Exes and Ohs

by Beth Kendrick

  No, as the gracious ex-girlfriend, it was not my place to disparage the mother of his child. My only job was to get back to Westwood with my self-respect intact.

  But he seemed to be hell-bent on having a chat. “So Leo ran away today.”

  I turned both palms toward him. “Listen, I probably shouldn’t get involved.”

  “I come home from work and you’re in the foyer. You’re already involved.” He waited until I made eye contact with him. “If you don’t talk, I’ll only have Harmony’s version of events to go on.”

  I sighed, then launched into an abbreviated account of Leo’s arrival at my apartment. He looked increasingly concerned with every word.

  When I finished, he had one simple yet mind-boggling question: “So how do I fix this?”

  I studied his face and realized how much he truly wanted to be a good father. This was more than a burden he took on because he had to. He wanted this family to work.

  And so did I.

  In theory.

  I tried to explain. “You can’t exactly ‘fix’ kids.”

  “No, I mean the situation. Why did he run away? What do I need to do that I’m not doing?”

  “It’s not that straightforward. And I really shouldn’t be talking to you about this. I’m not Leo’s therapist anymore. And we have—we had—a personal relationship.”

  He just looked at me, waiting.

  I tossed my purse onto the Saturn’s hood. “Oh, all right. Here’s my pithy little kernel of wisdom. This one’s free, but after this, it’ll be two hundred dollars an hour.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Two hundred an hour? Isn’t that a bit steep?”

  “Standard Malibu therapy rate,” I assured him.

  He was staring at me. “I still can’t believe you’re blond. You look so—”

  “Don’t start with that again. Remember what happened last time you got worked up about my hair?”

  He shoved both hands in his pockets. “I know. That will never happen again.”

  “No, it will not. So let’s not go down that road.” I tried to clear my mind of salacious thoughts. “Now here’s my advice: Leo’s going through a lot of big life changes. He just found out he has a dad, who then suddenly moved into his house. His mother…” I paused in the name of diplomacy. “His mother is trying very hard to find spirituality. And you should be aware that he can pick up on any and all tensions between you and Harmony. Children are like bloodhounds when it comes to hostility. And deception.”

  He didn’t say anything. I focused on the sun setting in the smoggy horizon and continued.

  “He’s getting ready to start kindergarten in a few weeks. It’s pretty overwhelming. So of course he’s going to act out.”

  “But what can I do?” He had resumed the grave, founding-father expression.

  Almost involuntarily, I reached out and placed my hand on his shoulder. It felt so good to touch him again that I left it there for a few seconds before forcing myself to pull away. “This isn’t all your responsibility. The only thing you can do is try to create an atmosphere of harmony—of, I mean, serenity in the home. You know. Everybody get together, try to love one another right now.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “People pay two hundred dollars an hour for that?”

  I laughed. “They do in Malibu.”

  “But you don’t think next week will make things worse?”

  I tilted my head to one side. “You’ve lost me. What happens next week?”

  “Harmony didn’t tell you?”

  “No.” I tried to decide if I really wanted to know the answer to this next question. “What didn’t she tell me?”

  “She’ll be out of town next week. Twilight’s Tempest is going on location in Mexico. Big kidnapping story line for sweeps or something. Anyway, she’ll be away for six days.”

  “Which leaves you and Leo on your own,” I concluded.

  The faint creases in his forehead deepened. “She says this is the perfect chance for us to bond. But what am I going to do with him for six straight days? You can only go to Disneyland so many times. Even the zoo wears thin.”

  “Disneyland? The zoo?” I clicked my tongue. “Rookie. You have to save the bells and whistles for special occasions. You take him to Disneyland on random Saturdays, what are you gonna have left to bribe him with?”

  He shrugged. “Piano lessons?”

  I pretended to wipe away a tear. “My heart goes out to you.”

  “So you think I should just take him back to my condo in Santa Monica and, you know, try to be dadlike?”

  I hopped up on the trunk and dangled my sandals over the cobblestone driveway. “I’m not sure that’s your best bet.”

  “No?”

  “He’s already going to be freaked enough that his mom left him with some tall, mysterious stranger who’s supposed to be his father. If you change his living environment too, you’re looking at six days of nonstop, code-red temper tantrums.”

  “Oh God. What have I gotten into? I don’t know any of this stuff. Why the hell did I ever think I could be somebody’s dad? I’ve probably already screwed the kid up for life.” He shook his head. “I’ve been reading all these parenting manuals, but reading isn’t the same as doing. Harmony lent me a book, the one by the nanny to the stars? Half of that stuff doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t hyperventilate. Men less prepared than you manage to raise sons every day.”

  “Yeah, but they’re not raising them with Harmony.”

  “True.”

  “Six days alone with Leo.” He glanced back at the house, scowling. “That woman is delusional, always has been. No way is this going to work.”

  “You’re doing great,” I assured him.

  Panic was setting in. “Don’t give me that. I know how I’m doing: piss poor. You have to help me.”

  Uh-oh.

  I reminded myself of my goal: get back to Westwood with my dignity intact. That did not include offering up free child care consulting services to the most drama-ridden family this side of V. C. Andrews. “You don’t need my help,” I said firmly. “You’re here, you’re interacting with him, you remembered his birthday. I bet you even got him a present.”

  He nodded. “Oh yeah. A mint condition, first edition Spider-Man comic book. From 1954. Signed by Stan Parker.”

  This didn’t seem like the appropriate time to point out that Leo couldn’t read. “Well, see? You put a lot of thought into that.”

  He looked at me. “But…?”

  I cleared my throat. “But nothing.”

  “Come on. You have something to say.”

  “I have nothing to say. I better be going.” I tossed my hair like a Pantene ad to distract him and groped for another topic of discussion. “I just hope my car makes it down the hill.”

  Mission accomplished. He was instantly peering through the windshield at the dashboard. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing much.” I dug my car keys out of my purse. “The brakes just started making this weird grinding noise when I stop.”

  From the expression on his face, you would have thought I’d just confessed to a seven-state killing spree. “You’re driving around with grinding brakes? Don’t you know what that means?”

  I jammed my key in the door lock and twisted. “Uh…no?”

  “Your brake pads are worn down.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  He started to illustrate his point with choppy hand gestures. “Okay, think of your brake pads as erasers. After too much use, the eraser wears down to—”

  I waved this away. “I got it, I got it. I’ll swing by the dealership next time I’m in Culver City and get it checked.”

  He looked like he was going to be sick. “You take your car to the dealership for repairs?”

  “That’s right.” I opened the door and settled into the driver’s seat. “Know what else? I use the cheapest, lowest-quality gas I can find. That should keep you awake all night. And anyw
ay, how do you know it’s the brake pads? You’re a financial analyst. Or consultant. Whatever—something financial.”

  “Gwen. Brakes are serious business. Let me take care of this. We’ll just—”

  “No!” I fastened my seat belt with a click. “I’ll get it taken care of. You’re not my…”

  “Your what?”

  I swallowed and sat back against the seat. “My mechanic.”

  Our silent frustration pulsed through the car door, permeating steel and glass.

  He set his jaw. “I’m going to give my repair guy a call. He’ll fit you in tomorrow morning. Corner of Olympic and Westwood Blvd.”

  I was shaking my head before he finished his sentence. “You can’t do that.”

  “I am doing it. Calling my mechanic isn’t wrong. It’s not as if—” He stopped to rake both hands through his hair. “Somebody has to take care of this.”

  “And it has to be me. You cannot take care of me anymore. Just worry about this.” I gestured past the lawn to the cute little white house and all the chaos lurking inside it.

  We stared at each other for a long, loaded minute before he spoke.

  “I really—” And with that he shut his mouth, spun on his heel, and marched back to his family.

  I watched him walk away from me again. Then I started the engine and gunned it for Westwood. Brake pads be damned.

  He really what? Appreciated the parenting advice? Hated living with all those velvet throw pillows? Missed me the way I missed him?

  The little coupe kept pace with my racing thoughts, and I noticed the flashing police lights in my rearview mirror halfway down Beverly Glen. After suffering a small stroke, I pulled over and started to rehearse my story.

  I’m on my way to rescue orphans from a burning building…

  But the burly cop who strutted up to my window with bulging pecs and mirrored sunglasses didn’t look like much of an orphan sympathizer.

  He had a surprisingly Matthew McConaughey voice for such a Schwarzenegger physique. “Ma’am, do you know why I pulled you over?”

  When in doubt, lie like an Enron accountant. “No?”

  And then he smiled, which made him look even more like a former Baywatch guest star. (Given the economic climate in L.A., this was an entirely feasible possibility.)

  “Well, you might have been speeding a little. But that’s not why I pulled you over.”

  Oh boy. Here we go again with the fucking brake pads. I fumbled with my wallet and handed over my driver’s license with trembling hands.

  He studied my photo. “Hey, you’re not blond in this picture.”

  “I know. I just had it colored.”

  He adjusted his sunglasses. “Are you, um, single, Ms. Traynor?”

  This surprised me so much, my heart stopped palpitating. “What?”

  “Well…” He fiddled with my side mirror. “I noticed your hair when you rolled through that last stop sign. And I thought…well, I was wondering if I could maybe get your phone number.”

  16

  “I have a date with a cop,” I announced the minute I set foot in the apartment. “A cute one. Officer Paul Brenneman. He’s totally ripped, but with an ‘aw shucks’ southern sensibility.”

  Cesca glanced up from the scientific journals piled on the kitchen table. “That sounds nice.”

  “Let’s just hope he doesn’t have any surprise illegitimate children, right?”

  “Mmm,” she murmured. “I’m sure he’s wonderful.”

  Something was definitely awry here. “‘That sounds nice’? You’re sure he’s wonderful? I came in here all ready for a filibuster on the perils of relationship vine-swinging.”

  “Oh, Gwen, I would never presume to meddle in your love life. You should do whatever makes you happy. Follow your heart.”

  “Oh no.” I put one hand on my hip and pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You got back together with Mike, didn’t you?”

  Her only response was, “Love your outfit.”

  I glanced down at the track pants so red they put lobsters to shame. “I keep meaning to retire these.”

  “And yet, just like Michael Jordan, they keep coming back to torment the rest of us.”

  “It’s laundry day. It was either this or pajama bottoms.”

  “You should have gone with the pajama bottoms, G-dog.” The dreaded ex strolled out of our bathroom and collapsed into the chair next to Cesca.

  I grabbed the kitchen counter for support. “How did this happen?”

  “Don’t make me paint you a picture, G.” He chortled and held up a hand for a high-five. Cesca just sneered at him. Follow your heart, my ass.

  I tried to suppress my own little sneer. “No, I mean, why are you here? In my apartment?”

  “Study buddy. Someone’s got to quiz Lady C. on the”—he frowned down at the pile of index cars on the table—“on, you know, all this stuff about drugs.”

  I rounded on Cesca, but before I could demand answers, she said, “Good news” and handed me a check for $5,000.

  Five thousand dollars from the account of Dr. Dennis Schell. Made out to me. And this was no joke. I didn’t recognize the new address printed in the upper left corner, but I knew that careless scrawl on the signature line.

  I stared at my roommate. “What the hell?”

  She dusted off her hands. “You’re welcome. It was my pleasure.”

  Mike seemed torn between admiration and abject fear. “Don’t screw with this girl. She’ll mess you up.”

  “But how…” I frowned as a series of increasingly sinister scenarios paraded through my mind. “Do I even want to know?”

  “Oh, relax. I just ran into the jackass today at The Bomb Shelter, and he had that bottle-blond minx with him—what’s her face, again?”

  “Lisa. And less running down the bottle blondes, please.”

  She dismissed this with an airy wave of her hand. “You look good.”

  “Foxy.” Mike fished a cigarette out of his pocket.

  “Whereas this chick was the ne plus ultra of skank. Dark roots, split ends, a travesty. Matthieu would weep, absolutely weep.” She offered me a Life Saver. “I can’t believe he left you for…well, anyway, he had the audacity to say hello.”

  “So you mugged him?”

  “Yeah, basically. I figured you could use a little pick-me-up to the tune of five G’s.”

  “I definitely can. But am I now aiding and abetting a violent criminal?”

  “Please. I just used a few little tricks my brothers taught me. I can shake a fool down when necessary.” She pointed a warning finger at Mike. “You remember that. Darling.”

  Mike stood perfectly still and exercised his right to remain silent.

  “Anyway, I figured after all this crap with Alex and everything, you could use a little retail therapy.” She beamed. “If you want to hit the Beverly Center this weekend, I’m available. Oh, and by the way, I told him you were engaged.”

  “You what?”

  “Well, practically engaged. I told him you were seriously involved with this dark, handsome, filthy rich hunk. Hugh Jackman meets Bill Gates.”

  “Interesting. But if my fiancé’s so rich, why do I need five thousand dollars?”

  “It’s not the money; it’s the principle of the thing,” she explained. “Breach of promise, restitution, all that. In fact, you were threatening legal action if he didn’t cough it up.”

  “Was I?”

  “Oh yes. You’re quite litigious, as it turns out. And Chet is a partner at a very prestigious firm downtown.”

  I burst out laughing. “Chet?”

  “Yes. Your promised husband.”

  “I would never marry someone named Chet.”

  “Of course you would. He’s dreamy. Now, speaking of dreamy, tell me about this smooth-talking traffic cop.”

  Mike squinted at me. “Yo, didn’t you just break up with that stockbroker?”

  “Financial analyst,” I corrected. “It’s a long story, but yes
, we’ve gone our separate ways.”

  “G-dog got the moves.” He nodded approvingly. “Must be the new hair.”

  Cesca smacked him upside the head. “It is not the new hair, you moron. There’s more to a woman than her looks. How superficial can you—”

  “Actually, I think it is the hair.” I recounted my conversation with L.A.’s finest.

  Her jaw hung open. “He pulled you over for the express purpose of asking you out? Talk about abuse of power.”

  “Yeah, but he seemed nice. Shy, even. And very polite. Chet may have a little competition.”

  Mike pulled out his Newports, took one look at the pair of ferocious “no-smoking” glares, and beat a hasty retreat to Cesca’s room.

  I crossed the kitchen to see if Mike had left any of my Diet Cokes in the fridge. “So I agreed to have dinner with him. Why not? It’s not like I have any better offers.” I sat down next to her and poured a tall frosty glass of carbonated heaven. “Anyway. How was your day?”

  “Long. Boring. Yours?”

  “Well, let’s see. Alex’s son ran away from home today, showed up here, and I had to take him back to Harmony’s.”

  “He showed up here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “By himself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But isn’t he four years old?”

  “Five, actually, as of today. I know. I too was stunned and amazed. He’s highly skilled for a preschooler.”

  “I’ll say. So did you run into the big A. when you returned the kid to Harmony?”

  I choked on my soda. “‘The big A.’?”

  She flushed. “Sorry. I’ve been hanging around with”—she jerked her head in the direction of her bedroom—“too much. As I was saying, did you run into Alex?”

  “Yeah. But don’t worry. Nothing happened.”

  “Nothing?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s right! Nothing! We didn’t do anything wrong, okay? I barely looked at him. I wouldn’t even accept a mechanic referral from him. So don’t give me that look! It’s not my fault that they can’t keep tabs on one lousy preschooler.”