One And Done

by Cynthia Sax

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mrs. Langston talks.

  I focus on my awful salad.

  Edward sneaks in tidbits about Chelsea between bites. “She’s in second year general arts at the University of Toronto, St. George campus.”

  Did he campaign as hard for me, when we started going out? “I attended U of T also.”

  “You attended it a decade ago.” Mrs. Langston picks at her meal. “We don’t want to hear about your fling, Edward. This isn’t your proudest moment and—”

  “You said you were having brunch with your mom.” Chelsea, clad in a barely there bright-purple wrap dress, appears before us. “You said nothing about her.” She points at me, her fingernails painted crimson.

  “Nine get-Azure-out-of-jail-free cards,” I murmur.

  “Done.” Edward is sweating. “Don’t leave me, Jenella.”

  “I should be the woman you bring to brunch, Eddy.” Chelsea glares at him. “Not that fat cow.”

  “That fat cow was invited.” Mrs. Langston pushes a piece of egg to the edge of her plate. “You were not.”

  Hello. That fat cow is sitting right here.

  Chelsea turns her heated gaze on Edward’s mother. “As Eddy’s girlfriend, I have the right to be here.”

  “My son’s name is Edward and you have no rights, not in my family.” Mrs. Langston has her snit on, her lips all puckered up like she tastes something foul. “This is a conversation for grown-ups so run along like a good little girl. Edward will deal with you later.”

  “Eddy will deal with me now, bitch.”

  Oh my God. The girl has a death wish.

  Mrs. Langston sucks her cheeks in and purses her lips, looking like she’s about to implode. Edward gazes forlornly down at his carefully dissected Cornish hen, mentally extracting himself from this confrontation.

  I have two choices—I can either sit back and watch the bloodshed or I can attempt to smooth the situation over.

  “You’re correct, Chelsea. You have a right to be here.” I stand, deciding to be the bigger woman. “Please take my seat.” I steal a chair from a nearby table and reposition it slightly to the side, sending an unspoken message that I’m no longer part of their group. “Edward knew I wanted to say goodbye to his mother. I didn’t consider how that might hurt you.”

  “No one ever thinks about me.” The girl sniffs. “I have feelings, you know.”

  “I know.” Oh, how I know. The girl is a raging mass of uncontrolled emotions. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re apologizing to that coarse creature?” Mrs. Langston straightens. “After she insulted me? You heard what she said.”

  “A gracious, sophisticated woman once told me that politeness costs us nothing.” I quote her. “And it separates us from the beasts.”

  “Are you calling me a beast?” Chelsea, once again, makes every sentence about her.

  “Of course not.” I’ll never be Chelsea and that’s fine with me. I have enough excitement in my life. “Would you like to order a drink? Edward, can you show the woman you love a menu? I’d suggest something, Chelsea, but you’re so much younger and trendier than I am.”

  She preens at this barrage of flattery. A visibly relieved Edward opens the beverage menu, distracting her.

  I turn my attention to Mrs. Langston. “She’s very young,” I murmur.

  “And Edward now sees this.” Her eyes glint with respect. “I underestimated you, Jenella.”

  She thinks I’m trying to win her son back. I’m not. I merely want peace, to be content. If that makes me a fat cow, I’ll own it.

  “How are your roses this year?” I change the subject. “Are the blooms lasting in this heat?”

  Edward’s mother talks about her favorite hobby, telling me in detail how every rosebush is pruned and why that’s necessary. I nod and pick away at the salad, wishing I were anywhere other than in this restaurant.

  Chelsea doesn’t allow us to speak for long, telling us that gardening is for old people. Mrs. Langston, irritated at the interruption, switches to another favorite hobby of hers—humiliating Edward’s girlfriends. She leads the girl down one-way conversational routes, all of them heading to embarrassing and possible relationship-killing revelations.

  I mentally extract myself from the situation and wonder what Smoke is doing. Is he thinking of me? Has he replied to my message? I don’t dare check. Mrs. Langston has a no-phone policy at her lunches.

  “You’ve never met your father?” Edward’s mother asks Chelsea.

  “My mom got knocked up in high school. I will never make that stupid mistake.” She flicks her gaze upward. “That’s what the morning-after pill is for.”

  “She must have been very young when she had you.” Mrs. Langston sips on her tea.

  “She was a very stupid sixteen.” The girl walks right into the trap set for her.

  “And you’re twenty-one.” Mrs. Langston’s tone is deceptively bland. “That makes your mother thirty-seven.” Her gaze rests temporarily on her son’s down-turned face. “Which high school did she attend? Edward might have had some classes with her.”

  “God, I don’t know.” Chelsea shakes her head. “Why are we talking about my boring old mom anyway? I thought you wanted to know about me.”

  None of us want to know about her but we don’t have a choice. This is the Chelsea show and we’re all forced to support the leading lady.

  “Chelsea is very mature for her age.” Edward tries to ease his guilt over robbing the cradle.

  “Yes.” She hugs his arm. “Eddy says I have more experience than women much older than me.” She looks pointedly at me.

  “Edward is right.” I won’t be baited. “Chelsea, Edward, Mrs. Langston.” I stand. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you.” For the last time. “I must be going.”

  “We’ll have brunch again soon.” Mrs. Langston smiles sweetly. “I’m certain of that now.”

  I’m certain we won’t.

  My relationship with Edward is over. The only regret I have is that it took me four years to realize we weren’t compatible.

  Four years and one handsome club owner.

  I pull my phone out of my tote. Smoke hasn’t responded to my text. Maybe he’s waiting for my brunch to end.

  When I reach my apartment, I send him another text.

 

  Minutes later, my phone rings. The number on the display belongs to Smoke.

  He’s finally calling me.

  “Hey there, player.” I answer using my phone sex voice. “I hope you didn’t start without me.”

  “Miss ‘Nella?” Woofer squeaks.

  Oh my God. “You shouldn’t be using Smoke’s phone.” I’m glad I didn’t say anything to the kid about the club owner’s morning jack offs.

  “He said I could use it, Miss ‘Nella. Don’t be mad at me. I need your help.”

  “What is it?” I straighten. “Are you sick, hurt, in jail, in some sort of trouble?” I realize I sound like Smoke. We both care about the people around us, perhaps too much.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Woofer’s anxiety increases mine. “You know how every Sunday everyone at the club has that four o’clock dinner at Nana Zaire’s house?”

  I didn’t know that.

  “Mr. Sheridan says she invited me.”

  He’s in a tizzy about a dinner? “That’s a good thing, Woofer. It means you’re part of the team.”

  “But for how long?” the kid wails. “They say she has the sight. She knows things. And if she doesn’t like me, Mr. Sheridan will get rid of me and he can’t do that. I have to work at the club, Miss ‘Nella. I just have to. Last night, there were three, three Lamborghinis, not including Mr. Sheridan’s, and I hear during the film fest, the cars are out of this world and the stars don’t care if you touch them because they’re rented and—”

  “Nana Zaire will like you.” I try to stop his meltdown. “You’re a hard worker and no one cares abou
t the guests’ cars like you do.”

  “Can you tell her that, all of that? Mr. Sheridan said you can come to dinner with me, be my plus one, whatever that is.” He pauses. “That’s not a date, is it? ‘Cause I don’t know if I could do that. You’re really old.”

  “Thirty is quite ancient.” I smile. “No, it isn’t a date and I’ll tell Nana Zaire how terrific you are.” Is this Smoke’s roundabout way of asking me to the dinner? He must want me there. Warmth spreads across my chest. “What are we bringing?”

  “Bringing?”

  “We can’t arrive at her house empty-handed.” Arriving with a contribution will give the boy confidence. “We have to bring Nana Zaire something.”

  “Oh.” There’s a pause as he ponders this concept. “How about oatmeal raisin cookies?”

  “I was thinking home-baked dinner rolls.” I counter Woofer’s suggestion. “I’ll expect you here within an hour.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “I need a big strong man to knead the dough.”

  “No way. I’ll screw it up.” Woofer worries. “And then it will be a disaster and Nana Zaire will hate me and—”

  “You won’t screw it up.” I won’t allow him to fail. “If Nana Zaire truly sees everything, she’ll know you helped me and she’ll be impressed, want to keep you. I expect to see you in an hour. No excuses.”

  I end the call, not giving him an opportunity to argue.

  “Did I hear something about baking?” Azure wanders out of her bedroom, her full curves wrapped in her robe, her hair crazy.

  “I’m baking dinner rolls.” I look in the cupboards, taking an inventory of the ingredients. “It’s white bread and not organic.”

  “Your white bread is in an entirely different category.” Azure taps her short, blunt fingernails against her phone’s screen. “I’m texting Tarun. I’ll be late for meditation today.”

  ***

  An hour later, I wish Azure had gone to meditation. Her usual zen has escaped her today. “What are we waiting for?”

  “Everything happens in its own time,” I tease.

  “You’re a tyrant, holding me captive with promises of baked goods.” She shakes the tiny jar of yeast.

  “Woofer is helping me.” I relent, feeling sorry for her. She’s still strung out on Mr. Zanetti and that impossible situation. “I’m his guest for this dinner and we’re making the rolls together.”

  “His guest?” Azure’s eyes light up. “Is this Woofer guy well-hung?”

  “He’s a child.” I set the metal mixing bowl down on the laminate counter.

  Azure opens her mouth.

  “Woofer is barely a teenager and underage so don’t do or say anything.” I have zero tolerance for anyone messing with the boy. “I won’t have you corrupting him.”

  “Sex is natural,” she mumbles. “Teenagers have to learn sometime.”

  “I mean it, Azure.” I bang the mixing bowl, getting her full attention. “Hands off.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll keep my hands off Woofer. Woofer.” Her forehead furrows with thought lines. “Have I met him? His name sounds familiar.”

  “It should sound familiar. You’ve been getting your paper from him for months.”

  Her eyes widen. “Woofer’s that super eager paperboy who constantly hangs around the building, the kid addicted to oatmeal raisin cookies?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Oh yeah.” She nods. “He’s way too young.”

  The doorbell rings. “No sex talk,” I warn her.

  Woofer is alone. I was hoping Smoke would accompany him. I haven’t heard from the club owner since I forced myself back into his life last night.

  “Miss Azure is here.” Woofer follows me into the kitchen alcove. “Is she going to watch us?” he stage whispers, his face red.

  “No, she’s not.” I suppress my smile. “Azure, didn’t you want to see that TV show?”

  “What TV show?” Azure misses my hint completely.

  “That show.” I stress. “The one you wanted to see, remember?” I nod at Woofer.

  “Oh right, that show.” She pushes herself away from the counter and relocates to the couch.

  “You think this will work, Miss ‘Nella?” Woofer touches the bag of white flour. “Nanas and moms don’t like me.” His shoulders slump. “At least mine didn’t.”

  What the hell is wrong with some people? Woofer isn’t perfect, he’s a moody kid and I suspect raises hell wherever he goes, but they’re his family. They should love him through his awkward years, give him a home, guidance, affection.

  “Once Nana Zaire tastes these rolls, she won’t just like you. She’ll love you.” I hug the boy.

  He tolerates this for a moment before shrugging me away from him. “Do you think she’ll be a hugger? I thought you were the only one but the girls at the club hug me also. Some of the girls. Some of them don’t like to be hugged and I can never tell which is which.”

  He’s been rejected in the past and doesn’t want to be rejected again.

  “If I hug her, you do the same.” I run the water. “Wash your hands.”

  He rubs his palms under the tap, removing several layers of grime and some skin. “You won’t leave me alone with her, will you?” He dries his hands on a tea towel.

  I turn off the water. “I’m sticking by your side the entire time.” I pass him a measuring cup. “We need six cups of flour for this first batch.”

  He scoops the measuring cup into the bag of flour, removes it heaped.

  “Level it off.” I swipe a butter knife across the top, showing him how. “You have to be precise. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  That’s what Grandma Whyte told me the first time I measured flour. I blink, emotion swelling within me. She would have liked Woofer.

  The kid measures the ingredients. As we work, he talks, telling me about every car he saw outside the club last night, detailing their modifications, describing their engines and rims in detail. I listen and guide him with the bread, giving him the constant praise he needs.

  I’m tossing the last batch of dinner rolls into a bag when Bruiser calls, telling us the limo, our ride to Nana Zaire’s house, is waiting downstairs. Azure is half asleep, munching on a not-so-perfect dinner roll while watching a PBS documentary on global warming. Woofer is strutting around the apartment, his chest puffed out with pride.

  The baking went well, so well that I expect to see the boy in my kitchen again because, as he has shared five times in the last ten minutes, no one kneads dough like he does.

  I load him up with three massive bags of dinner rolls. “These are yours.” Slinging my tote over one shoulder, I push him out the door.

  “These are mine.” There’s a bounce in his step. “I baked all of these.” He glances at me. “You helped…a little bit, but it was mostly me.”

  “It was mostly you.” My lips twitch. He’s adorable. “I’ll make sure Nana Zaire knows that.”

  “You won’t leave me?” Woofer asks yet again.

  “I won’t leave you.” We enter the elevator.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bruiser waits beside the limousine’s open rear door when we exit the building. “Woofer. Miss.” His head is cocked toward the vehicle. Voices, some female, some male, overlap in conversation.

  “Is this the party limo?” I smile at him.

  He grins back at me. “It always is on Sundays. Only I’m working at the moment.”

  “It must be tough to be the driver.” I pat his big arm. “Do you have company up there?”

  “Shotgun!” Woofer yells.

  “Woofer,” I caution. “There’s only room for one passenger in the front seat.” He didn’t want me to leave him

  “You sat in the front the last time, Miss ‘Nella.” Woofer struggles to open the front passenger seat door, unwilling to give up his grip on the dinner rolls. “You can’t have that prime seat all the time.”

  Bruiser helps him. “Don’t change the radio pre
sets…or the temperature settings…or anything.” Once Woofer is settled, his view hampered by mounds of baked goods, Smoke’s man closes the door. “He won’t listen. He never does.”

  “Sorry.” I am sorry. Woofer has left me to face his coworkers alone. Unless Tyrice or Smoke is seated in the back, I won’t know any of them.

  “I’m glad you’re coming to dinner, miss.” Bruiser squeezes my shoulder.

  This gives me the confidence boost I need. I climb into the back.

  “Miss Jenella!” A wave of cheers hits me.

  “Sit here.”

  “No, sit beside me.”

  The door closes. “Hi everyone.” I wave blindly, blinking once, twice, my vision adjusting to the dim lighting. Some of the faces I recognize. Lucy, the redheaded girl pats the seat beside her. She witnessed my howling last night. The blonde flushed-face girl spied on me during one of my visits. The big man in the corner works with Tyrice.

  They’re wearing their uniforms, a sea of black and gray. I’m in pastel pink.

  The limo surges forward and I sit with a thump on the nearest seat. “How do you know my name? Has Woofer been talking about me? I swear I didn’t do half the things he said.” I joke.

  “Everyone knows who you are, miss.” Lucy squeezes her tiny ass into the sliver of a space between a video-game-playing man and me. “You’re the boss’ woman.”

  He did call me that last night. “Today, I’m Woofer’s plus one.”

  “Woofer can take care of himself,” the video-game-playing man comments without looking up from his screen.

  “We all can,” another man rumbles.

  “Hell yeah.” They’re all a bunch of tough guys.

  “I’m certain you can.” I smile. “But it’s nice when someone has your back, isn’t it?”

  This prompts a heated discussion about who has whose back. I watch the interactions, observing the personalities, the connections. Lucy rests her head on my shoulder, snuggling into my side.

  She’s as touch-starved as Woofer is. I wrap my arm around her.

  The big man sitting in the corner catches my gaze and nods.

  The volume of noise increases, everyone trying to talk over the other. I listen, slowly picking up names, learning about Smoke’s staff.