Objects of My Affection

by Jill Smolinski

“What’s the agenda?” Niko says, twisting open the beer I hand him and then handing it back to me. “A movie, or should we get straight to the cartwheels?”

  “Definitely cartwheels. But you first.”

  He surprises me by saying, “All right.” Shoving my couch back with his foot to make more room, he turns out a pretty reasonable cartwheel, his shirt sliding up around his chest while he’s upside down to reveal taut abs leading into a muscled V of hip bone. Hoo-ya. This whole date thing? Excellent idea. When Niko is again upright, he says, “Now your turn.”

  “Gosh, I’m worn-out from all the cartwheels I was doing before you got here,” I say, plunking down on the couch.

  Niko grabs a beer and sits next to me. “I’ll let it slide this time. What movie did you pick? Hope there’s killing in it.”

  “Nope, total chick flick,” I tease. “Nothing but endless talking and kissing.”

  “That’s cool.” He lightly brushes back a strand of my hair. “I like talking and kissing.” I’m all for getting directly to the latter, but he says, “Man, you should’ve seen how bad the damage was in that closet today.” We then launch into what would be a monumentally dull conversation to anyone else, but I’m riveted to hear how many floorboards Niko’s crew has to replace due to the rot caused by the sheer weight of Marva’s belongings.

  I’m having a perfectly enjoyable time when out of nowhere, Niko asks, “Hey, who was that collect call you got the other day?”

  “That? Oh, it was my son,” I say, hoping I’m not asked to go into any details.

  “Yeah? An uncle of mine once took a collect call, and, man, it was expensive. Like fifteen bucks for a one-minute call. And that was just from across town. You’re not gonna be happy when you get the bill. I hope it was important.”

  “It was. He—” I’m not going to stoop to lying, but I also recall how the last time I told someone that Ash walked away from rehab without bothering to call me, it didn’t go well. Somehow, I doubt Niko would ever tell me that my son was being shitty, as Daniel did, but why get into all that if I don’t have to? “He didn’t have his cell phone.”

  “Bet you’d like to kill him, eh?”

  I’m momentarily taken aback at how similar Niko’s words are to what Daniel had said—although he was referring to Ash’s not calling, versus his calling collect. Not that I want to be thinking about Daniel right now. A swift change of subject is definitely in order, so I say, “I can’t believe we’re almost done with this job!”

  “You think you’re going to make your deadline? Seems like a lot still to do in a week.”

  I glance at the calendar taped to the wall, nearly filled with Xs. “Don’t remind me. To be perfectly honest, with that stupid yard sale day after tomorrow, the last thing we should be doing is hanging out on this couch. We should be in there packing boxes. Only …” I lean against the couch and smile at him so he knows I’m not really cracking the whip. “I’ve been working so hard the past few days, I’m so sore I can barely lift a pencil right now, much less a box.”

  “Well, that’s not right. C’mere.” Just like that, he tugs me closer to him on the couch, my back facing him. “Bet you could use a shoulder rub.”

  Oh, yes, indeed, I could. Is there anything more universally beloved than the shoulder rub? And this isn’t some cheesy, halfhearted effort—he’s giving me a real massage. I feel so much tension ease out that I’m a puddle within seconds. His hands move firmly up my neck, digging between my shoulder blades, down my back. I’m so blissfully relaxed that—when he lifts my arms and tugs my shirt up and off—I don’t think twice about it, other than to give an mmm of happiness before I shift to face him and pull his mouth to mine.

  We’re soon rolling around on the couch. I quickly divest Niko of his shirt—fair is fair. He’s kissing down my neck, and my hands are roaming over his firm, smooth chest, when he lifts away and gazes around the room. “I just noticed, you don’t have a bed.”

  “Nope.”

  “You sleep on the couch every night?”

  “I have an inflatable.”

  “Cool.” Then he takes a great interest in my bra straps and, specifically, sliding them downward. That is, as best he can on this cramped couch. I hadn’t thought about that for a while, how pathetic it is I don’t have a bed. A hot guy has his lips sliding toward the curve of my breast, a hand fumbling with the button on my jeans, and I can’t even show him the courtesy of a bed? Niko probably thinks I’m one of those free-spirit types who is choosing this lifestyle rather than what I really am, which is broke. No, not true—I am merely in transition. I will have my life together again, and soon. Then I won’t have to be embarrassed about my pitiful living circumstances, or about how I’ve screwed up my life in other ways. Just as soon as I get the bonus. If I get the bonus. Correction: I will get that bonus.

  Shifting so he can get better leverage—that button is a stubborn one—it strikes me as kind of funny that Niko was so easily distracted when I switched the topic from Ash’s call earlier. Unlike some people, Niko is obviously willing to go with the flow. It’s what I find most attractive about him, really, that he’s so laid-back and sunny. Every minute with him is so easy and—

  “You’re so hot,” he murmurs, disrupting my thoughts. He’s temporarily given up on the button and moved on to unhooking my bra, which he does with remarkable skill. He eagerly goes about enjoying the goodies he’s released, and I must say, it feels incredible. What am I doing, letting my mind wander? Here I am with a gorgeous man’s mouth on my breast and his hand gripping my ass and I’m barely paying attention? I don’t need to wait for some bonus to start my life—it’s starting now. Right here. Although quick mental note—not to distract me from that thing Niko is doing with his tongue, which is, in a word, yum—but I need to spend the day tomorrow focusing on yard-sale items only. Making the deadline is so closely within reach. It seemed hopeless there for a while, but—

  For crying out loud, Lucy, focus! Just look at Niko, will you? In fact, have a good feel! Wrapping my arms around his back, I grasp the taut ripple of muscle, let myself sink into the sexiness of his soft moan as I tug his body closer to mine. It makes me feel so …

  So …

  What is it exactly that I’m feeling? I search myself for the right words and …

  Huh …

  I do believe I’m bored.

  That can’t be—I’m out of practice, that’s all. Niko is hitting all the right notes—really, I can’t say enough good things about his dogged determination to conquer that button—but, well …

  Meh.

  It seems impossible—I mean, it’s been so long since I’ve gotten any action and I’ve had a crush on Niko for weeks—but there’s no getting around it. As good-looking as he is, as nice, as eager to please—I’m not into him. I’m not really even here. I’m off somewhere else, worrying if Ash is okay, and if I’m going to get this job finished, and Niko doesn’t know any of that. And I don’t want him to know. I want him to be at arm’s length where he can’t see the real me … but arm’s length is pretty distant for what I’d originally planned for the evening’s activities.

  God help me, but I want a man who would love me in spite of everything—possibly even because of everything. I’ve already had that once, and I’m still not over it.

  “Niko … wait.”

  “Wha— Huh?” He’s breathing heavily as he looks at me lustily through those impossibly long lashes of his. “Something wrong?”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Too fast?”

  I reach for my bra, slipping it on as I search for the right way to tell Niko I’m sorry for leading him on, but I need more than a pretty face and a buff body. I need someone who knows me, and the primary appeal of Niko is that he doesn’t.

  “I thought I was ready, but I’m not. I hope we can still be friends?”

  Yeah, right—that’s what a guy wants to hear from the seminaked woman that he was moments ago dry-humping.

  He doesn’
t answer, just pulls his shirt on over his head. Then he reaches for the remote. “Hey, you got any food?”

  I wake to my phone ringing. Niko is gone, and I’m on the couch with a blanket thrown over me. It takes a moment of fumbling in the dark before I find the phone and answer it. It’s Ash again.

  “Yes, I’ll accept charges.” After I again provide credit card information—and I’m starting to wonder just what sort of charges I’m racking up—I greet my son with “It’s after midnight.”

  “Is it? Shit. Sorry. I need you to put money in my ATM account.”

  “As I told you last time, I’m willing to mail a money order. Give me the address where you’re staying.”

  “See, that’s the problem. My buddy is, uh, getting the place fumigated, so I need to get a hotel room for a while. Just until, uh, we can go back to the apartment.”

  “And he threw you out into the street without a warning? What kind of friend is this?”

  “Uh … it happened kinda fast. So can you put the money in? Like a few hundred bucks? It’s freezing here. And I’m tired.”

  Does Ash believe I’m that stupid, or have I in fact been so stupid in the past I would have fallen for such a fishy story? Then again … if he does need a place to stay, and I say no, I’m leaving him to sleep in the streets.

  After mulling the options, none of which are good, I go with the one that will at least buy me time to come up with something better. “Tell me roughly where you are.” I head to the computer and log on. “If you truly need a place to sleep, I’ll book you a motel.”

  “But I’m hungry, too.”

  “Tough luck. You should have thought of that before you left the Willows. I hear the food there is excellent.”

  A light is on in Marva’s kitchen. Since I’m wide awake after Ash’s call, I decide to see if she’d like to get some work done. When I walk in, she’s sorting a set of dishes into stacks of pink, blue, and yellow. “Decided I could let go of the Lu-Ray after all. Surprised to see you up and about.”

  “My son called.”

  “Ah. I take it then you didn’t get him to go back to rehab.”

  “No, I didn’t. He called saying he needed a place to stay, so I booked him a motel.”

  “That’ll show him who’s boss.” When I slump down defeatedly onto a chair, she says, “I’m joking. Don’t take everything so seriously.”

  “All I’ve been through and he still has me wrapped around his finger. But I’m scared if I don’t help him, something awful will happen.”

  “That’s the problem with love—it’s too closely tied to fear. But you can’t be afraid of your own son. That doesn’t help him. As you’ve seen, he simply uses it against you.”

  “I wish I could talk to him.”

  “So talk to him.”

  “He keeps hanging up on me.”

  “You’ve booked the hotel. You’ve got an address. Go there. Do what you feel you must. Twist his arm, beg, plead, knock him upside the head.”

  “I thought you said it was stupid.”

  “It is! But sometimes stupid is exactly what the situation requires. I’ll bet you can be on a flight first thing in the morning.”

  “I can’t do that. Tomorrow’s the last day before the yard sale. I need to be here.”

  “You think I can’t carry on for one day without you? That you’re the only person in the world who can place things into a box? You certainly do have an overinflated sense of your own importance.”

  “But there’s so much left to do.”

  “It’s not as if I have to do any heavy lifting—I have that Niko fellow to do that sort of thing. That is,” she says, smirking as she reaches into the cupboard for another stack of plates, “if you didn’t tucker the poor boy out tonight.”

  I don’t even bother to be embarrassed or try to make an excuse for why Niko was over; I’m too busy contemplating Marva’s suggestion. It’s ridiculous, of course. I can’t possibly leave the day before the yard sale—there’s too much left to do, and Marva can’t be trusted to do it. I could just see her sending Niko to retrieve things from the warehouse the moment I left, then Will refusing to give me the bonus as a result. Still … the whole reason I’m doing this job is for Ash. Earning that bonus isn’t going to mean a thing if he’s back on drugs.

  I heave a sigh and say a silent prayer because—as bad as the timing may be—I don’t see how I can afford not to go.

  After giving Marva instructions on what to pack up tomorrow, which I suspect she’ll ignore, I head back to the bungalow and schedule a 7:00 a.m. flight. Then I curl up on the couch, but I’m so stressed out it’s hard to sleep. It’s going to be next to impossible to convince Ash to go back to rehab. It wasn’t easy the first time, and I had a professional interventionist there who knew how to close the deal.

  Eventually I manage to drift off, knowing I should be figuring out what I’ll say, but lulling myself instead with the thought that, in mere hours, I’ll get to see my baby.

  It’s shortly before noon when I pull the rental car up to the motel, which looks as if it’s worth the $30 a night I paid and not a penny more. It’s close enough to the airport I could have taken a cab, but my goal is to get Ash to come with me. I’ll drive him straight to the Willows, less than an hour away. As a step toward earning his affection, I stopped to pick up a deli sandwich in case he’s as hungry as he said. I actually practiced my side of any argument the entire flight over, and I’m coming in with a plan to be firm, unafraid, and—beyond that—to wing it.

  I show the clerk my credit card to get a key, and in minutes I’m at Ash’s room, sliding the key card in and opening the door.

  “Ash, it’s me, Mom,” I say once the door is open a crack. This motel looks dodgy enough he might have slept with a knife by his side, so a little warning would be prudent. The blackout curtains make it pitch-black in the room. The only light is what I’m letting in, and it illuminates my son’s sleeping shape. He’s on his side, curled up with a pillow as if it were a teddy bear. His hair is going in about twelve directions at once, and he has several days’ growth of facial hair, the usual blond peach fuzz that’s more scruffy than manly. He doesn’t stir. He’s snoring lightly, and the sight of his tangle of legs and arms and kicked-off blankets wallops me with a wave of nostalgia. As when he was a colicky baby, I take this moment to feel the rush of fondness for my son in slumber—before he wakes up and starts squalling and wrecks it all.

  It’s when I open the door farther and step in that I see the empty baggies and open prescription bottles on the nightstand—and, ugh, not using anymore, my ass. Instantly furious—both at him and at myself for being so gullible—I step in, slam the door shut, and flick on the light. “Ash, wake up. It’s your mother.”

  “What the f—?” He scrambles to sitting, confusedly grabbing pillows and sheets around him, as if I haven’t seen him in his boxers a million times. “What are you doing here?”

  I toss the bag with the sandwich in it onto the bed. “Bringing you breakfast.”

  He seems to accept this answer, sleepily scratching his head. I set my purse on a table and pull up a nasty, stained chair. Debating for a few seconds whether I dare sit on it, I finally sink down directly across from him. We’re going to be a while. “You’re using again.”

  “Wha—? No, I’m not, I …” He at least has the decency not to bother continuing with the denial, what with the evidence right in front of us.

  “It wasn’t a question. You need to get up and put some clothes on. I’m taking you to the Willows.” Whoever I’m channeling right now sounds firm and assured, so I go with it.

  “No way.”

  “Ash, you told me you were clean, but you aren’t. It’s obviously not working to do this on your own. You need help. There’s no shame in that. The only shame is if you don’t take the help that’s being offered.” I’m impressed that I managed to pull out something so wise to say, until I realize I’m quoting the welcome letter I received from Organize Me! after I
hired them.

  “I only did it to take the edge off. It was a onetime thing—I was stressing about not having a place.” He opens the takeout bag and pulls out the sandwich, examining it with a grin. “You remembered. Ham and cheese. Mayo, no mustard. Lettuce, no tomato.”

  “I believe I can still manage to recall my son’s favorite sandwich.”

  “Not entirely—you forgot I like the Italian bread more than the plain wheat. It’s got these seeds on it—”

  “Get dressed. You can eat in the car.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Yes. You are.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  Here’s the problem—being tough is impressive and all, but doesn’t work with Ash. It never has. Cajoling, tricking, pleading … all potential successful actions. But try to tell my stubborn boy what he has to do, and all that happens is that he sits right where he is and infuriatingly bites into the sandwich you were kind enough to bring him, chewing as if he’s got all day and his mother doesn’t have a nonrefundable flight back to Chicago at six o’clock. Still, I stay focused on the goal: Get him back into rehab. Don’t be afraid. I’ve risked too much coming here to back down now.

  “So then what is your plan?” I ask.

  “You say that like you assume I don’t have one.” He leans over the bed and digs through his duffel bag. “But I do. Here.” He hands me a glossy brochure. It’s for the Betty Ford Center in California. “Got this from a guy in NA. Bet you thought I didn’t really go to any meetings here, did you. This guy says this one’s the best. They all say it. It was started by the wife of a president.”

  Is he serious? I look at his proud expression. Yes, he is. He honestly believes that I’m going to pay for an entirely new stint in rehab. “Ash, I can’t afford this. The Willows is already paid for.”

  “The Willows sucks. It’s boring.”

  “It’s rehab! It’s not supposed to be a thrill a minute—it’s work.”

  He sets the sandwich down directly on the bedspread, which makes me shudder—it’s probably years since it’s been cleaned. “I’m not scared of work, but that place is bullshit. Once I got through the first couple days, they couldn’t tell me anything I haven’t already figured out. And you didn’t even say you were happy that I’m talking about going back to rehab—that I’m not giving up.”