the exact opposite of me in every way possible. I may wear pant suits for work, but I do so to be professional. My mother wears her skirt suits to appear better than everyone else.
“You are five minutes late. I do hope you don’t keep your clients waiting like this. It’s a wonder you still have a job if you do.”
“No, Mother, I do not keep my clients waiting.”
“So, your clients are more important than your mother? You can be on time for a stranger, but not your own mother? Honestly, where is your gratitude?”
I exhale impatiently and force a smile on my lips .
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mother.”
I want to remind her that this place is about twenty minutes from my office and I couldn’t just stand up and leave right when she texted me, but there’s no point. There are no acceptable excuses with her.
“So, what is this news you wanted to tell me.”
She ignores me and waves in a snobbish way to a young man taking an order from a neighboring table.
“Young man, yes, we are ready to order now.”
“Mom, I haven’t even looked at the menu and he is with another customer.”
“I picked for you since you didn’t have the presence of mind to arrive on time. I don’t have all day, you know.”
I bite my tongue and sit back in my seat fuming. I hate that I’m twenty-five years old, yet my mother acts like I’m only seven years old.
When the young man gets to our table, he looks to me as if waiting for me to tell him what I want.
“You’ll have to ask her.”
“Honestly, Brooke, aren’t you capable of ordering for yourself?”
I literally almost explode. The guy looks at me like he is both scared and feels sorry for me. I can only imagine what my mother has put him through before I arrived. She quickly orders and then turns her judging attention back to me.
“Why don’t you use that flatiron I bought you for your hair? It really is too thick. You look foreign.”
“It’s called volume, Mother. Some women actually prefer it this way, believe it or not.”
“Some women also believe spiked hair, tattoos, and piercings are attractive, but they’re not.”
I just stare at her, trying hard not to scream and run out of here.
“How is work? ”
“Great. How is the real estate business?”
“Still number one in the state, as you already know.”
“Great.”
My mom purses her lips at me and then takes a sip of her white wine.
“You, dear, need to work on your conversation skills. Anyway, before it gets in the papers, I just wanted to let you know that Curtis proposed. After careful deliberation with my lawyer and prenuptial agreements were agreed upon, I’ve decided to accept his proposal.”
Curtis is a state senator, or was a senator; he lost re-election last term. My mom has been “dating” him for a couple years.
“How romantic, consulting the lawyers before saying yes. Do you even love him?”
“What does love have to do with marriage, dear? Marriage is a contract, just like those contracts you sign with your advertising clients.”
“What? That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Brooke. Love is something you look for in college when you are experimenting and finding your way in life. Marriage is a contract you make to ensure a secure future. It’s like life insurance.”
“Do you have sex with your life insurance provider?”
“Don’t be crude, Brooke. You are almost thirty; it’s time you start thinking about your future. It’s time you start looking for a good hard-working man to settle down with.”
“I’m gay, Mother. There will be NO men in my future.”
“That is just a phase. Just like trying to be a photographer was a phase. It took you longer than it should have, but you finally listened to me and got a real career and put that silly immaturity behind you. Now, it’s time you do the same with this gay phase. Like I said, everyone experiments in college, but we all have to grow up.”
“You, that’s, no, I… God, you are so frustrating!”
“Are you through? You are going to be my maid of honor, so, we need to get busy.”
“Hold up. Question before I agree to this. Do I get a plus one to this wedding?”
“Well, of course. I can’t have my daughter showing up to my wedding without an escort. Do you have a young man in mind or do I need to find you one? Harriet’s son just broke up with his girlfriend. Apparently, she was…”
“No, Mother. Not a male plus one, a woman.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Just imagine the field day the media will have with that one. No, you will be bringing a male escort or I will provide one for you.”
I stand up and shake my head, pushing my chair back.
“No, I won’t do it. I’m not a child anymore. You cannot tell me who I can or cannot date. Unless I can pick my own date, a female date, I will not be at this ‘business’ celebration of yours.”
“Sit down; you are causing a scene.”
“No, I’m not staying.” I place my hands on the table and lean toward her. “Don’t call or text me again unless you can accept me for who I am. Of all people, my mother shouldn’t be the one who makes me feel like shit about every little thing about myself. I’m done being your punching bag. Oh, and don’t you dare think for a second you had anything to do with my success. I put myself through college and I’ve been supporting
myself since my first day of college. I’m where I’m at today because I worked hard for it.”
My mother is a tough business woman, able to maintain a clear unaffected face no matter what, and she doesn’t break that “cool” at all. Her face is blank and expressionless. Bitch – can’t even show a little shock or sadness at the prospect of never talking to her daughter again.
“Goodbye, Mother.”
I wait a whole five seconds, but she doesn’t say anything. Unbelievable. I walk away from her and feel the anger consume me. My eyes start to prickle with the weight of the heavy emotion. By the time I’m pulling out of the parking lot, I’m crying.
I have dealt with some real assholes about my sexuality, but no one has hurt me as much as my own mother. Everything I do or feel always “has to do” with my “rebellion” against her and what is “best for me”. I’ve never been allowed to just have my own brain and emotions. She always makes everything about her. Like my career choice – somehow, in her mind, she thinks she gets to have credit for that. It doesn’t matter how hard I worked and still do. She thinks because I chose a steady income over photography that I “listened” to her. If I had listened to her, I would be working for her as a real estate agent two counties over and married to some stuffy stock broker.
My mother refused to pay for me to go to college for photography. She said it was a waste of money. I had received a few scholarships so my tuition was very minimal, but I still struggled, a lot.
Even my sexuality is a rebellion against her, in her eyes. The first time I was in love with a girl, she told me I was just doing that because I was mad that she made me wear dresses when I wanted to wear pants.
I don’t remember the last time I’ve taken a sick day, but when I get to a red light, I send Felicia a text letting her know that I’m not coming back to work today and to text or email if she needs me.
Felicia: What’s wrong? Are you sick?
Me: I broke up with my mother .
