Extensive (A Single Dad Box Set)

by Claire Adams

  He’s smiling. José never smiles.

  “All right,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

  From there, the rest of the business lunch—if that’s what we’re calling it—is all smiles and handshakes. There’s still one big problem, though.

  We’re still just three guys sitting at a table with absolutely nothing but our enthusiasm to tell us that anything’s going to really change.

  We need to find a job.

  Before leaving the restaurant, I excuse myself for a moment to call Alec.

  I fill him in on what we’re talking about and he seems pretty thrilled over the chance to “exercise his world-class charm.” Once I remind him that we’re a legitimate business, not a mafia operation, he’s a little disappointed, but he’s still on board.

  Nothing has really changed, at least not yet, but for the first time since we got that job remodeling Jessica’s store, there’s a glimmer of hope that things are going to finally turn a corner.

  When I get back to the table, I set up a time for all four of us to get together and further solidify our new roles in the company and develop a strategy for landing the bigger jobs that we’re going to need to stay afloat.

  We say our goodbyes, and we all have smiles on our faces as we walk out of the restaurant, but with every step I take away from the restaurant and away from my guys, the less convinced I am that I’ve done anything more than give my crew one last thing to smile about before we all end up looking for different jobs.

  What can I say? Faith has never been my strong suit.

  By the time I get back to my building, any vestige of a smile has long since passed, and I’m feeling a rush of anxiety running through me.

  Shaking up the division of labor is a positive step, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be enough to save the company.

  That anxiety only grows as I come to my hallway and find Jessica sitting with her back against my door.

  “Hey,” she says, looking up at me.

  “Hey, are you all right? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for days,” I answer, and help her up from the floor.

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” she says. “It’s not fair.”

  “What’s not fair?” I ask.

  “Well, we’re still just starting to get off the ground with whatever this is, and it’s not fair for you to have to carry everything,” she answers.

  “I really don’t mind,” I start, but I don’t get a chance to finish the thought.

  “I’d really rather not talk about it,” she says. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  I unlock the door and open it, motioning for her to go ahead inside.

  “I’m not drunk today, so that’s a plus,” she says.

  I shut the door. “I’m glad to hear that,” I tell her. “I went into a bottle when my mom—”

  “Yeah, I’d really rather not talk about it,” she says. “I was thinking maybe we could do something else.”

  “What’d you have in mind?” I ask.

  She lifts an eyebrow and starts undoing the buttons on her blouse.

  “Jessica,” I start, “as much as I enjoy, you know, I think I’d rather talk to you for a little bit.”

  She stops unbuttoning her shirt, saying, “Well, this is what I need right now.”

  “I know you want to block it all out with sex and liquor—”

  “Ah, but I’m not drunk today,” she says.

  “Still,” I continue, “it’s just putting off dealing with the situation. I hope things get better for your mom and fast, but you have to deal with what’s going on right now.”

  “Why do people always say that?” she asks. “Everyone thinks that confronting your emotions at all times is the best way to stay healthy, but does anyone ever consider the fact that sometimes it’s just a little much?”

  “I know it’s not easy, but—”

  “I don’t even like my mother,” she says. “I mean, I love her, but she’s never been the kind of person that I could really share anything with. Every fucking thing I did was never good enough, and even now, laying in that stupid hospital bed, she’s still telling me that I should sell the store and go back to working as a waitress—something about how it’s more suited to my capabilities. Even with all that, she’s still my mom and I still love her. I don’t know that I can get through this unless I have some detachment, so come here,” she says, unbuttoning another button, “hop on.”

  Hop on?

  “Jessica, I don’t know what our relationship is and I don’t know where it’s going, but I do know that we’re never going to be on a solid footing unless we can start talking to each other about things.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “There’s something from you that I want and there’s something from me that you want. I’d be willing to give you yours if you’ll give me mine.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “We do things my way for a while,” she says, “and when we’re done with that, I’ll answer any question that you have.”

  “Just one question?” I ask.

  “That wasn’t it, was it?” she returns.

  “No,” I tell her. “But I think I’m looking for a little bit more than that.”

  “I don’t think I’m there,” she says. “Maybe if things wouldn’t have happened with my mom the way they have, it might be different, but we are what we are and the facts are the facts.”

  “I don’t think it would be any different,” I tell her.

  “What do you mean?” she asks impatiently, sitting on my couch, the front of her blouse coming open.

  “I mean that you’ve got this need to control everything, even to the point of self-destruction,” I tell her. “Right now, you’re trying to control the chaos in your life by turning it into a giant distraction that’s going to end up solving nothing, only making you resent me for going along with it, and I’m not going to stand for that.”

  “Oh, you’re not going to stand for it?” she asks. “That’s some pretty tough talk.”

  “I’d rather have no relationship with you than a relationship where you just use me until you get sick of me or start resenting me or both,” I tell her.

  “Use you?” she laughs. “You think I’m using you?”

  “Yeah,” I answer. “I think it’s pretty clear that you are. We don’t talk for days and then when you show up on my doorstep, quite literally, you expect me to just fold and do what you want me to do, regardless of how I think it’s going to only end up hurting both of us.”

  “You didn’t seem so principled the other night,” she says.

  “Yeah, well the other night, I thought you were just trying to get through a tough moment. I didn’t know that you were planning on turning it into a means of evading the harder facts of your life permanently,” I respond.

  “Sweetie,” she says, “you’re good, but I’d hardly say you’ve got the stamina to help me ‘evade the harder facts of my life permanently.’”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” I tell her. “Now, I would love to sit down and talk and to be here for you, or if you don’t want to talk, I’d be happy to just sit here and hold you or just sit here and do nothing at all, but I’m not just going to let you turn you and I into an escape from reality.”

  “And why not?” she yells. “You know what it’s like, having a parent with cancer! Your mom died; do you really think life would have been easier if you sat down and talked endlessly about something that you couldn’t control?”

  “No,” I tell her. “I don’t think anything would have really helped me at that moment. I don’t think that anything’s going to make it all better for you right now, either. The situation here is terrible and nothing’s going to change that. All that we can do, all that anybody could do, would be to do our best to get through it.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” she says, her voice filled with anger. “I’m just trying to get through it.”

  “Then quit running away from it,” I t
ell her. “Listen, you don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want to, but I have a feeling you’re not talking to anyone about it.”

  “That’s not true,” she says. “I talk to my sister about it all the time. It’s all we ever talk about anymore. It’s the same with my dad. It’s the same with my mom. I’d just love to have one part of my life that wasn’t about that, but I can’t even stay at work long enough to get anything done. Every day since Mom went in for surgery, Cheryl’s ended up taking the store because I don’t know how to even be there right now.”

  “How’s she working out?” I ask.

  Jessica looks up at me with equal parts confusion and irritation. “She’s doing fine. That’s not my point. The point is that I would like to have just one fucking person that I didn’t have to talk to about what’s going on with my mom—someone I can just have fun with without having to worry about every horrible thing that’s happening in my life right now.”

  “Okay,” I sigh. “We don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to, but I want you to know that I’m here if you change your mind.”

  “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?” she asks. “I’m pretty pissed, but I have heard some good things about angry sex.”

  I smile.

  She smiles.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you that way,” I tell her. “I just don’t want to be part of the problem. I’d much rather be part of the solution.”

  “See, that’s where you lose me,” she says. “You tell me that we don’t have to talk about what’s going on with my mom or at the store or whatever, but then you tell me that we can’t have sex because it’s going to somehow make things worse.”

  “I don’t think it’s the sex itself, but everything that comes with it. Sex is an emotional thing, especially when you’re going through an emotional time. I just don’t want you forever equating being with me with everything else that’s going on,” I answer.

  “I won’t,” she says. “Look, I’m not even in the mood anymore, anyway, but can we just sit here and not talk about anything?”

  “Sure,” I tell her. “Can I get you something to eat, drink?”

  “No,” she answers.

  “All right,” I say, “what would you like to do?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “I really don’t think there’s anything in the world that’s going to make me happy right now.”

  “I know,” I tell her. “Is there anything that might make you at least feel less of what you’re feeling now?”

  “Other than sex?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  “Nothing’s coming to mind,” she says, and puts her feet up on the couch.

  “All right,” I tell her. “Why don’t we just sit back and watch a movie? I’ll even give you a massage.”

  “How romantic,” she says blankly.

  “You’d be surprised the difference that comes with the release of tension,” I respond, but when I’ve said the words, a glimmer of my own hypocrisy becomes clear and she picks up on it.

  “A release of tension is kind of what I was hoping for in the first place,” she says.

  “Why don’t we start with a massage and see where it goes from there?” I ask. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything to drink or eat? I think I have microwave popcorn around here somewhere.”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “Would you mind if I take off my shirt? You know, for the massage.”

  At this point, I’m not entirely sure whether standing my ground is going to be a helpful or a harmful tactic. Denying her what she came here for seems like a good idea in theory, but I can’t help thinking back to what it was like when my mom got sick.

  I would have done just about anything to try to get away from what was going on, and I did do just about everything.

  I was 19 when it happened, when she was diagnosed anyway. After that, everything just happened so fast.

  She was diagnosed. She was in the hospital. She was gone. I know there was a lot more to it than that, but it’s the way that I remember it. There was no time to adjust, to make peace with the fact that she was sick, only after she died.

  Then, there was nothing left but time.

  Dad dove headfirst into the business and I was just left there alone. I’d just gotten my first apartment not long before, but when the diagnosis came in, I spent most of my time at either my parents’ house or the hospital.

  Even though I worked for my dad and I was almost always surrounded by my brothers, none of us ever really talked about it.

  Before long, my brothers started moving away from the city, one by one, until I was the only one left at the company, and although my dad was always there before I showed up and he was always there after I left, we never said more than four words to each other at a time, and it was never about anything but work.

  I don’t like beer anymore because I lived off it for almost a solid year after my mom died. In the end, though, it didn’t even help anymore.

  “That’s fine,” I tell her. “Just make yourself comfortable.”

  She removes her shirt, but quickly takes the blanket from the back of the couch.

  “Could you turn your heater on?” she asks.

  I’ve gotten so used to having to cut back on utilities that I don’t even notice anymore how cold it’s gotten in the apartment.

  I walk over to the radiator and turn it up, feeling that permeating warmth that always makes me feel two times as tired as I was before the heat was on.

  “Would you mind if we wait on the massage until the room heats up?” she asks.

  “That’s fine,” I answer.

  I sit down on the couch and she rests her legs on me. It’s nice having this kind of closeness, but there’s still some pretty thick tension in the air.

  Not wanting the entire afternoon to be just one big awkward silence, I ask her to tell me a little bit more about herself.

  “What do you want to know?” she asks. “I’m pretty boring.”

  “I doubt that,” I tell her. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Not far from the city,” she says, “although I never really believed that I’d live here. You?”

  “I grew up in the Bronx,” I tell her. “I came to Manhattan after I took over the company.”

  “How’d that happen anyway?” she asks.

  “My dad retired,” I answer. “It was either I take the business or someone else did or we just close the whole thing down altogether.”

  “You know,” she says, “for giving your whole life to it, it doesn’t really seem like something you’re all that interested in.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I smile. “I love what I do, or at least it pays the bills. To tell you the truth, I think I’m just doing it because there’s really nothing else for me to do.”

  “I’m kind of the same way,” she says. “I started Lady Bits because I wanted to make some kind of statement, but it seems like a lot of other people wanted to make the same kind of statement around the same time, so I don’t know if I’m a trailblazer or just someone who jumped on the bandwagon.”

  “I think what you do is important,” I tell her. “Granted, I haven’t seen a lot of action in the Plus department because we were always working through there, but the racks and shelves you had set up for the interim seemed like they were filled with stuff you don’t normally see.”

  “That was the goal,” she says. “For some reason, people always think that if you’re a bit bigger than the average, you’ve got to end up in some frumpy crap, or else it’s muumuus until the end of time. I think one of the reasons that women don’t feel beautiful is that they’re forced into choosing only one kind of clothing that’s deemed appropriate for their body style, but you give someone the freedom to choose the same things that are available to all other types of women and you just see her eyes light up. It’s a pretty wonderful thing.”

  “Having a purpose is a hell of a thing, isn’t it?” I ask.
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  “Yeah,” she says, “I guess. After all that bullshit with Burbank, though, I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be able to keep the place open. Once the construction was done, we started getting a lot of our customers back, but once they got a look at the new prices, I don’t know. We haven’t bounced back yet.”

  “Give it time,” I tell her. “Things have a way of working out, and until then, I’d say start looking for other suppliers.”

  “I just don’t have the time for that,” she says. “I’ve made a couple of calls, but Burbank’s got agreements with a lot of the people in town not to undercut his prices. He really fucked me there.”

  I rub her leg, saying, “I’m sorry about that. I know I’m partially responsible for it.”

  “No,” she says. “I wanted to blame you—I did blame you for a while, but what it really came down to was the fact that I was already so on edge that the slightest thing would have sent me over just as much as you did.”

  She leans toward the coffee table and grabs the remote. Flipping on the television, she surfs through the channels for a while before turning the TV back off again.

  “You know what’s funny?” she asks.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I have these boxes at my parents’ house, boxes full of all the medals and certificates and shit that I won over the years. I used to go home almost every night and think about those boxes at least once. When I was stressed, I used to go through my apartment and figure out where to put everything,” she says. “I haven’t done that since the last time I stayed at my mom’s, just after she got sick.”

  “What’s stopping you from picking the boxes up?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “The same thing that’s always stopped me, I guess.”

  “And that would be…?”

  “Most people look at stuff like that from when they were a child or a teenager and they get all misty-eyed and revel in how proud they are that they accomplished blah, blah, or blah, but every time I try to talk myself into opening up that closet, I just shut down,” she explains. “I guess I don’t want to be reminded of all the disappointment each of those trinkets ended up being.”