I tried to use the distraction of getting the two of us loaded into the car and situated in the backseat to my advantage — that, somehow, between accusing me of seeing Peter romantically and sitting in the car, rolling away to her first appointment, my mother would forget she’d suspected anything about me and her future stepson.
I glanced at her to see if she was at least looking out the window and up at the glittering buildings we were passing as we sped down the street.
My mother had crossed her arms over her chest, her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline.
“Well?” she asked, her voice high. “I’m waiting for you to give me an honest answer, Gemma.”
I sighed heavily and pressed my forehead against the heel of my hand. “I don’t know that an honest answer is going to make you very happy, and I think this day should be all about you.”
“Just a yes or no would suffice.”
“A yes or no to what?”
“Are you and Peter an item?” she demanded, exasperated. “Tell me!”
“Yes, fine, we are an item,” I said, throwing my hands up in the air. “Are you happy?”
“Are you?” she countered, giving me pause.
“Well, yes,” I said, after a beat. “Yes, I am happy.”
“Well, good,” my mother said, and turned to ogle the buildings.
My mouth fell open. “Good? That’s all you have to say? Good?”
She turned back to me and shrugged. “You seemed like you didn’t really want to talk about it.”
I gaped at her. “You’re the one who forced me to answer.”
“I just wanted to know. That’s all.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What do you think?” I exploded. “Are you upset? Outraged? Disgusted?”
“I’d only be upset if you weren’t happy,” she reasoned. “If he was treating you poorly. Do I have a reason to be upset?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Isn’t it weird that you’re marrying his father and Peter and I are…an item?” I winced at using her word for it. What we really were was difficult to define. Hot sexual and spiritual partners might best fit the bill. I’d never met anyone I had more of a physical connection with, and he’d quickly become my best friend, as well. I hadn’t had much time to develop any friendships in the city, but Peter had been a fast one. We loved to explore together and spend time together whether we were having sex or not.
“We’re all consenting adults,” my mother said. “There aren’t any laws against it. The two of you aren’t related by blood. If you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.”
“That’s funny,” I mused. “You sound like Peter. I was the one who tried to break it off, tried to tell him it would be too weird. He had many of your same arguments.”
“Well, it’s true,” my mother said. “Peter’s a smart man. He understands. And if you enjoy your relationship with him, that’s the most important thing.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, the driver ferrying us across the city, before bursting into conversation again.
“It’s kind of complicated. We didn’t — I didn’t — neither of us knew our parents were marrying each other until that day at dinner. But we don’t want to be a distraction for your wedding. We won’t even tell anyone, if you don’t want anyone to know. We’ll even sit on opposite sides of the reception hall during dinner — you all are planning on having a dinner, aren’t you? Or will it be a morning wedding with lunch? Maybe brunch?”
My mother laughed. Even now, even after seeing how happy she was with Frank, it was a foreign sound. Her life during my childhood hadn’t allowed for many laughs. She could’ve even been described as dour while raising me. I’d only gotten cues on how to laugh and be silly from my classmates during school. Ours was a house that didn’t hear much laughter.
“You’re the one who has to help me decide all of this, Gemma,” she said, patting my knee fondly. “Honey, I am in way over my head. Frank says money is no object, but money is all I can think of. How can he have so much money to spend on whatever he wants? It boggles my mind.”
“I know exactly how you feel,” I gushed. “Peter must’ve inherited that from his father. He gave me a card and told me to start spending — that I could buy whatever I wanted.”
“Where have these men been all of our lives?” my mother nearly screamed, and we dissolved into laughter, the driver eyeing us not so subtly from the front of the car.
The rest of the day was filled with appointments with bakeries and dress shops and florists, my mother turning to me anytime there was a decision she thought was too close to call. For the most part, her first choices were wonderful — she’d only needed someone else to confirm them for her. But that still meant we got to try bite after bite of delicious cake samples for the reception, mulling over everything from color to icing.
It was just as much fun to see her model the dresses she was trying to narrow down. My mother had maintained a good figure all her life, and I even got her to try on something frilly and bouncy and completely out of character.
“You know, I’m the one who’s supposed to be forcing you to try on dresses, not the other way around,” she said, pretending not to love every single minute of the attention from both me and the salespeople on the floor gushing over her appearance.
“Well, you’re the one getting married, not me,” I told her, snapping photos of her striking a pose on my cellphone.
I sent one of the more flamboyant shots to Peter and captioned it “Mother’s day out” because I thought he might get a laugh at imagining her wearing that flouncy number on her wedding to his father. I sent a follow-up text: “She asked for the most expensive dress on the floor” along with a winking emoji face before turning my attention back to the belle of the ball.
“I’m not getting this one,” she said even as she turned around to coo at the lacing up the back. “I’m serious, Gemma. This is just for fun.”
“Your wedding should be fun,” I reminded her, shaking my head at the salesperson hiding a smile behind her hand. “I think I saw one with an even bigger skirt on one of the mannequins out front. Want me to see if they can tear it off her for you?”
“That’s only for display,” my mother scoffed. “And it’s couture. I’d never. I want something classic.”
“It would be an instant classic,” I opined.
“I can go enlist two or three girls to wrestle that dress down,” the salesperson added, playing along. “It won’t be any trouble at all, Ms. Ryan.”
“We’re just wasting time here, Gemma,” my mother complained, even with her eyes bright with mischief. “We need to be at the reception hall in half an hour. There’s no way we’ll get there in time.”
“The driver is excellent, and he’ll get us there on time,” I assured her. “It’s just been fun watching you model all of these dresses. We both know which one you’re going to get.”
“Do you really think I should?” my mother asked, locking eyes with my reflection in the mirror. “I said I wanted something classic, but that would be avant-garde.”
“You looked like a knockout in it,” I avowed. “You would be a fool not to get that one.”
The one I was pushing for was a simple white, floor-length sheath that somehow paired perfectly with a white tuxedo jacket. It was just perfect for my mother — in my opinion — because she’d fulfilled both the role of my father and mother growing up. It helped, of course, that she looked ravishing in the number, and that it didn’t offend her budgetary sensibilities. Frank would probably fuss at her for not spending more money on herself.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” she said. “I like that one, but I don’t think I’d have the courage to wear it in front of everyone.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“I’d feel better if you had something similar to wear when you stood up beside me,” she said. “Perhaps not in white, though.”
“I’d never compete with t
he bride.”
“Let’s see if they have something in black.”
As the lights to all those magical buildings winked on one by one in the bourgeoning night, I had the driver drop my mother off at her hotel first.
“I can’t believe we got all that done,” she said, as out of breath at the notion as if she’d been running full tilt through the streets all afternoon.
“Well, it’s like you said earlier,” I pointed out. “You have to make the hard decisions now that we’re getting so close to the actual date. There’s no more hemming and hawing.”
“It was you,” my mother said. “You’re the one who made all the hard decisions for me. You’ve always gone after exactly what you wanted. That’s why you moved to the city in the first place. To pursue your dreams. And look. You’re living them — at twenty-three. Not many people can say that. I certainly couldn’t.”
I bit my lip and considered telling her the whole truth right then and there. That I hadn’t been honest. That I hadn’t immediately landed among my dreams in the Big Apple. That there had been some nights I was so unsure of myself it hurt like a stomach illness, and I’d tossed and turned instead of getting the sleep I so desperately needed for the energy to work at two awful jobs. That she shouldn’t feel bad because she hadn’t done well early on in her life, that happiness was slow to find her.
But I didn’t want to detract from the wonderful day we’d had. Who’d known how much fun I’d have with my mother in New York City? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have avoided her presence here for all of those months.
Of course, all of those months were months when I’d been living nearly in abject poverty. I doubted that I would’ve been able to relax and have fun with her…without Peter in my life.
I felt a rush of warmth toward him — love and gratefulness. Who knew where I would’ve been without him? I knew I had to find a way to thank him — even if I could never actually repay him monetarily for all he’d done for me.
“You know, I am expecting to be the one who’ll taste all your potential wedding cakes with you, when the time comes,” my mother said, cutting through my thoughts.
“Yes, and then you’ll force me to squeeze into wedding dresses,” I teased her.
“Well, now we know there’s a proper way to approach things,” she said, laughing at the memory we’d just made hours earlier.
“Do you think it’s Peter?”
“It’s awfully early to tell,” I scoffed, even as my face went hot.
“But what does your heart say?” she urged me, and I knew it was important to her.
“My heart says I love him,” I said simply. “I don’t know if marriage will follow, but right now, I really do love him. We love each other.”
“I’m very happy for you,” she said. “Would you think me old fashioned if I said I was more thrilled that you’re in a loving relationship than you are in your dream job?”
“That would be a little old fashioned,” I allowed, even though I understood why it was important to her.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she warned. “I’m very pleased about the job. Even more pleased that you’re working with someone you love. Peter seems like a wonderful catch.”
“Just like Frank.”
“Like father like son,” my mother mused. “Well, I’m off to bed, or else I’ll turn into a pumpkin.”
“It’s early,” I said, checking my phone, noticing all of a sudden that I didn’t have any new messages or missed calls from Peter. That was odd. We rarely got through an entire day of working in the same office without texting each other. He must’ve gotten just as busy with Frank as I had with my mother and couldn’t spare the time. I wondered, grinning, if he’d died of embarrassment at the prospect of watching my mother walk down the aisle in a dress more suited for a prom or a cotillion.
“Don’t laugh at me,” my mother sniffed, misconstruing my mirth for something different. “You’ll understand when you’re my age. We old folks covet our rest.”
“You’re not old.”
“You’d be surprised.”
I kissed her goodnight and had the driver point the car toward home. I took the opportunity to call Peter, but it rang until his voicemail came up.
“It’s me,” I said at the beep, out of practice for leaving a voicemail but unwilling to call without saying anything. “You know. Gemma. Your girlfriend.” I hit my forehead in frustration. Why was I such an idiot around him? It was as if I was some blushing schoolgirl fawning over a crush. Sure, Peter had me blushing all the time. But we were together. I didn’t have any reason to be nervous.
“Anyway, I just finished up with my mother,” I told him. “We actually got the majority of things done, so it seems we’re in the downhill slide to the wedding.”
I paused and checked my phone’s display, hoping that Peter would save me from myself and my awkward message, but there was no such luck. No incoming calls to interrupt this voicemail of shame. I’d have to see this through to the end, so I resigned myself to endless ridicule once he played this message for me over and over again. He was sure to.
“I don’t know why I’m saying all this when we both know I’ll be seeing you in just a few minutes,” I said, counting the buildings we passed by, knowing that my hotel was coming up. “I just wanted to hear your voice, I guess. We haven’t spoken since earlier, when our parents interrupted us. I missed you. Does that make me needy? I hope not. I wouldn’t like to think I’m needy. I just like being around you.”
I clenched my jaw and stupidly wished that another vehicle would T-bone this one and put me out of my misery. How hard was it to leave a message on someone’s voicemail? Why was I so ridiculous?
“Maybe it was just me being around my mother all day that made me realize how much I appreciate you,” I continued. “Don’t take that in a weird way. We had a really good time. Though that’s not to say when you and I spend time together we don’t. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m hanging up the phone. I love you!”
I ended the call and could’ve sworn I heard the driver laughing at me under his breath, but there was no time to call him out on it. We were just a block away from the hotel, and I had to retrieve everything of mine that had spread slowly across the backseat throughout the afternoon and evening. My mother and I had been so full of cake that neither of us thought we could manage a true dinner, but now I was feeling hungry. Maybe Peter would want to take a late meal somewhere, or I could find something to snack on in the refrigerator. I rarely bought food from grocery stores, but that behemoth always seemed to be fully stocked. I wondered whose job that was — to keep Gemma Ryan swimming in food at all times. I’d put on some weight during my tenure as Peter’s girlfriend, but it was the good kind — the kind that made my eyes not look so sunken, that gave me cute dimples instead of hollows in my cheeks.
“Thanks for taking us all around the city today,” I told the driver as I climbed out of the backseat with a foam box of leftover cake samples and a schedule I’d been filling out all day to make sure my mother was on track ahead of her big day.
“My pleasure,” the man said, tipping his hat at me, and I wondered if he really meant it. Was it entertaining to listen to me yammer all day or sit in silence and stare at my phone? Driving a person around all the time, ensuring they got to the places where they needed to go, seemed like it would be a somewhat thankless job. I resolved to show my gratitude more consistently.
I reached the penthouse with a smile on my face and a building pressure in my loins, remembering that Peter and I had unfinished business, but he wasn’t there when I let myself in.
“Really?” I called out to the open space. “Seriously? No one’s home but me?”
If I was really desperate, I knew a good hand or two to help relieve my frustrations, but I’d been really looking forward to debriefing with Peter about my day and getting the release I’d been denied earlier.
I refrigerated the cake, my appetite off again, and settled down on the couch i
n the sitting room for one of my favorite pastimes — watching the twinkling of the buildings that surrounded me. I liked to wonder just how many other people were doing the exact same thing as I was in the exact same moment, sitting around, idle, without a thing to do but ponder their fellow New Yorkers.
Where was Peter?
Chapter 11
I woke up early — earlier than I would’ve normally gotten up for work, anyway — and checked my phone immediately. I would’ve understood if I had a message waiting for me explaining that Peter had been in a meeting until late last night with someone abroad, but there wasn’t a single notification on my phone — not even email. Maybe I needed to subscribe to more catalogs or junk mailings so I wouldn’t feel so lonely in the morning.
There wasn’t even a funny comment critiquing my awful voicemail.
I called Peter without even rolling out of bed, but this morning, it went straight to his voicemail without so much as ringing. Had his battery died? Had he even noticed that he was carrying around a dead phone? If work was keeping him so occupied, there was a fair chance he was too busy to be even listening to my rambling voicemails.
I got dressed in a leisurely fashion, taking my time with picking out one of my lovelier business casual outfits. Even taking the time to curl my hair, I smirked at my reflection in the mirror before slipping on a pair of crotch-less panties beneath my dress. Their presence would infuriate Peter until he realized that a key portion of the offending garment was absent, rendering them useless and little more than a party trick. Then, I was sure he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of me.
I got to work with five minutes to spare and spent them touching up my red lipstick — lacquered on to match my high heels — in the bathroom before taking my desk. There was a long list of things to get through, not to mention the final plans for Paris I was supposed to decide on. How could I choose the places to see in a city I’d never seen? Somehow, it was up to me, a complete Paris virgin, to plan our itinerary. I liked to imagine us there together — imagining a stereotypical France, the only one I’d ever seen in movies — on old streets, lounging on the banks of the river, eating fresh bread and letting the city lull us into loving each other even more. I imagined us christening each of the hotels Peter was planning on buying, asking the concierge and present owners to give us half an hour or so to inspect the penthouse and then going to town.
LUCI (The Naughty Ones Book 2) Page 57
