“Help guide me or tell me what to do?” I mutter under my breath, shoving the folded check in her hand and turning away from her.
“I heard that. Go get cleaned up and get ready while I finish dinner. A few colleagues are stopping by this evening, and I want you to look your best. Wear the pearl shift I got you for your birthday last year.”
“Yes, Mother,” I reply obediently. I stomp off to my bedroom to finally be alone, but my irritation is no match against the joy of the day’s lucky breaks. First Professor Schwartz offers to be my mentor. Now this? I’m refund-check rich! I grin as I dance into my bathroom and run a tubful of hot, steamy water so I can soak and relax. Dinner won’t be for at least another hour. I have the time.
Chapter 2
KITRINA
“Candace, I hope I have half your success with raising my five-year-old, Isabelle. Young women these days are so headstrong that she barely has any positive role models—aside from me, of course—but Kitrina is such a marvel! Accelerated classes at SFSU, you said?”
An opulent crystal chandelier spills soft yellow light over the long cherry wood dining table. I’m surrounded by three other physicians from St. Francis Memorial and their spouses. I shift back in the navy blue velvet chair at the foot of the table, faintly blushing at always being the center of attention when Mom’s friends come around. Candace Schneider is seated at the head and looking regal in a black evening dress, the picture of understated opulence with the diamond necklace and tennis bracelet clinging to her thin neck and wrist.
“She’s already taking classes for juniors and seniors,” my mother replies with a pleased smile. “I’m sure she’ll be graduating early.”
“Oh, you must be so proud of her!” says the pediatrician who broached the subject. “She probably gets it from you, Candace. Your home is so lovely, and this dinner you whipped up is to die for! I’m sure we could all take notes from you on how to juggle a demanding career, while also excelling as mother and homemaker.”
Dinner is nothing fancy—pasta and red sauce with lamb chops and seasonal vegetables—but Mom has the table spread like something from a magazine. I pick at the meal, not really hungry. Before dinner I had missed a call from my best friend, but I can’t call Grace back until after the guests leave. I’m anxious to get the evening over with.
“Pat, you flatter me, but thank you! Of course, I always tell Kitrina she could be putting that brilliant mind of hers to much better use in some other, more academic field. Interior design, artsy little stuff like that, that’s for creatives. Kitrina is an intellectual. We need more women like us in STEM careers, Patsy.”
“Well, creatives can be intellectuals, and intellectuals can be creatives. The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” a grey-whiskered doctor interjects, and I smile gratefully at him. “You have to nurture her interests. Everyone isn’t interested in science and technology. So, you want to be an interior decorator, Kitrina?”
“Probably for the stars. All the kids want to work for the stars these days. I was a makeup artist for thirteen years before I met my husband, and let me tell you those celebrities are absolute slave drivers. They’re terrible!”
I glance at the plastic surgeon’s wife recounting her war stories. She’s one of the most garishly painted women I’ve ever seen. Her makeup reminds me of the eighties, but that’s neither here nor there. I don’t want to work for the stars. I want to be a star.
“No, actually, I want to have my own interior design show.” I’m about to describe how the show would work—I have it all mapped out—when my mother interrupts me.
“Humph! I’ve told her numerous times we have enough Martha Stewarts,” Mom scoffs, chortling softly in amusement. I scowl. “Oh, Kitrina’s such a big dreamer, but she’ll get it together someday. Come help me get dessert, will you, darling?”
“I’m not just a dreamer,” I murmur tersely when we get out of earshot of the dining room. “It was very embarrassing for you to laugh at me like that in front of everybody.”
“Poor baby. They’re not here for you anyway. They’re here for me. What’s gotten into you, Kitrina?”
Her response is so belittling, I’m frozen, unable to find the words to vent my frustrations. “Just—nothing.”
“Good. Get the blackberry cobbler from the oven while I get the ice cream. You look very nice in the dress I picked out for you.”
The satisfaction in her voice is the last straw. I whip around from the oven and confront her. “That,” I spit. “That right there. Mom, you try to dictate every aspect of my life! And, the things I don’t go your way on, you denigrate and belittle, as if my thoughts and aspirations are childish whims. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“Who said you were?” Mom’s eyebrows wing up above her clear blue eyes in surprise, as if I’m being unnecessarily confrontational. “Are you talking about that television show nonsense? Kit, you need to be more realistic. You’re right; you’re not a kid anymore. You had some parts on TV when you were a cute little girl because I had friends in the business and got you the auditions. Having your own TV show as an adult is far more difficult and highly dependent on luck. Intelligent people do not rely on luck. You need to get a handle on your future.”
“I will, if you take your hands off of it!” I find myself yelling.
Candace takes a menacing step towards me, the ice cream scoop in her hand pointed at my chest. “You will lower your voice and get control of yourself. I have guests. This isn’t the time or place for this, and I will not stand for your disrespect.” Her voice is a quiet purr, like an engine on ready.
I take a deep breath and try to calm my racing heart, realizing that I’m acting out of character, but the frustrations have just been building up for too long. “I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I just want to feel like I have your support, even when I’m not following your orders to the letter.”
“My support? Now, you listen to me! I was raised by nannies and au pairs my entire childhood. Trust me, I have always had the money and inclination to do the same to you, but I didn’t because I didn’t want you to grow up feeling unloved. I have been there every step of the way for you, supporting you and making myself available, despite a demanding career. If you want to call that being a dictator, then you obviously don’t know anything about being neglected—.”
“To this day, you have no contact with Grandma and Grandpa because they neglected you when you were a kid, but you’re still doing exactly the same thing, just taking a different approach! You don’t really care about what I want! You don’t really support me. I’m like a doll that you dress up and talk through. Stop trying to make me your puppet!”
My head whips to the side after Mom’s heavy hand connects with my cheek in a loud, hard slap that leaves my ears ringing and my face on fire. The blow is unexpected and hurtful not just for the force, but for her assumption that she has the right to hit me. I clutch the burning skin and stare back at her with unflinching eyes, watching her visible struggle for self-control. Her lips tremble and her blue eyes well up with tears. I drop my blurry gaze to my balled fists, and I’m trembling too. The tension in my shoulders and across the back of my neck makes me feel brittle, like there’s no more bend left in me. I take a step backwards because I have to bend anyway. She’s my mother. My dad’s dead and there’s no one else.
“I’m sorry,” I state.
Mom nods, crosses her arms. “I’m sorry, too. That was inexcusable of me.”
I turn to get the cobbler out of the oven like nothing happened. “Kit, you think I keep you close for my sake?” Mom asks behind me. I shrug, burning my hand on the lip of the pan. I swear at the pain but grit my teeth and bear it. “It’s not my own loneliness that makes me cling to you, honey. I know what’s out in the world, and I don’t want you to get hurt, physically or emotionally.”
I paste on a placid expression and make my way back to the dining room where Mom’s guests are engaged in quiet conversation when we return with the blackberry cobb
ler and ice cream. “May I be excused?” I ask. “I have some homework to finish up.”
“So studious,” the pediatrician gushes with a grin. Mom nods without even glancing in my direction, and I drift away from the laughter and chatter to the quiet solitude of my bedroom.
I throw myself on my bed with an expulsion of air, feeling physically deflated by the altercation with Mom. Finally I can call my best friend, but the celebratory mood of earlier is completely wiped out. I need to vent.
“I’ve been worried about you ever since that cryptic message you left me,” Grace answers on the first ring. “I just got off work, and I could barely do inventory with my psychic senses tingling.”
“If only there was a degree for premonitions, you’d graduate with honors. You are so spot on! I just had the biggest fight with my mom.”
“Uh-oh, what happened?”
I tuck my feet under me and curl up on the plush pile of pillows at the head of my bed. “So, I confronted her in the middle of a dinner party about trying to dictate my every move. Gracie, she made me a laughingstock in front of everybody when I mentioned I want to have my own design show!” I don’t tell her about the slap. I’m still too shocked it even happened.
Grace gasps. “Oh my gosh! She must’ve pushed you to the breaking point for you to blow up while guests were there.”
“Technically, I didn’t do it in front of people. But maybe I overreacted, you know? I just got so frustrated when she called me a dreamer, as if being a dreamer is a bad thing!”
“The world needs dreamers,” Grace replies sagely.
“Exactly!”
“I say this to you every time you two get into it. You need to get your own place. Believe it or not, staying on campus provides the distance necessary to put things into perspective. That space teaches our parents that we’re not dependent on them anymore.”
“The problem is that my mom believes I’ll run out and get pregnant or on drugs or something. Gosh, she’s such a pessimist. She has no faith in me as a person, and it’s draining my confidence in myself. But, there’s no way I can move out. The crazy part about it is I got this huge refund check this semester.”
“You know my motto…don’t ask permission. Just do it. How can Mommy take you seriously as a grown-up if you’re too scared to make some grown-up moves, girlfriend?”
I giggle, thinking about what a rebel my bohemian bestie from Indiana can be sometimes. We met our freshman year and instantly clicked. The story of how she got into SFSU was a prime example of our differences and why she’s the yin to my yang. She applied even after her parents told her they didn’t think she should go to school out of state. Once she was accepted and had her financial aid and loans in place, she broke the news to them. They had no choice but to let her go. Grace had the balls to go against the grain, but if I had tried the same thing, I’d be stewing in disappointment with Mom putting her foot down and telling me no anyway.
“Well, I saw this article online a few days ago about folks our age buying houses, but the market is so unstable, it seems like a gamble.”
“All you need to do is lease a studio apartment for the rest of the semester. Come spring you can get into a dorm.”
“I know it sounds snobbish, Grace, but I don’t want to be like everyone else.” I bite my lips, realizing belatedly how I sound. Grace lives in a dorm. Grace doesn’t have a choice. I know she does without a lot of things she wants.
She crows with laughter on the other end of the phone, and I’m glad she doesn’t take offense at my comment. “Knowing you,” she says, “you’re probably thinking mini-mansion overlooking the Bay. Prime real estate. Am I right?”
“What can I say? I dream in color.”
“Yeah, well, nothing is impossible. My advice to you is if you want those dreams to come true, you gotta be willing to mix the paints, work that paintbrush and make the vision a reality.”
“At this point, there’s no way I’ll be moving out any time soon anyway. Maybe Mom is right…maybe I need to get my head out of la-la land and deal with what’s in front of me. At any rate, the good news is now that I’ve got my refund check, some shop therapy is in order! Oh, by the way, guess who scored a mentorship with her idol designer—yours truly!”
“You’re talking about Professor Schwartz? Lucky you. You’re such a glutton for punishment. Everyone says she’s a tough old bird, but I have a feeling her abrasive nature will just polish you up into a fine gem of an interior decorator.” I can hear the smile in her voice, and it feels great to have a friend who supports me. Given my mom’s mixed signals, I need to know someone is completely on my side.
“Thank you for talking me off the ledge, Grace. What would I do without you?”
“For the record, I think I kind of talked you up to the ledge. Remember, my advice was that you get the heck out of Dodge,” she says with a snicker.
I eye the backpack in the corner of my bedroom and reluctantly say my goodbyes. “And hey, who knows? I might just follow that advice. We can meet up around noon between classes tomorrow and peruse some listings online.”
“That’s the spirit!”
“Talk to you later, chica-boom.”
“Peace out, homie.”
I hang up the phone and get to work on my homework assignments, but as I survey my familiar childhood bedroom, with its pastel colors and touches of adolescent innocence, I feel like I’m not a college student at all; I’m just in extended high school. I groan and yank my laptop and textbooks out of my bag. Moving out is starting to sound like a brilliant suggestion.
Chapter 3
JAYSON
A quick peek at the corner of the computer screen tells me I’ve already overstayed my shift, but as owner of Zephyr Brothers Construction, I technically don’t have set hours. Evening light slants across the linoleum floor of my cluttered office; it’s almost dark. I rifle through the pile of invoices waiting to be entered into a spreadsheet and rub my calloused hands over my tired face, sighing.
I’m sitting at the big, blocky red teak desk I found for a bargain online three years ago when I first opened up the family business. I’m peering at the coffee rings on the gently scarred wood beneath the mess of paperwork, considering hiring cleaning staff now that things have leveled out for us. I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts I barely hear the tap at my door.
“What’re you in here frowning about?” Castiel, my younger brother and right-hand man on the job, pops his head into my office with that ever-present grin that tells me the kid takes nothing seriously. He’s twenty-two years old to my twenty-four, but I swear the sucker acts more like he’s sixteen. I chuckle in pleasure at getting a break from the tedium of data entry and shake my head ruefully at him.
“Doing the books, and I wasn’t frowning. That was my happy face,” I joke. “This has been a great quarter for us financially, and it’s bound to get better. But I’ve been thinking we really need to capitalize on our good fortune and put more money into advertising to pull in bigger clients.” Castiel shuffles past the cardboard boxes of files that haven’t been put away yet by the part-time secretary and plops his athletic body down in the rickety chair in front of my desk. “Hey! Careful, you barbarian,” I say with a laugh.
“Dev already took off, and I was about to lock up when I saw your light on in here. Another all-nighter?”
“Probably not all night. Gotta get home to Mom before too late. I just wanted to finish putting in these numbers so I can draw up a rough marketing plan.”
“Jeez, how much busy work can you make for yourself, bro? Come out with me. We can stop by the Eight Ball for a few beers. I promise all your earthly worries will be waiting right there on that desk when you get back.” Castiel crosses his beefy arms and stares at me in challenge, knowing damn well I’m not about to shirk work to get drunk with his ass.
I toggle to the other window I was looking at on the computer and turn the monitor his way. “So, this website is great for putting the word out about what servic
es we offer. Thing is, we can target specific demographics. I’m serious about this, Cast. I’m thinking instead of doing a bunch of little jobs that keep us stretched out and having to hire temp staff to get the work done, we focus on bigger jobs so we can take on fewer. It’s a win-win. Less running around and more money.”
“Greedy bastard, but I think it’s a hella good idea. Now turn that computer off and come with me to the bar. Got the truck gassed up and I got beer money. C’mon!”
“The only thing I’m worried about,” I say as I kick back in the busted leather chair and gaze at the advertising site, “is some disgruntled client, some rival carpentry company, digging up something from my past that can tear down the Zephyr Brothers’ reputation. That’s why I stay on you, Dev and Ash about the things you guys get into out there, giggin’ it up with your friends. Mistakes will catch up to you.”
“Here we go.” My brother throws up his arms at the familiar lecture and fires a resentful look at me. “When I trade you in for new friends, don’t get all butt-hurt about it. I need guys I can hang out with, guys who want to pick up chicks and talk sports.”
I laugh out loud. “I’m sorry, Castiel. Chalk it up to birth order, but as the eldest it’s my responsibility to take care of you guys. That means I gotta be all work and no play sometimes.”
“All the time, you mean,” he says, but smiles to let me know he appreciates my efforts. “Alright, bro. Catch you later.”
I watch the younger version of me jet out of my office, crossing the wood- and equipment-strewn carpentry floor, and a few minutes later I hear the back door to the building close. As usual, I’m the last man standing when the lights go out.
I finish keying in the numbers with my mind slightly blown by the large figures totaling up. I remember when the four of us boys were sharing one bedroom in a cramped apartment out in Tenderloin, one of the grimier parts of the city. To be clear, we never went hungry. We might’ve worn hand-me-downs, but they were well made, sturdy clothes that could be passed around between the lot of us as each one outgrew something.
Jayson: A New Adult / Coming of Age Romance Page 2
