Jayson: A New Adult / Coming of Age Romance

by Hughes, Nicole

  Sabine Zephyr had proved false the premise that women can’t raise boys to be men. My father had skipped out on us when Ashby was still in Pampers, and Mom had worked two jobs and still managed to instill some discipline in us. I had resentfully taken on the responsibility of being the man of the family, but it wasn’t until my adult years that I finally understood how much she had sacrificed to make sure we got by and felt loved, even though she had to be away a lot.

  The unfortunate result of being thrusting into adult situations at such a young age, however, was the sheer rebellion that burst forth once I reached my teen years. That was the part of my history that could destroy everything I had built. I had a short criminal record, but it was a brutal one. When I was sixteen years old, I took a switchblade to school to defend Castiel when an alleged gang member had threatened to hurt him. Looking back on it, it had been a bad, bold move. The guy and I had gotten into a fight that ended with both of us sliced up pretty badly, but luckily no one was seriously injured.

  A year after that, I was arrested again, this time for driving under the influence. I eventually landed in a military-style alternative school to nip my burgeoning criminal career in the bud. Mom had made it her business to force me back in line, and I appreciated the tough love. It was the reason I could look past the window of my office door and see my accomplishments laid out before me. I knew Cast and my other brothers probably felt like I was being paranoid to think something from that far back could come back to bite us, but I had to be able to spot potential pitfalls from a mile away. The kind of clients I had my eye on don’t want a criminal working in their homes.

  “Stop looking behind you and look ahead,” I remind myself, pulling myself out of the memories so I can focus on the work at hand. I close out the spreadsheet and go back to the advertising website, filling out the necessary online forms to get Zephyr Brothers Construction some publicity. The phone rings, and I answer it absently, staring at the screen. “Zephyr Brothers, this is Jayson.”

  “Jay! Honey, please tell me you miss me as much as I miss you. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? That guy from work meant nothing to me!” I instantly grimace at the sultry, whiny female on the other end. The very sound of my ex-girlfriend’s voice fills my head with visions of her tongue-kissing a coworker in the parking lot of her condo the night I had paid her a surprise visit.

  “Nadia,” I sigh. “I accepted your apology the first time you cheated. You can say it however many more times you feel the need, but I’m no longer interested in hearing it every time you screw me over with some other guy. I’m sure Chad, or Merrill, or one of the others you got caught up with would be happy to get a booty call from you, though. As for me, I’m done.”

  “Aww, don’t be like that,” she giggles nervously. “We both made some mistakes, but let’s let bygones be bygones. Tell me you want to see me tonight. You know the drink specials are the best on Thursdays. I’m wearing that sexy little red dress you like,” she coos. The prospect of her gym-honed body in a red dress set off by her crimson curls and a devilish smile on her striking Mediterranean face might be tempting to someone who doesn’t know her as well as I do.

  I take a moment to be completely frank with her. “Nadia, it wasn’t you being a lying, cheating floozy the entire six months we dated that ruined us, although you really should work on that before you catch yourself getting serious with anybody else. In our case, I understand why you sought solace outside of me. I didn’t have time for you. I’m sorry that my need to support the woman who brought me into the world was such a problem for you; had to be real inconvenient that my mom was living with me, but her back injury makes it unsafe for her to live alone. And I’m sorry running this business so I could afford your materialistic ass took up even more of my schedule. It wasn’t you. I’ll take the blame. No hard feelings. Now, stop calling my phone!”

  “You fucking prick! You want to turn this all around on me? The truth is you didn’t have time for me because you didn’t prioritize me, and I did seek attention elsewhere. I don’t even know why I called you. I guess I just forgot what a pig you are!”

  Suddenly the dial tone is bleeping in my ear, and I chuckle without humor as I slam the cordless back into the cradle. There had been a brief moment when I’d first met the redhead when I honestly saw a promising future ahead of us, but she hadn’t taken long to show her true colors. We’d only made it to the six-month mark because I was not interested enough in her to be bothered that she was sleeping around. Hell, I wasn’t sleeping with her by then myself. Too busy with work.

  While it would be great to have a steady piece, after the fiasco with Nadia, I had sworn off love. Romance doesn’t fit into my lifestyle. Not now, anyway. Maybe in a few years…

  I glare at the computer, trying to pick up where I left off after the phone call interrupted my flow. I muscle through the Nadia-inspired ire and take the time to at least finish the advertisement submission. After that, with an exhausted exhale, I decide it’s probably best I go ahead and close shop. I’ve been between the office and two open job sites since about seven in the morning, and it’s going on fourteen hours of steady work. I need a break… and Nadia has me thinking I should’ve taken Castiel up on his offer to go to the bar.

  I hop up from the desk and stretch, nearly touching the ceiling, and suck in a deep inhale that expands my chest as I run a work-roughened hand over my buzz cut. Reaching for the lightweight green parka hanging on a hook by the office door, I pull it over my t-shirt and lope out of the building, Timberland boots crunching across the gravel of the back parking lot to get to my truck.

  I know Mom’s waiting for me at home, which makes me smile. Sabine’s the only woman who has my heart at the moment and taking care of her is the only thing I prioritize over work. I’m not even lonely, I tell myself as I sit at the red light and spot a couple in the car next to me kissing like teenagers. I blow out a breath and accelerate when the light turns green. I have way too many responsibilities to be distracted by a relationship right now.

  Chapter 4

  KITRINA

  “Check this one out. Look at that square footage. I know you hated the last one because you thought it was too small.” Grace sits across from me in the food court of the Cesar Chavez Building, exclaiming over yet another apartment on the real estate website we’ve been perusing for the past hour. My best friend flips her auburn ponytail over her café-au-lait shoulder and turns her tablet my way, an exuberant grin spreading across her oval face and her dancing brown eyes begging me for approval. I look up from the homework I’m getting a head start on to take a glance at the lackluster image on the screen.

  “Meh,” I mutter with a shrug. “I don’t know, Grace.”

  “Ugh! You’re impossible, woman!” Grace blows a raspberry as she pulls the tablet back. “I think it’s absolutely cute and cozy, but spacious enough. It’s everything you said you wanted. There’s a balcony off the master bedroom, and you can use the second bedroom as an office. Wait…never mind. The rent on this place is too outrageous!”

  I chew on the end of my pen and finally express why I have little interest in the apartments we’ve looked at so far. “Grace, I don’t know if I’m cut out for apartment living. One of my Twitter friends is always complaining about how the people who live above her make so much noise she can barely concentrate. They vacuum at midnight and have the music cranked loud all weekend. Can you picture me trying to study with that overhead? Besides, there’s no real privacy in an apartment complex.”

  “Pfft, there’s not much privacy in your mom’s house either. Need I remind you she opened your mail? By the way, did she deposit your check yet?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble, embarrassed. “I got the balance by text from the bank this morning. It’s all there.”

  “Perfect. Well, on the off chance you do find someplace you like, the money’s at your disposal to put down a deposit and first month’s rent.”

  “Mmmhmm…” I nod absently and go back to
my homework, which Grace accurately takes as her cue to drop the subject, chuckling wryly as she pulls out her textbook to do the same,. The table between us is crowded with books, notebooks and junk food, looking like we’ve actually moved in here. With hours to go before my next class, sitting in the union is yet another reminder of what I hate about living off campus. We can’t even hang out in Grace’s dorm room since her roommate’s boyfriend was over when we stopped by there.

  I sigh and rub the furrows out of my forehead, barely hearing a phone vibrating until Grace asks, “Was that your phone or mine?” Grace reaches for her cellphone after the second buzz, rousing me out of my thoughts, and I glance around for mine to see which of us has an alert.

  “Hey, hey!” I say in surprised pleasure. “Professor Schwartz just sent me an email saying she has a free period right now so we can talk today. I thought we weren’t gonna be able to meet until next week.”

  Grace leans across the table and swipes a handful of chips before I grab the bag and start packing up my things. “Have fun with the dragon lady,” she says. “How long do you think it’ll take you? Should I wait here or go ahead to the library? Got some things I need to check out.”

  “Go for it, babe. I’ll catch up with you when I’m done.”

  I sling my bag over my shoulder and strut across the crowded student union, paying no mind to the male eyes that follow me with interest as I saunter past. As I toss my head, my pale blond tresses catch the breeze. The only thing on my mind is making the best of this rare opportunity to have someone with Professor Schwartz’s acumen give me pointers on how to get ahead as an interior designer. The thought makes me smile, which makes a few guys smile back. I turn away, hiding my grin. Guys always think they’re the center of the universe.

  For me, my future is my center. I hop into my Fiat and maneuver across campus to the building that houses her office. It doesn’t take long before I’m in the elevator, shooting up to Professor Schwartz’s floor, butterflies flitting around in my core.

  “Professor Schwartz?” I announce my presence at her open door.

  “That was fast! You must’ve been in the area. Come in and have a seat, Kitrina.”

  She gestures to a square stool in front of her desk. I step into the office, which is an homage to utilitarian design, and right away I’m blown away by the professor’s branding of her space. Her craft is shown off to full effect. I’ve never been in her office before. “This place is…amazing.”

  Professor Schwartz nods at the flattery, powering off her computer, which looks oddly out of place on the rustic wood and distressed metal industrial-style desk that dominates the center of the room. I can tell the desk isn’t anything university issue. The metal bookshelf behind her doubles as cubbyholes for colorful boxes holding what look like file folders, and the wall has only two geometric paintings illuminated by the stark afternoon light that enters the room from the un-curtained floor-to-ceiling windows. Her color palette is warm autumn colors, which mesh well with the dusky grey metal and dun colored wood of her furniture. There’s an exquisitely colorful handwoven textile covering the floor, probably East Indian, judging by the Agra design in rich rust red and deep azure.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” she asks. Her sable brown eyes look inquisitive, and there’s a half-smile on her lips.

  My eyebrows quirk upwards. “I-I’m sorry, I thought it was the other way around. You wanted to talk to me about my future plans for my degree, right?”

  “Forgive me. That’s my opener for every student who comes in here. I have in mind what I want to talk about, but I like to leave room for the other person to get whatever’s on their mind out before I ride roughshod over them.” She spreads her hands and gives me the floor. “So, what’s on your mind, Kitrina Schneider? That is how you pronounce your last name, right?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s the right pronunciation. Uh…” I gnaw on my bottom lip, trying to muster up some feasible small talk that doesn’t make me come off as empty-headed. “Well,” I reply slowly, “I’ve been thinking about buying a house.”

  “Ah?” Professor Schwartz vocalizes. “What’s your game plan for buying a house? Is this like a vague idea you have or are you actively taking steps to be a homeowner?”

  Leaning forward on the stool with an excited grin, I warm to the topic at the first sign of her interest. “I haven’t quite found the house I want yet, but I’m sure it’s out there for me. I want something spacious so I can try out different design elements, and of course it’ll have to have a certain architectural style. These pre-fab suburban houses make me cringe. I want something with a lot of history that I can bring into this century with my decorating panache. I think it’ll be very helpful to me as an interior designer to get that hands-on experience.”

  Professor Schwartz replies, “You know what you want. I think you should put more thought into how to go about getting it, but have you considered an apartment? It seems more realistic for someone your age.”

  “Professor Schwartz, forgive me if it seems presumptuous, but you don’t strike me as the sort of woman to let a little thing like what other people believe is realistic get in the way of what you dream up. I’m the same. I don’t do limitations, and when I looked at apartments, they were all so small. My style is too large for that,” I reply urbanely, finally feeling like I’m talking to one of my equals. I know Professor Schwartz understands me, even if others can’t.

  She surprises me with her rejoinder, however. “I like minimalism; sometimes less is more. Also, a house is a considerable investment. ”

  I shrug, trying to gauge if her statement has a slightly judgmental tone. It’s so hard to read this woman. Is she being disapproving or giving me the go ahead? I frown quizzically when she pins me with a look, that half-smile still dimpling one side of her face, and I can’t tell if she’s mocking me. Professor Schwartz pulls a Post-It note from the cube on her desk and scribbles down something, handing it to me. “But if you’re seriously considering a house, I would suggest you start at this website. The properties listed here are foreclosed homes, meaning they’re bank owned. Banks aren’t in the business of being homeowners, so they like to get rid of these places. I hope that helps.”

  “Thank you,” I beam, pleased that she wasn’t, in fact, shooting me down. I tuck the note into my purse and stare back expectantly at the professor, ready to lap up her words of wisdom.

  She nods smartly and continues, “Now, what I wanted to talk to you about, Kitrina, is that you show a lot of promise as a designer. I can’t argue that. Not only do you have a creative flair, you have an understanding of the techniques and methods it takes most people years and years to pick up. I hesitate to say it about someone so young, but I think you’re a natural.”

  I know how to respond to this one. “At this point, I’m happy to just be a student,” I reply with probably false modesty. I know I’m good. My perfectionism allows no room for mistakes and my attention to detail comes in handy. My portfolio review during my freshman year had been more than just a hodgepodge of disjointed sample projects. I had done my best to put together as professional a portfolio as possible, showing off the best of my work.

  “Yes, you are that, a student. I challenge you to embrace that role and reap the full benefits of your position, learning all you can to further improve your innate abilities, rather than assuming you can get by on style intuition alone.” Her tone is definitely censorious. I nod, blushing. “But, I also want you to put thought into mapping out how you’ll accomplish your ambitious goal of having your own design show.”

  “Kit’s Quick Fixes,” I supply. “Yeah, I have some experience in the industry. I used to be a child actress. No big parts, but I know my way around show business. I’m actually glad you’re not telling me I need to pick another plan for my future.” I think about what Mom said about having a television show being a childish dream.

  She shakes her head. “Oh, you don’t have a plan yet. You have an idea. A good plan
creates possibilities where there are none. A step in the right direction is to think about getting hands-on experience with an internship, and I have an application here I’d like you to take a look at, maybe not for this summer but certainly for next summer. Internships do more than pad your resume. They prepare you for your career.” I take the sheaf of papers she hands to me and glance through then. “I’m afraid that’s all I have time for today, but my door is always open during office hours. Get to planning, Kitrina. A great idea goes nowhere without momentum.”

  “Thanks for your time, Professor.” I swallow my pride at her gentle put-down of my plan to have a show, but I’m grateful for the information. I duck out of her office and text Grace about the website for foreclosed houses. I’ll check out the internship at some point, but above all, I’m ready to do some estate searches instead of apartment searches. I have the money, so why not spend it on something I truly want? Throwing caution to the wind, I drive back across campus, musing about how impressed everyone will be when I pull this off. There’s no such thing as impossible when you want something enough.

  * * *

  After taking what feels like a thousand virtual tours and scrolling through countless pictures on Zillow and Trulia throughout the weekend, I’m sitting in my bedroom Monday evening when I finally find The One. “OMG, this is it, Grace!” I type into the chat box on my computer. I shoot over a screenshot of the two-story Victorian with gingerbread trim in Western Addition. It reminds me of a life-sized dollhouse, a little smaller than what I’d initially had in mind, but it’s perfect for me. It’s a love match; I’m in love with the place. “Two bedrooms, one bathroom. There aren’t a lot of pictures, but what’s up there is to die for. It’s the price that seals the deal, though. It’s a foreclosure listed at just over three hundred thousand.” I feel a moment of anxiety about Grace’s reaction—she, like most other students I know, couldn’t possibly afford a $300,000 house. Even with her scholarship, she’ll be paying back student loans for years.