Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  “Oooooo, gelato! That would really hit the spot right now.”

  Before I can stop her, Pilar is veering off course and walking up to the refrigerated display case at Romeo & Juliet. Another doomed couple, just like me and Zane, or me and Eduardo, or both. Hell, I don’t know anymore.

  “I can’t decide which flavor . . . torrone or stracciatella. What do you think, Iz?”

  I can’t even remember what either one of those Italian words translates to. “Just get both.”

  Pilar’s eyes light up. “Great idea! And could you add a scoop of pistachio too and smush them all together?” She makes a smashing gesture with her hands, and the black-aproned girl behind the counter gives me a look that clearly asks, ‘Is she kidding me with this?’”

  “She’s pregnant.” I point to my sister’s massive baby bump. “Humor her.”

  And I’m going to follow my own advice and humor myself because I can’t stand not having the 411 on the woman who’s stealing Z away from me! I whip out my phone and quickly read through the texts I missed from my friends. Nothing interesting there as Z peaced out to go back to work shortly after I stopped following the conversation. Time for me to do some good, old-fashioned social media stalking.

  I go to Instagram and type #MiamiFallFashionFest into the search engine, but there are too many pictures and I don’t have all afternoon to scroll through them. So, I do a search for Orlas instead. It’s a unique enough name, which shouldn’t net too many results. Okay, not an Australian DJ, nor a flame-haired flutist, nor an inked-up cyclist . . . come on, man! Hold up, this ‘grammer has the handle OrlaStylin. That has to be her. Dammit. She has a picture of a shoe as the avi in her bio, which doesn’t tell me squat except that she appreciates a Louboutin lace ankle boot and who doesn’t?

  “Want a bite?” Pilar offers me a plastic spoonful of three different colored-gelatos. I see bits of chocolate and nuts mixed up in the Italian ice cream, as well as orange chunks of something (dried fruit?), and there’s an inordinate amount of caramel drizzled on top.

  “Hard pass. Can you walk and eat that?” I need to get my sister back out to the car before she wants to visit another country on her culinary trek around the world.

  “Mmmmm hmmmm,” she mumbles with a mouth full of gelato.

  I return to my phone, searching through Orla’s Instagram gallery while Pilar and I step out into the plaza . . . Aha! There’s Orla, posing with some clients at the fashion show. Crap, she’s pretty—the quintessential English rose with perfect alabaster skin; long, thick, brown hair; a slender figure; and a friendly smile. She looks like she could be related to Kate Middleton. She’s stylish too, in a restrained, sophisticated way. I recognize everything she wore to the fashion show as being a designer piece. Oh, God, there’s a picture of her and Z from the event. They’re cheek-to-cheek and smiling. I click on the picture so that I can read the caption: Met so many wonderful people at #MiamiFallFashionFest, inc. this funny, talented bloke. #hotphotographer #hetakesgreatselfies #cantwaitforfriday

  Okay, so she’s totally into Z. And who can blame her? Look at him, with his sexily tousled hair; that gorgeous smile with those full, kissable lips; and the long, lean physique that feels so right when he gathers you in his arms and you burrow into his chest so that you can soak up all the delicious heat radiating from his skin and breathe in his incredible scent. Starting tomorrow night this British beeyatch is going to be the recipient of all Zane’s hugs, and she’ll bewitch him with her classy accent and impossibly high cheekbones. They’ll probably beat Eduardo and me down the aisle and immediately start spitting out dark-haired, porcelain-skinned moppets whose first words are, “That outfit is all wrong on you.”

  I’ll tell you what’s wrong. All of this. Zane shouldn’t be with anyone but . . . Well, anyone, let’s just leave it at that. He should focus on his career and his charitable endeavors (providing emotional support to sexually frustrated cougars qualifies) and swear off dating for a while. Five, maybe ten, years would work for—

  “Uh oh,” I hear Pilar say as she suddenly stops next to the big fountain in the center of the mall’s thoroughfare.

  “What happened? Did you spill some gelato on yourself?” That would be par for the course with my sister who’s become a lot clumsier since she got knocked up. I look up from my phone to see that I guessed correctly and there’s a big blob of green gelato dripping down Pilar’s front.

  “Don’t worry about it. That dress is fug anyway. I don’t know what genius thought a high-low hem on a pregnant woman was a good idea, but he was sorely mistaken.” Pilar’s staring at me wide-eyed with disbelief and not doing anything about the runaway gelato, so I take a napkin out of her hand and start wiping away the blob.

  Pilar grabs my wrist. “Forget the gelato! My water just broke.”

  I look down at the tumbled marble tile beneath our feet. Sure enough, there’s a puddle of liquid beneath Pilar.

  “Are you sure that’s not pee?” I ask in an exaggerated whisper. Pregnant women do have trouble holding their water sometimes.

  “I think I know the difference between urine and amniotic fluid!” she whispers back fiercely.

  “Okay, so we need to get you to the hospital.” I do a quick visual scan of the area, stopping when my eyes alight on a broad-shouldered gentleman in a polyester uniform with black pants, wide leather belt, and a white, short-sleeved shirt with a security guard badge patch over his left breast pocket. “Hey, you, mall cop!” I wave my hand frantically in the air to get his attention, and he turns to look at me, with a frown. “Damsel in distress over here.” I indicate my ready-to-pop sister who’s now bent over clutching her stomach and saying, “Ow, ow, ow!”

  “How can I help?” the guard queries after hurrying over. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

  “No, I’ve got a car in the parking garage, but I need you to get my sister safely out front where I can pick her up at the curb.”

  “Roger that. Can you walk, ma’am?” he politely asks Pilar who’s straightened back up. “If not, I can carry you.”

  Ha! I’d like to see him try. Even with his ‘roided up-looking biceps, I don’t think he could manage that Herculean task.

  “Thank you, officer, but that won’t be necessary. I should have some time before the next contraction hits, so I can make it out to the curb on my own two feet.”

  “I’ll see you there in five.” I give Pilar’s fleshy arm a reassuring squeeze and take off, running toward the elevator for the parking garage.

  CHAPTER 34

  Four minutes later, I’m screeching up to the brick walkway-lined curb on Grand Avenue where Pilar is waiting with her new security guard doula.

  “Thank you, Dion,” Pilar says as the brawny man gently helps her into the passenger seat. “Now, remember what I said about keeping a dream journal for five consecutive nights. That will help you isolate the reason for these strong emotions you’re feeling when you wake up. Your subconscious is clearly trying to tell you something.”

  “I’ll do that, Dr. Fordham. I really appreciate the advice. Good luck with the baby.” He closes the Volvo’s door and waves us off with a smile.

  “I can’t believe you were psychoanalyzing someone while you’re in labor.’ I shake my head as I pull out into traffic.

  “I could tell he was troubled by something and I like to help people when I can. Wait, why are you taking a right here?”

  “Because I need to get on South Bayshore to take you to Mercy.”

  “Nooooooooooo!” Pilar yowls, reaching forward to grab the dashboard as she’s hit with another contraction. “Take me to Jackson,” she orders in between puffing out breaths of air. “That’s the hospital my doctor works out of . . . and that’s where I had Gabi.”

  “But Mercy is just five minutes away. It’ll take us at least twenty to get to Jackson and we’ll have to deal with the freeway.” I make a face because I-95 is always a hassle, especially at this time of day.

  “Do it!” Pilar
snarls at me, and I recoil. Yikes! She’s scary when she’s hurting.

  “All right, all right, don’t go full demon on me.” We’ve just reached an intersection where the left-hand turn arrow is green, so I’m able to pull a U-ie and get us headed in the right direction. I hazard a sideways glance at my sister who seems to have recovered from the latest onslaught of pain.

  “How many minutes apart are your contractions?” I ask warily.

  “I don’t know. Maybe six. It’s not active labor until they’re coming every two to three minutes, so we’ve got time. I was in labor with Gabi for twenty-eight hours, remember?”

  “Yeah, it seemed to take forever.” I came to the hospital sometime around hour twenty-seven and hung out at the nurses’ station, flirting with a hunky RN named Joaquin, until Gabi finally made her appearance, but still that was a really long sixty minutes. Being reminded of how lengthy the birthing process can be does make me feel a little less panicky about our current situation, so I calmly say, “You should call Ford and tell him what’s going on.”

  “I need to call Dr. Guerra’s office, too.” She pulls her cell phone out of her purse and starts punching in numbers. To say that Ford was not thrilled to hear Pilar was out shopping when her water broke would be an understatement. I’m sure that I’ll be getting a verbal spanking about that later.

  Mmmm, spanking . . . I wonder if Zane’s into that? Or role-playing? I have a short, extremely tight, cleavage-displaying policewoman costume I wore for Halloween a few years ago. I could arrest him for being criminally sexy, then do a strip search and pull out my handcuffs—

  “Izzy!” my sister’s shrill voice interrupts my fantasy before I get to the good part. “You need to be in the left lane or you won’t be able to merge onto the freeway, which is coming up.”

  Oooops! Okay, no more daydreaming about Z. I shouldn’t be doing that anyway. Eduardo is my man. Eduardo, the handsome, successful, always beautifully dressed Latino who gave me a diamond ring. If I’m going to put handcuffs on anyone, it should be him. Hmmm, come to think of it, cuffing Eduardo’s hands behind his back would be a good way to keep him off the phone. He couldn’t take a business call or respond to a text if he couldn’t reach that damn device! I file that away for future use, then maneuver the SUV onto the on-ramp to I-95 as Pilar grits her teeth and groans. I hope they can give her some good drugs at the hospital because those contractions do not look fun!

  “Oh, crap.” We’re no sooner on 95, then the cars in front of us come to a grinding halt. “I told you that getting on the freeway was a bad idea.” All the people who commute into Miami from Broward for work start heading home at three in the afternoon, which turns the freeway into a stop-and-go nightmare.

  “It’s only a few miles to the Dolphin Expressway,” Pilar says. “We’ll be okay.”

  Thirty minutes later when we’ve only traveled one of the three miles to our exit, her confidence (and patience) have evaporated. “Why is traffic moving so slowly?” she whines as she squirms in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

  “Maybe there’s been an accident.”

  “Oh,” she grabs her belly, “here comes another one.” She winces and starts panting. I’m thinking that the doctor who came up with this Lamaze breathing technique had to have been a man because it’s a major crock of mierda. From what I can tell, it’s not helping with Pilar’s pain at all. She’d be better off taking a couple of Advil.

  When she exhales loudly and relaxes back into her seat, I know the contraction is over. “That one lasted longer,” I observe.

  “I’m aware of that, thank you,” her voice drips sarcasm.

  “How far apart are they now?”

  She looks at her phone which she’s been using to time the contractions. “Four minutes. And before you say anything, I know it’s happening faster than I said it would, but babies can be unpredictable. In the end, they pretty much do what they want.”

  If I wasn’t a little bit terrified I might have to deliver this baby here in the car during rush hour on the freeway, I’d have to say that I like my niece’s style. She does things on her own timetable and she clearly has zero fucks to give about inconveniencing (or freaking out) the adults in her life, which I can respect since I’ve always been the same.

  “I need a distraction,” Pilar says. “Talk to me. What was going on with you and all the text messages you were getting on your phone earlier?”

  “As previously stated, I do not wish to discuss it,” I say in a clipped tone.

  “It’ll make you feel better,” my sister encourages.

  “No.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  “I’m just going to keep badgering you, so . . .”

  “Okay, fine,” I relent because she’s giving me a headache, “if you must know, the night of the storm . . .,” I purposefully mumble the last few words of the sentence so that they’re impossible to hear.

  “You what?” Pilar queries, leaning toward me.

  Swiveling my head to the side so that we’re almost nose-to-nose, I assert loudly, “I had sex with Zane!”

  Pilar pulls back, gaping at me in astonishment.

  Since she’s too stunned to speak, I do it for her, “Ay, caramba, Izzy! How could you do that? You are such a screw-up!”

  “That’s not what I was going to say!” she protests.

  “But it’s what you were thinking.”

  “No, it wasn’t. You’re projecting onto me because you feel guilty and/or conflicted about what you did and think you should be judged harshly for your actions.”

  “And so the head-shrinking begins . . .” I roll my eyes.

  “How do you feel about cheating on Eduardo?” If Pilar had a pen and pad of paper nearby, she’d be pulling them out so that she could start scribbling notes like she does in sessions with her loose-marbled patients.

  I shrug. “I’m okay with it. He’s never going to find out and it’s never going to happen again, so . . . no harm, no foul.”

  “Why do you think it happened now? You and Zane have been friends a long time and you’ve never been intimate before, have you?”

  “No, this was the one and only time. Our relationship has always been strictly platonic.” Aside from occasionally flirting with him and appreciating his physical attributes like any straight woman (or gay man) with working eyeballs would.

  “So, what made this night different?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “Why don’t you walk me through the events of that evening? Not the sex, of course, but what led up to it.”

  Although I don’t really want to relive that night again, getting my sister’s take on what went down between Zane and me might prove helpful. She is good at dissecting things and understanding emotions. That’s what she gets paid the big bucks for, after all. So, I confide in her, sharing the pertinent details of my stormy, steamy evening at the crap shack, as well as the aftermath with Z distancing himself from me and finding someone new PDQ.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” Pilar screams through another contraction (the second one since I started my story), and I don’t need a phone to tell me that the pains are getting much worse and closer together. We’ve still got a mile to go until the exit for the Dolphin Expressway, too. We could probably crawl to the hospital faster than this gridlocked, motherbleepin’ freeway is getting us there!

  Collapsing back onto the seat a minute later, her forehead covered with beads of sweat, Pilar says, “It sounds to me like Zane is respecting your wishes.”

  “Ignoring me and going out with another woman is respecting my wishes?” I crank up the A/C to the highest possible setting and direct all the vents at my red-faced sister.

  She nods. “You staunchly defended your position on marrying Eduardo despite Zane’s objections, then you slept with him and made it clear the next morning that his friendship was all you wanted moving forward. So, he’s giving you exactly what you asked for—a free pass for your night togethe
r and space to follow through on your plans.”

  “Well, why does he have to be so goddamn accommodating?” I grumble. “He’s making me feel like he just doesn’t care, like sleeping with me was no big deal.”

  “And was it . . . a big deal?” she wonders.

  “Maybe. All I know is I can’t stop thinking about it, which is something that’s never happened to me before. Sex has always been recreational for me; it’s never meant anything or been tied into feelings,” the word spews from my mouth with disgust. This admission will no doubt horrify my tenderhearted sister who will wonder why I moved in with Alex back in the day or why I agreed to marry Eduardo if I wasn’t head over heels for either of them. But Pilar doesn’t respond with any judgement or criticism. In fact, she smiles, which is almost as infuriating.

  “Why are you smiling?” I query irritably.

  “Because it’s nice to see you open and vulnerable for once, and knowing that Zane is responsible for that makes me happy. He’s a really good guy, and I’m of the firm belief that friendship, and the respect and affection that come with it, is the best possible foundation for a romantic relationship. That’s how Ford and I got started and look how beautifully that’s worked out.” She pats her distended belly. “Love is a wonderful thing, Izzy. You shouldn’t fight it.”

  “I cannot feel that way about Zane,” I insist. “He’s not the type of man I need to be with. I need someone who’s got lots and lots of money, someone who will buy me nice things and take care of me. That’s Eduardo. He’s going to be the perfect husband.”