by Faye, Amy
The plane caught a lot of turbulence, sure. I didn't like it one bit. Not one bit. But the seats, on the other hand… they'd been something else. Nothing like the ride down, they were large and luxurious and leather and everything she could have wanted. Like sitting in first class, only every seat on the plane was that nice.
I pull my bag down from the overhead compartment and drag it out. I've got to get down to the baggage claim next, but I'm in no special hurry. After all, nobody's going to take my luggage. Why would they?
And I'm not in any special hurry today. Just to, what? Go home? What's at home that I want to be there so badly?
Nothing. Exactly right. Nothing's there. So I don't need to go and I don't particularly want to go. But I've got to sleep, and I've got to do it in a bed, so… home.
The apartment is quiet. Always is. Nobody talks to me, nobody looks at me. Maybe a 'hello' on the way out the door, but otherwise, nothing. And that's how I wanted it. Besides the fact that I don't want any particular social interaction, I especially don't want to get involved with the people who have to live in the sort of place that I'm paying for.
I drop the bag as soon as I get into the door. It lands on the fake tile floor with a thump, one that nicely approximates the sound of my body hitting the couch when I get into the room.
But that's not how things go, because as soon as I step through the front hall and into the front room, I stop dead.
"Oh," Mom says. She's got a faint smile. "Hey, Autumn. You're home."
I don't know how much she's had to drink, but I know it's more than she should have had, and I know it's more than I want to deal with right now.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you," she says. Her voice sounds almost sad.
"How did you get into my apartment?"
"Oh, uh. That nice man, Mr—Mr whatsit, at the office. He let me in."
I make a mental note to talk to Elliot about personal boundaries and my mother, particularly the fact that she doesn't know how to obey them so he's got to do it for her.
"Well, you've seen me. Get out of here, I've got stuff to do."
"Don't act like that, Autumn."
"Why shouldn't I? This is my apartment. Go home. I'll call you an Uber."
"No—come on. Don't do that. No. Come on."
I try to keep the frown off my face. I've been trying to be more positive. Something about the way you act informing the way you think. Mindfulness and stuff.
"I'm busy, mom. You can't just drop by whenever you feel like it. I just got off a four-hour plane ride, I'm tired, I just want to lay down."
"Well then go lay down," she says dismissively. "I can wait until you're feeling better."
I can feel my teeth grinding. I'm not supposed to do that. I switch the mindfulness bracelet from my right to my left.
"Mom—"
"No, I'm fine. Go, go nap. I'll be here when you wake up."
That's the problem, I think. I know you will.
Chapter Twelve
There are several ideas people have of what real work is. They mirror whatever it is that you do for a living almost exactly. If you're a thinker, then thinking is real work. Working with your hands, that's just for rubes. They don't have to do real work.
If you're a laborer, then working your ass off is real work. Guys sitting on their asses all day, they're just screwing around. They wouldn't know what real work was if it bit them.
If you're an artist… same, same. Everyone else doesn't understand how hard you work.
But I think I'm in a good position to see what real work is. I've worked most jobs. Well. I've never really worked much with artists. A web guy did my website. He seemed to know what he was doing, charged a reasonable fee, and my research told me he was the best choice.
But that doesn't mean that I know what he does. Might be artistic, might be a trade-skill where much of it is learned behavior, and the 'artistic' part is just the last little bit on top of a mountain of actual skill. I use computers the way that most people use firearms: very carefully, and with a good deal of respect for something I don't remotely understand.
Autumn seems to get them a little better. Six years difference apparently made all the difference in terms of growing up surrounded by computers. Which is fair enough, I suppose.
It didn't take long to learn that I can let her handle that stuff for me, though. Which is why I'm noticing that she's not handling it at all. She's distracted.
I know how distracted people work, and they don't work well.
"Everything okay, Miss Logan?"
"Huh?" she blinks and turns to me. I like that look. I like every look she's got. I can feel a little shiver run down my spine. An attractive woman is too powerful a weapon to be unleashed on an unsuspecting populace, I tell you.
"You seem on-edge."
She blinks away an expression of frustration, hoping I won't notice it. I'm a lawyer, and a trial lawyer at that. I exist in a realm somewhere between scholar, actor, and cold-reader. It's my job to see little things on people's faces, and I see the expression on hers.
"I've just been having trouble sleeping, sir. Nothing to worry about. I'm taking care of it."
"Make sure you do," I say softly. "But if you need any help with anything, don't hesitate to ask."
She hesitates to ask. Indeed, she hesitates to ask, and then decides not to. Whatever she's worried about, it's not something that she wants to think a whole lot about. I can understand that, but what I can't understand is what's got her so worried.
"It's nothing, sir. Sorry, I'll get back to it."
I smile at her. She's a hard worker, I'll give her that. Or at least, she wants to be. She works her ass off. And if she was anyone else, anyone at all, it wouldn't be a long time before I was willing to seriously consider the notion of going to bed with her.
With her, though… I don't know if I should. On one hand, it would be tempting to give her a taste of her own medicine. A taste of her mother's medicine.
On the other hand, that way madness lies. I'd be making a big mistake, and it wouldn't be long before I'd find out exactly why you don't put your head in an alligator's mouth. Sometimes, you get to make a cute show for the audience—most of the time, you just get bit.
I click my teeth together a couple times. I don't know what is stopping me from pulling the trigger. Something at the back of my mind, some little thing. It didn't take long to formulate a plan. Whether or not I should wait to move forward with it is a stupid question on the face of it. Either I do or I don't.
Yet, now, I'm getting cold feet? Absurd. I take a deep breath. No time to worry about the consequences.
Do it or don't do it. Either way, make the decision now. It doesn't take long. Only an instant.
"Autumn?"
She looks at me, her fingers still moving on the keys. I watch for a moment, a little bit entranced.
"Mr. Warren?"
"You want to get dinner tonight?"
"Sir?"
"Dinner, tonight. You have plans, or do you want to get something?"
"I don't know—I really—"
I can see the questions running through her mind. Whether or not she would be breaking some rule, or something.
She probably would be. Or, more accurate, I certainly would be. I don't know whether or not I'm making a big mistake. But I don't know if I care, either.
"I'd like that."
"Great. I've got a great place in mind. Trust me, you'll love it."
She smiles. She looks tired, but she doesn't look like she's got the smile on for my benefit.
"I'm sure I will," she says.
She turns back to the computer, starts typing again. If she's not careful, Maggie is going to have a serious competitor.
Now that I look at Autumn, Maggie does look quite a bit like her, doesn't she? It's a coincidence, of course. There's nothing to it. Just a strange coincidence.
I settle into my seat and take out a pad and pen. Duty calls on
ce more. My eyes flick across the notes I made for myself, just for such a purpose. I'm not going to make the call until I know exactly what I'm going to talk about. It's more professional-sounding when you don't have to flip through papers mid-sentence.
The die is cast, then. I'm almost certainly violating every professional ethical standard. I'm fairly certain as well that there aren't many standards discussing getting revenge on your former kid sister for what her mother did to you, ten years ago now. That's an oversight they'll have to correct.
Because it's a huge ethics violation, but he's going to do it anyways.
Chapter Thirteen
I've never liked to leave early. It's a sign of weakness. That there's some priority you hold higher than the job. I never liked to create that impression. Hated it, even.
I like to push myself. A lot of people do. It's important to me that I show people that they need to take me seriously. There might be some deep down reason.
Maybe it's because I'm a woman, and one time someone assumed I must be someone's girlfriend. I think his name might have been 'Ethan,' the guy I was supposed to be waiting for.
Then again, the guy who thought that was an accounting major. Or maybe he was trying to suss out whether or not I had a boyfriend. Both make good sense.
Or maybe it's because of who my mother was, a woman who never was taken seriously, and never needed to be taken seriously. Anyone who knew her would look at my face, see the exact same looks, the exact same expressions—in many ways, I am my mother's daughter.
Then they'd assume that we were anything alike as people, and they'd instantly write me off.
Or maybe it's neither. Maybe the fact is just that anyone who wants to really excel at their profession puts in as much work as they possibly can, and I'm not special at all.
I don't know.
But I do know that today I don't have the option—perhaps the luxury—of staying late. Sadly. I would really rather stay here than go home, regardless of whether or not they get me a bonus or something at the end of the month, because I've got someone waiting for me back home, and it's not someone I was really looking forward to spending a ton of time with.
My mother's always been a frustration. I don't know how nobody else seems to see it. She puts on her smile and she pouts when she doesn't get her way and the world just seems to give her anything she wants. If she were twenty years younger, she would be past the age where it was cute.
Now it's embarrassing. Humiliating, even. A woman in her forties who continues to act like a spoiled child, and to make matters worse, she always seems to find someone willing to indulge her.
Well, it always comes to an end eventually. In the end, they all realize that she's not the victim of circumstances who never did anything wrong, the way she paints herself.
Her life is the result of a series of decisions she made. For herself. And nobody can take that away, no matter how much they might want to. She's got to realize that she can't just keep screwing up and expect other people to clean up after her.
Her latest husband—I really liked Ron, he seemed like a great guy—has finally realized the game, and he's gotten sick of it. The way they all do.
She's playing the victim, of course. He was mean to her, he never let her drink, he never let her spend any money, even though it was all her hard-earned money.
Money she 'earned' by… who knows. She doesn't have a job. Hasn't for years. And to the best of my knowledge, she has no under-the-table income. I'm not aware of her having any money, but she insists that it was her money to spend.
Likely it was his money that was hers to spend, a little, at her discretion. Then he'd gotten wise to the fact that whenever she's up, she doesn't just buy a new pair of shoes for herself, to look nice.
She ends up with a new puppy, or a new Lincoln, fresh off the lot, with that new-car smell. Then it's a song and dance trying to get her to take it back, trying to get the salesman to be reasonable. She's sick, you see, she doesn't really know what she's doing.
Risk-seeking behavior, they call it.
She wants to unsettle things, and she's got no sense of what is or isn't a bad idea. So anything that pops into her head, if it seems good for a moment, she does it.
I take a deep breath and I wonder what she's done this time. She doesn't burn bridges. Not badly. Not bad enough that she can't come back from it. Which is why I'm more than a little concerned that she seems to be hiding out at my apartment.
If I could at least know what I had to watch out for, I could at least… prepare, or something. But no; she won't tell me. Of course she won't. That would make my life far too easy.
Instead, I've got to just assume that something's come up, and she's lying when she says that everything is totally fine.
I pop my head into his office. The red-headed secretary has been a lot less friendly since I started working there. I think she's annoyed that Eric's been paying me attention, but maybe I'm just reading into it.
Maybe she's going through a nasty breakup, or something. Either way, she doesn't stop me going in.
"Hey, Mr. Warren?"
"Autumn. What's up?"
"I need to leave at five today. I've got some stuff to take care of at my apartment."
He nods, ever so slightly. "That's fine. Still on for tonight?"
I nod back. "Yeah, no problem there. Where should I meet you?"
He gives me an address that I don't immediately recognize. I write it down on a scrap of paper and pocket it. I'll just get a taxi ride, either way.
Something makes me want to tell him. How much I could tell him without sounding like a liar, that's up for debate. But I want to tell him whatever I can.
I keep it to myself for now. I can't get him involved in family stuff. He might not remember me, but he'll remember Mom. And she'll remember him.
I'd like someone else to take some of the weight off my shoulders. It's all I've wanted for years, someone to come along and—it's horrible of me to say—take my mother off my hands for a little while. Just, you know, shave off the edges a little.
But I can't. Nobody can. And then the question becomes, who else should have to carry that burden, and the answer is pretty obvious at that point.
I don't get to just dump her on other people because it's convenient. They have to want to get involved. That's the difference between Eric and Ron. Ron wanted to get involved in Mom's mess. He'd married her, for Pete's sake.
In spite of all the signs, all the hints, all the little things. No doubt he wrote them off as quirks, as her being energetic. Until the chrome wore off and underneath he saw that it was something else entirely, a big problem that wasn't going away and wasn't 'fun' or 'exciting.'
Eric didn't ask to deal with it, and he didn't deserve to be put into that position. So as much as I'd like to ask an adult to come fix my problems for me…
I can't. Mom's my problem.
Chapter Fourteen
I'm not made to wait long. I don't like waiting, but I accept it. It's part of my life. Part of my job. I've gotten used to it, for better or worse.
But when things come together, and waiting isn't necessary, it's perfect. The best feeling in the world. And just as soon as I've been guided to my table, there's barely time to get settled into my chair before the young man brings Autumn.
He's terribly professional, so he manages to hide the fact that he's interested in her well. I wonder for a moment if she even notices. I decide that she doesn't. He's probably flown right under her radar—if I pointed it out to her, then she'd either deny it, or at least act surprised.
On the other hand, it's little interactions like that, that drive men's interactions. Surrounding women especially, but in every other way as well.
Instinctively, I know what they want, and it makes me want it more. Nobody needs to make me want my former sister more than I already do. And nobody needs to tell me that I'm barking up the wrong tree.
Every part of this plan is a mistake, from the dating to
the payoff. But I'm not worried about that. I've made plenty of mistakes in my time. This is just going to be another one, no different from the last ones.
I turn on my smile as she settles into her chair. "You get your thing taken care of?"
"It's not really something I can take care of. More of an ongoing project."
"Did you make any progress?"
"Talk to me about it in ten years," she says. She looks a little frustrated, though I can't tell with what. It's not me, I figure. If it was, then she wouldn't be trying to hide it. More than likely, she wouldn't have agreed to come at all.
She would have found some excuse to call off the date, even if it was at the last minute, after I'd already sat down at the table. Oh, my cat's sick. Need to go to the vet. I have to wash my hair tonight. I'm not feeling great.
Some other time maybe.
But this was different. She was annoyed by something that had come up and gotten in the way of what she really wanted to do, and I can't imagine that it's a coincidence that the same day she takes off from work early, she's annoyed at something that came up all of a sudden.
"You want to talk about it?"
She looks up from the menu sharply. "Talk about it? Nothing to talk about."
"Okay," I say, my voice not hiding the fact that I know she's full of shit. She can lie to me all she likes. It's not something I'm taking seriously. I knew to expect it.
"What's good here?"
"What's good? They've got a great pizza. Very traditional Italian. Good stuffed pasta. Decent lasagna if you want something more traditional. But I have to tell you, if you were on the menu, I'd take you over any of that."
She looks up at me, an eyebrow raised. Her lips are pressed together to hide the halfway-smirk.
"Oh yeah?"
"That's how it is."
She's not hiding the smile as well any more, or she's given up on trying. "I'll keep that in mind when they ask about dessert."
"We'll get it to go."
"That's good thinking," she says. Her voice sounds smooth.
