Man of the House

by Abigail Graham

  "No."

  "Do you want cheese?"

  "Sure."

  "Regular, or Cheez Whiz?"

  The memory shivers up from the back of my head. I was what, nine? Ten? I don’t remember where we were, but I was with my father. It was some charity event, something like that. It wasn’t nachos and Cheez Whiz, but I had a piece of bread in my hand, and I was reaching for gooey cheese dip with it, and his hand hit my wrist like a whip. He made me run and clean the cheese off my dress, his hissing voice sharp in my ear.

  “Don’t touch that. You’ll get fat.”

  “Regular then?”

  “No!” I blurt, “Cheez Whiz. I want Cheez Whiz.”

  He blinks, surprised by how forceful I am. “If you want it, you’ll have it.”

  Aiden guides me up to the window, cash already in his fist. He barks at the man behind in the glass in what may well be a foreign language. "One wit’ Whiz, one wit'out Whiz."

  Before I can comment he pulls me by the arm to the next window and orders fries and two sodas. At the third he pays, and collects our order that fast. He carries it all in a cardboard tray.

  Then he plops a cheesesteak in front of me. It's so heavy it thuds on the table. I unwrap this thing, stopping to clean my fingers on napkins, and stare at it. He expects me to eat all this? It's as big as my head.

  Aiden takes a big bite of his, chews, swallows, and gulps down soda. "Try it," he urges.

  I lift it in both hands and take a dainty bite while Aiden shakes his head, bemused.

  "Just eat it."

  I glower at him and spread my jaws wide, taking as big a bite as I can. I jerk back as it fills my mouth, and start to chew. It's intense. The shredded beef has a heavy, smoky flavor, and the cheese mellows it. The roll is hot and chewy, and has coarse salt on one side.

  I draw the sandwich back and wipe warm cheese from the corners of my lips with my finger. Aiden is staring at me. "How is it?"

  I don’t answer. I just stare at it. Then I begin to devour it.

  It's so good I end up eating it purely for the taste, along with the best French fries I've ever tasted. Aiden finishes his much faster and spends the rest of the time leaning on the wrought iron table, watching me eat.

  I’m stuffed. There must be steak sandwich in my esophagus. I’ve eaten so fast it burns, but I want more anyway. I struggle to choke down one more bite, then surrender.

  "I can't finish," I plead, stifling a burp.

  He takes the remaining third or so and chomps it down in three quick bites, looking at me as if he expects me to be impressed.

  Then he burps, and I lose it. I giggle into my hand.

  Why is he staring at me like that?

  "Come on, let's walk it off."

  "We'd have to walk to South Carolina to walk this off." I sigh.

  Despite the big ball of meat and cheese in my stomach, I feel light on my feet as we walk. Across a few streets, we take a path into a park. The air changes—cleaner, fresher, heavy with the scent of dew and leaves and flowers. I draw closer to Aiden, my nerves jangling at the shadows and spaces between the trees. The path closes in, branches twisting together above.

  I tuck away my sunglasses and put my clears back on. Aiden pushes his up his head. "You seem nervous."

  "This is all new to me."

  "Were you joking, or have you really never walked in a park?"

  I slow my pace, and he slows with me, studying me as he walks. My arms fold around my chest on their own.

  "I really haven't," I admit. “Not…like this. If there was a charity event or a company picnic or something, but I was always surrounded by people. Minders. My father kept me close by until I was a teenager, but then he started putting guards on me. He hired a stone-faced old woman to follow me around and glare at me in his absence.”

  "You sound ashamed. There's no need for that. I'm not trying to judge you. Just understand you. You're almost a stranger to me."

  "Almost?"

  "I do remember you," he says with a shrug. "Your father had a habit of displaying you.”

  It got worse as I got older. He always had me trot out where they could see me, under orders not to speak, and stand there almost at attention with my hands behind my back. Oh, and I had to smile, always smile, whether I liked it or not. Then I was sent off while the men handled their affairs.

  Except one time. "He had me serve drinks once."

  "I wasn't there for that," he says, surprise in his voice. "What do you mean?"

  "Like a waitress, I suppose. It was before I started school—I mean college. He had me carry a tray of cocktails to his friends."

  Aiden looks away for a moment, his face clouded. Then he turns back. "What an utter waste of a talented individual."

  I smile, but it’s a little forced. "It's kind of you to say that."

  I remember that day as clear as a bell, much as I don’t want to. Father had arranged an all-day gathering with some other businessmen, all old men like him. He told me I’d be joining him, then an hour before the meeting he presented me with an outfit to wear. A short skirt, tight turtleneck, and a string of pearls. Oh, and matching stiletto heels that made me feel like my ankle was going to snap at any second.

  The rest of that night is a blur. I can remember, I just don’t want to. It’s like knowing the monster is right behind me, but it can’t get me if I don’t look, the temptation always there.

  Some client or partner of Father’s wrapping his arm around my waist, pulling me onto his lap as I struggled to balance a tray of cocktails, wormy cold breath on my neck and a withered, frigid hand on my thigh before I shook him off and stormed out of the room. I didn’t even have the courage to throw down the drinks.

  What was I? Fifteen?

  "What do you want to do with your life?"

  “Huh? What?”

  “You seem a little distracted. Lost in thought?”

  “I spend so much time lost in thought I should get a post office box there.”

  Aiden laughs. “Seriously. What do you want to do with your life?”

  It's not a question I'm used to hearing very often—at least not from someone who cares.

  Without answering, I shrug.

  "I mean it," he insists.

  I stop. “I don't know."

  "There must be something."

  "Sometimes I think I could be a teacher. Maybe a college professor. Or…write. Or draw. Something artistic. Express myself.”

  "Write what?"

  I glance back and forth and bite my lip.

  "Well?" he says. “I’m not going to bite you.”

  "Romance novels."

  He looks at me with a blank expression.

  "I read them!" I blurt out, half insistence and half confession.

  "Who's your favorite author?"

  "Vanessa Waltz."

  "I don't know her. What does she write?"

  I feel the heat on my cheeks. "Uh, Married to the Bad Boy," I mumble.

  "Married to the what?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Have you written anything before?"

  I scuff my shoe on the ground, embarrassed. "Yes, but I never show it to anyone."

  "I'd like to read it."

  I stiffen at the thought of Aiden reading my stilted, amateurish descriptions of sex and scramble to change the subject. "Can I ask you something?"

  He draws closer as we walk. "Of course."

  "You're a doctor, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "What are you a doctor of?"

  "General medicine. When I was a younger man I had different plans, too. I saw myself becoming a sort of country doctor. I don't actually enjoy the city. Visiting for the culture and ambiance, yes, but I don't wish to live here."

  "Sounds like neither of us has much of a choice in what we want." I say.

  Aiden stops.

  I take a few steps forward without thinking and turn away from him. I switch back to sunglasses to hide my wet eyes, but he catches my wrist and pu
lls them back down, taking them in his hand. I blink, desperately trying to draw the first hint of tears back up where they came from.

  Aiden steps closer, sweeping the sunglasses, and his hands, behind my head. He rests his arms on my shoulders, and a strange feeling floods through me. Anticipation and a little fear, but it's a pleasant, goose-bumpy fear, like a scary movie or cresting a roller coaster—or what I imagine a roller coaster to be like, anyway—like I'm moving, and I've left my stomach behind when he tastes my lips and brushes a tear from my cheek with his thumb at the same time.

  I freeze at his touch, but only for a moment. I lean in, hungry, tasting him back, breathing in his scent. He feels huge and I feel tiny as he leans over me and tilts my head back. My hands move up his sides under his arms, and I feel his heart hammering against my palms. I wonder if he feels my pulse through my lips the way his throbs against mine.

  He jerks back, visibly shocked. "I shouldn't have done that."

  I don't know what to say. My brains are scrambled, all hope of a reaction gone. I can only stare at him open-mouthed as he peels my hands away from his body.

  "This way. I'll call for a car to take you home…to the apartment. The boys will be back soon."

  "But…"

  Then he's walking away.

  Chapter Four

  Aiden

  Lilah looks bewildered as I almost push her into the back of the car. Her wide eyes won’t leave mine, a plea forming on her lips. The urge to grab her and kiss her again is like a fire in my chest, but I close the door before I have time to change my mind, and my chest has a giant hook twisting inside it as I spot her turning to look over the seat at me. I jerk away from her and walk a few paces up the street to meet my own ride.

  On the way back to the tower, I should be catching up on my email and looking over briefings, but when I pull out my phone I only realized that what was meant to be a one-hour-long lunch turned into almost two-and-a-half hours. Time just completely slipped my grasp, and I lost myself in the day.

  In her, you idiot.

  No, I can't do that. Let me list the reasons: She's the daughter of an important business partner. My working relationship with Roland has always been quietly adversarial, cooperative only because he's astute enough to realize we're mutually better off than either of us would be alone, but he’s prickly. To him, my taking an interest in her would be an insult. Doesn’t matter that she’s a grown woman. Roland is old school. The oldest.

  Besides that, she's not yet twenty. If I'm seen with a nineteen-year-old girl on my arm, they'll say all sorts of nasty, terrible things about me—but more importantly about her, and she doesn't deserve that life. I'm poison. I ruin relationships, I don't build them. It's for her own good.

  I will just screw it up anyway, dragging her into my life. Look what happened the last time I tried.

  As I lie back in the seat and tweak the bridge of my nose, Lilah won’t leave me be. The image of her in a wedding dress creeps into my mind, and then amends itself, adding a heavy belly.

  What has gotten into you, Aiden?

  It must be some pheromone thing. This isn't rational. I already have children and responsibilities. Who knows what damage I did neglecting work for a few hours?

  I will correct this. It's only three months until she goes home. I can survive that, can't I? I am able resist temptation that long. I should move her out of the apartment, end this nanny foolishness. It was only supposed to be halfway serious anyway. I wanted to see how she’d react.

  Sucking in a breath, I fight the little voice in the back of my head that crops up to argue the point.

  Was it an accident, agreeing to bring her here? That I planned for her to live in my home from the start? Was an accident that I felt a nervous anticipation when I knew she'd arrived, that I felt the absolute joy of a living dream when she walked out of the elevator?

  I'm a bad liar, most of all to myself.

  The truth is plain. She can't stay after this. I'll break the news tonight.

  I have to.

  Lilah

  I walk into the empty apartment in a daze. There's still coffee left in the pot. I drain one cup and then pour the dregs, carrying them to sit on the couch and stare at the dead fireplace. Why doesn't he have a TV like a normal person?

  My mind coils up, trying to grind him between its gears. I start thinking of every possible reason to hate him. He's arrogant…isn't he? I guess he's not. He seems pretty humble. He's pretentious. Look at all these books, and no TV. A rich guy should have the biggest TV in the free world or something, right?

  I don't watch TV either.

  After slugging back the bitters from the morning's coffee pot, I put another one on and stalk the kitchen while it brews. The smell perks me up a little. The first sips of the first cup are too hot, but I choke them down anyway, wincing as the hot liquid burns my throat. I almost shatter the mug in the sink in anger but pour a third cup instead. It's too damn hot, so I add the bare minimum of milk from the fridge. I hate milk in coffee, but I knock it back.

  My hands are shaking from the caffeine by the time the children return. The two boys surge through the living room until they see me.

  The look they give me brings out a wince. I must look as bad as I feel. The pair of them glance at each other, and without speaking, approach the dining table.

  Jason lays a sheaf of papers on the table. I pick up the stack and leaf through it, my eyebrows rising the entire time. He missed turning in a lot of papers. An absurd amount.

  "Go change," I blurt out. "I need to get out of these clothes, too. Tim, lay our your assignments. We'll work on this together."

  "I don't need help," Jason grumbles.

  I dismiss his sally and head back to my room, wondering if I should start to pack. I end up sticking a few things in my bags while I change. I could call my father and tell him this isn't working, but I'd rather stick my tongue in a light socket. I don't know what I’ll do now.

  What did I do wrong? Is this my fault?

  I'm half in a daze when I walk back out in lounge pants and a hoodie.

  I sit down at the table and Jason, grimacing as ever, writes his name on the first worksheet.

  "This so dumb," he grumbles.

  "Do the first five and let me look at them."

  He scowls, but does it, shoving the paper at me as he snaps his pencil down. Tim just does his work, munching on pretzels in between problems.

  I read the top line and sigh heavily. "You did five."

  "You said to," Jason says, arms folded, looking anywhere but me.

  "Four of them are wrong."

  He looks at me now, offended and astonished at once. "How do you know? You didn't work them."

  "I can add." I sigh and tap his first error. "You're rushing, and you're guessing. You need to actually do them."

  "I did one. I can do it."

  "You did the first one, and it's easy."

  "This is dumb," he argues.

  I sigh. "Well, then, what if I show you how to do something new? Let me see how smart you are. If you can do this as easily as you say, you should be able to do them all, and not just the easiest one."

  “I can do it,” he snarls. “What’s the point of doing it over and over if I know how it works?”

  I try, desperately, not to roll my eyes. It’s getting physically painful.

  “You have to show the teacher you know how. Look at it this way. If you get one right out of five, that looks more like a lucky guess than doing it right.”

  “It’s a waste of time,” he snaps back, folding his arms. “If I know how to do it I should move on to the next thing.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and rub my eyelids. “You know what wastes time? Arguing about something you have to do. We’ve already sat here for ten minutes going back and forth about this. I want you to really stop and think about it. How much time have you wasted arguing, doing things over, getting yelled at by teachers, because you won’t just do it? I saw how long the firs
t one took you. You could be done in half an hour then go off and do whatever.”

  Jason scowls at me.

  “You know I’m right,” I say. “The only reason we’re sitting here doing this now and you’re not enjoying your summer vacation is because you didn’t slow down and do it right in the first place. In life, you’re going to have to do a lot of tedious, repetitive things, Jason. If you blow through them all and screw them up, no one is going to believe you when you say you’re too smart to even be doing them. Just do it and get it over with.”

  He pulls the paper back and starts furiously erasing his answers.

  "Get the remainders first, and I'll show you the next step. I’ll make dinner while you're working on it. I know you can do this. Take. Your. Time."

  For a rich guy, Aiden's kitchen isn't stocked for the height of haute cuisine. Boxed dinners, mac and cheese, peanut butter. It's surprising, especially for such a physically fit man.

  The kids need energy, so I cook up Cheesy Beef.

  Aiden didn't give a time, but I frown anyway as the clock passes six. After a burger break, Tim slips off, his homework done.

  Jason keeps at it, a dogged look of determination on his face.

  "I thought you were going to show me something new," he says.

  The worksheets aren't designed for this; they have a spot for the remainder next to every problem, but I start working him through breaking the answers down further, to the decimal points.

  Frustrated, he stabs his paper, snapping the lead. I find he's discovered a problem where the decimals repeat.

  I take his pencil, sharpen it, and draw a line over the repeating .3434…

  "What does that mean?"

  "The line symbol above means they repeat infinitely."

  "How do you know if they do?"

  By eight or so, we're talking about irrational numbers, and I'm showing him how pi goes on forever without ever being resolved. A short time later, he's stumbled off to his bedroom. I gave him a book to read. Aiden can decide if he can have his electronics back.

  Sighing, I slip onto the couch.