by Olivia Luck
“You’re acting weird.”
I pause mid-Bundt cake flip. “What are you talking about?”
Violet studies me with a critical eye. Warily, I continue gently prying the Bundt from its pan onto a cake stand. It’s almost five in the evening. Violet and I are hosting an award show watch party at our place.
“Leave her be.” Violet’s friend Stella shoots my sister a pseudo glare.
“She’s my sister, and if I say she’s acting weird, it’s my business to find out why.” Violet sticks her tongue out at Stella.
“Very mature,” Stella jokes.
“It’s nothing.” I hurry to defuse the situation before Violet asks more questions. “I’m trying to think of ways to connect with my students at Mentoring Chicago.” This is only a partial lie. I am worrying about the class on Wednesday—because of the students but also because I wonder how I will avoid Oscar.
“See? Quit mothering her and help me with these trays.” Stella and I are the official cooks in Violet’s life. I manage the desserts, and Stella controls all things Italian cuisine. Her family owns and runs a staple in Little Italy where she mastered home cooking.
“Pot meet kettle,” Iris teases.
“That’s right. I’m the mother hen of this group. Don’t get our roles twisted,” Stella jokes back.
I laugh at their banter, enjoying the momentary lapse from my complicated whirl of emotions. Self-loathing reigns supreme. A healthy dose of disgust is there, too, directed at both Oscar and myself. Fault: I put myself in a vulnerable position that I didn’t think through. Fault: Oscar disappeared into thin air. Talk about inconsiderate. Still, he’s not to blame for the situation itself. My stomach churns at the thought of the note. In my haste to leave Oscar’s house, I’m unsure where it fell.
“Sister, sister, will you grab the napkins?”
I jump to attention at Violet’s request, grabbing the napkins and the cake stand.
“Let me help you with that.” Felix, Violet’s closest friend, relieves me of the cake stand. He inhales deeply, taking in the scent of my chocolate-banana cake. “You have a gift, girl.”
“Happy to oblige.”
“Sit here,” he says, angling his head toward the corner of the couch.
Dex, Felix’s boyfriend, sits at the other end of the sofa. He sips a beer. “What are we watching again?”
Violet sighs with mock exasperation. “Only the most important award show for television royalty.”
“Right, right,” Dex murmurs not bothering to hide his disinterest. He shoots me a private smile along the back of the couch. Of this little group, he and I are the only ones not interested in the Hollywood glamor and award season. Stella, Felix, and Violet can’t get enough of the fashion, the drama, and the speeches. But I like being a part of the group. Apparently, Dex does too because, for the most part, he’s here without complaint.
“Shut up and eat. You love Stella and Iris’ cooking.” Felix plucks a piece of prosciutto wrapped melon and pops it into his boyfriend’s mouth.
Dex chews then swallows the appetizer and grins. “True enough. And I have Iris here to keep me sane. Switch seats with me, babe. I want to talk to someone else who has no idea what’s going on when you talk Dior and diamonds.”
Felix shrugs. “Fair enough.”
“Oh, my gosh!” All eyes turn to Violet, who stares at the television in surprise. “That’s Oscar. Was The American Chef nominated for best reality show?” She doesn’t wait for a response, increasing the volume.
“Will we see you at the judge’s table on the next season of The American Chef?” A red carpet host thrusts a microphone at Oscar to answer her question. I stare at the screen in shock. This is what he meant when he said he had to go to L.A.?
Darn it! Why does he have to look so good? Clad in a classic midnight black tuxedo, he could have stepped off the set of one of the black and white movies I love to watch. His thick wavy hair is pushed off his forehead, chiseled cheeks cleanly shaven. There’s some comfort in knowing Oscar actually is in L.A., that he didn’t lie in his insensitive note. Point one for Oscar. I fight back the building sardonic smile. Lost in my thoughts, I’ve missed most of the interview, but one question nabs my attention. I can’t help but be riveted by the scene on the screen.
“Oscar Alexander, you have a lot of fans all over the country. We asked them to Tweet us questions, and the Internet has spoken with one predominate question: are you single?”
Oscar chuckles—the sound sending a shiver through me—and pushes his hands into his pockets. “No special ladies in my life. I’m the perpetual bachelor.”
There it is. In case I had any questions, Oscar just told me exactly where I stand. Bleakness rolls over me. I am forgettable, so inconsequential that Oscar doesn’t flinch when he answers the question. Now, I know what it’s like to be crushed, like he slammed my heart with a freaking meat tenderizer.
“Ah, looking to be the next George Clooney, are you?” the interviewer jokes. “Even he got married.”
Oscar shrugs, unaffected. “Not happening anytime soon, June.”
Hurt piles on top of hurt. Not that I expected anything as far-fetched as Oscar marrying me, but his obvious disdain for relationships makes me feel even more duped. Forgetting the room around me, I slump into the couch cushion in distress. He couldn’t have brushed me off more than if he had literally taken a broom and swept me out of his house. This is on national television; his message couldn’t be more clear.
“When will he get rid of the playboy shtick?” my sister gripes. “It’s obviously a way to hide insecurities and loneliness. The man works himself into the ground because he’s too afraid to be in a committed relationship.” Violet sighs.
“I don’t disagree with you, but it’s his choice,” Felix says. A television star appears on the screen with her much younger songwriter boyfriend and the attention of the room shifts. Except for me. I push to my feet and wander into the kitchen.
“Anyone need a drink?” I ask weakly, trying to disguise my behavior. No one responds; they’re too busy gossiping about whatever’s happening on the red carpet.
I pour myself a large glass of ice water and gulp it down hoping to cool the shameful burn coursing through my body.
“Been there before.” My shoulders jump in surprise at the voice behind me. Dex stands there with a sympathetic expression.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Glancing over his shoulder, I try to see if our friends notice our absence.
“They’re too busy with accessories to look over here. How my big, burly fireman can be a closet fashion whore is beyond me,” Dex says eliciting a tiny smile from me. “Look, I don’t want to butt into your business, but when he gave that bullshit line about not dating anyone, it looked like he sent a dagger straight through your heart. I’m not going to ask questions, but you should know you aren’t alone in getting hurt by a dude. If you want to talk to someone, I’m here.”
A solution to one of my problems pops into my mind. “Do you have plans on Wednesday night?”
“None that I’m aware of. Felix has an overnight at the station. What are we doing?”
A genuine smile curls my lips upward because this may rescue me from one potentially awkward interaction. “Would you like to have dinner with me? I’ll be at the Grover School doing Mentoring Chicago until half past six. If it’s not too much trouble, maybe you could swing by there and pick me up? I’ll have my car, but . . . Well, it would be helpful if you came to the classroom.”
Dex’s eyes light with understanding. “Sounds good. Do I have your number?” He fishes his phone out from his pocket, and we exchange digits.
“Do I have a reason to be jealous of you two? Come join us,” Felix calls to us.
“Maybe a little jealous.” Dex leans down to kiss Felix on the crown of his head when he makes his way back to the couch. “Iris accepted my request for a date, of the platonic sort.”
“Fun!” Violet says, always the beacon of uncon
ditional support.
“You’re the best, sister, sister,” I tell her impulsively.
Violet shoots Stella a triumphant look. “See? She forgives me for being nosy.”
“Fair enough. Iris, you aren’t eating. Take some food.” Violet and I share a look, and we burst into laughter. If nothing else, I have my friends and my sister.
Oscar
The weekender bag hits my bedroom floor with a depressed thud. I toss the garment bag across my bed with a similar disregard. I am exhausted. Taking the six a.m. flight to L.A. and then the red-eye back in one day is not my idea of relaxing. To no one’s surprise, The American Chef didn’t win best reality show. It was a long shot, and the only reason I hauled my ass across the country was for a compromise with Clint. He agreed to stop nagging me about the second season of the show if I would attend the award ceremony. Publicity and all that shit.
The thing about red-eye flights from the West Coast to Chicago the ride is only four hours. Not nearly enough time for solid rest. I am bleary-eyed and need to sleep. I toe off my shoes, remove my clothes, and climb into bed where the scent of sugar and vanilla instantly wraps around me.
Christ.
I tried damn hard to push Iris from my mind while I was gone. I got what I wanted. I laid my cards on the table, and she knew where I stood. Still, I feel like the world’s biggest prick for leaving her the way I did. And that note . . . I really am an asshole. She deserves much better than I can ever give her. I try not to think of how eager she was beneath me, how sweet she smelled, or how soft her flawless skin felt between my fingertips. When I fall asleep, I’m still thinking of her blond hair spread across my sheets.
The last coherent thought I have before drifting into unconsciousness is that I’m a moron for starting something with a woman who deserves so much more than a tussle between my sheets.
Midmorning, I wake to a vibrating noise. With a groan, I shove the blankets away and grab my discarded jeans to find my cell phone. Clint calling. The bastard knows I was traveling all night.
“Is this urgent?”
“Nice work yesterday, partner.”
“I said I’ll be in the office by one. Unless this is a life or death matter, I’m hanging up, Clint.”
“Jesus, what crawled up your–”
Dial tone meets whatever else he says. I toss the phone on my bed and head to the bathroom to make myself human with a shower and brushing my teeth. Ten minutes later, I’m poaching eggs when I hear the door leading to the house from the garage open and shut. Heels click along the floors. Only one person has the keys to my place, and I’m smiling when her carefully styled hair appears.
“What brings you here?” I ask my mother. My smile quickly turns flat when I see her frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Apparently my mothering skills,” she says ominously. She stands on the opposite side of the island from the stove, places a piece of paper on the countertop, and slides it over to me with the tip of her manicured nail. She looks like she can barely stomach whatever she’s touching.
I turn the stove off and use a slotted spoon to remove the eggs from their pot. I stay calm because no one appears to be sick or dying. After I season the eggs and ignore my mom’s huffs of annoyance, my gaze flicks to the piece of paper.
Oh, shit.
In an effort to shift her attention away from whatever torrid scenario she’s painted in her mind, I keep my expression impassive. “How is it that despite my personal and professional successes, my mother continues to insist she has the power to control my life?”
Never one to back done from my stoicism, my mother waves a hand. “Don’t try to dissuade me, Oscar Alexander. Your professional achievements are outstanding, I will give you that, but personally, there’s much work to be done.”
“Mom.” I soften my tone. “I love you. There’s not a day I wake up and am not thankful that you and Dad raised me. So when I say this, know that it is with the utmost respect for a woman who I love and respect unconditionally. This”—I gesture to the piece of paper—“is not a topic open for discussion.”
Elizabeth Alexander never shows fear or intimidation. Hell, I learned confidence from her and my father, Jacob. “Some things are impossible to ignore, Oscar. What did I find on Sunday when I came by for the Mariposa paperwork? A well-mannered woman desperately cleaning a makeup stain off your pillowcase. And where was my son? Nowhere to be found. I could have overlooked it because you’re absolutely right, your relations with women are none of my business. And then I found this note. Oscar Alexander, your father and I raised you better than that.”
I clench my jaw so tight it pops. She’s right. Leaving that note was an amateur move, and I didn’t plan to treat Iris coldly. When I brought her to my house, I was going to tell her I had business in L.A., but then she looked at me with those fathomless fairy tale eyes, darkened with lust, and I lost all sense. She intoxicated me, and I felt helpless to battle against her allure. I stood above her sleeping form, watching each exhalation of breath, and contemplated saying ‘fuck it’ to my responsibilities and climbing back into bed with her. That lack of control solidified it for me—I needed to leave this woman. At that moment, I decided a clean break would be best for both of us.
Except you’ll have to see her every Wednesday for the next year, you idiot.
Admittedly, it wasn’t my best-thought-out move. On top of this, I have my mother lecturing me on my post-sex etiquette. How did I fuck up this badly?
Furious with myself for letting this situation spiral out of control, I grit the words. “You’re right. It was an impolite act.”
Her eyebrows shoot to her forehead. Most women immersed in Chicago’s socialite circles are no stranger to Botox. Elizabeth Alexander prefers authenticity above all else. Geez, she’s right. She taught me better than to hide and avoid confrontation. Not that Iris would have fought me. Iris is all sweetness, and apparently, I’m all sour. I bite back another swear word.
“Okay.” I hold up a hand to keep her from interrupting. “Leaving Iris alone like that was an epic mistake. There’s no one to blame but myself. She—I had to go early in the morning, and it didn’t come up the night before.” The excuse sounds lame even to my own ears.
All of a sudden, a slow smile splits Mom’s cheeks. Her eyes light with a mischievous gleam. “I see.”
“Mom, I have to be at Mariquita in an hour. Would you like to join me for eggs?”
The way she chuckles makes a fissure of uncertainty part in the back of my mind. “No, darling, I’m on my way to lunch with your godmother. When can we have a family dinner? It’s been too long since we got together without a business meeting attached.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what she finds funny, but if I do that, it will likely lead to more discussion about Iris, and I’m not prepared for more analysis. “Let me look at my calendar. I’ll call you.”
“Do that. Please. I miss you.”
There’s one place in my hardened heart that remains malleable. Loving my parents, letting them in, was never the problem. I just remain wary and guarded of everyone else. “Love you, Mom.” I walk around the island and hug her tightly. She pats my cheek in the way only a mother can do to her child without seeming patronizing.
“Apologize to that charming young woman.”
Instead of a verbal acknowledgment, I make a non-committal noise. Something has to be done with Iris, but I’m not sure it’s necessarily an apology. Perhaps an explanation.
Mom’s moss-colored eyes narrow, then relax. “That’s good,” she murmurs to herself. Again, I don’t bother to dig deeper. When I hear the garage door close, I turn my attention to my now cold eggs. The first bite tastes like sawdust. I’m disgusted with myself.
Iris
“Tomorrow’s an early start. Don’t stay out too late tonight.”
My shoulders clench infinitesimally at Violet’s instruction. The thing about working for your sister is often the line between boss, sister, and in our cas
e, ill-advised mother blurs.
“Don’t worry about me. I know the schedule.” No trace of annoyance is in my words, only in my mind. I haven’t been late or missed an event yet. In fact, Violet often tells me that she couldn’t run Expertly Planned without me. Yet she’s started reminding me of responsibilities as if I’ve been missing assignments. It hurts my feelings. Does she think I’m irresponsible? Have I been slacking? Yes, I’ve been daydreaming about the inevitably awkward run-in I’m about to have with Oscar at Mentoring Chicago, but I haven’t missed one email.
Tossing my purse over my shoulder, I wave good-bye to my sister’s wishes of good luck and hurry out to the car. Violet helped me pack the trunk with aprons, ingredients, and recipes cards. This time, the drive to Grover School is anxiety ridden for a whole different reason than last week. I feel queasy and dazed. First, there are the new tactics to win over my students. Then, there’s Oscar.
Shoot, shoot, shoot! Nerves chase down my shoulders relentlessly.
The worst part of this entire situation is I haven’t talked about it with anyone. I don’t want Violet to be disappointed in me. In fact, she’ll probably be doubly upset with me. First, I didn’t tell her about the date before it happened and then, I slept with Oscar the first time we ever went out. At a time when I want her advice more than anything, my pride and unwillingness to fail my kindhearted sister keep me from saying anything to her. She’s given me the chance to hit the reset button on my life, and what did I do with the opportunity? Let her, and myself, down.
Bruce, or anyone else for that matter, is not around to offer assistance with bringing my materials into the classroom tonight. I move swiftly through the hallways, taking two trips with all my attention focused on the task at hand. I don’t dare look at the classroom across the hallway from mine to see if there are signs of Oscar or even the lights illuminated. Again, I flick on music and set up the room for my ten teenagers. I pretend as if I don’t care if Oscar is at Grover High School and that I am unaffected by our hookup and his subsequent rejection.
Yeah. Right.
