Daddy Boss (A Boss Romance Love Story)

by Bishop, Claire

  I am my body crouching down to better facilitate the transition from vertical motion to horizontal motion, and I am the trucks responding to the changing angle of the obstacle, and now I’m the soles of my shoes as I ditch the board and run out of it, managing to stay on my feet until I come to a complete stop.

  “Well, that was just disappointing,” Nick says.

  “Yeah,” Rob bats back, “if you’re going to bitch out, the least you could do is give us the pleasure of watching your body colliding with the ground at odd speeds and funny angles.”

  At least this time I stayed on my feet.

  I’ve done the math, and no matter what kind of score I get in the street round or in the best trick competition, if I don’t reach at least the middle of the pack on the vert ramp, it’s going to be mathematically impossible for me to come away with the win.

  The worst-kept secret about this competition is that Iliad is going to sponsor whoever comes away with the goal. I’ve gotten minor offers for sponsorship, and I’ve even taken a few people up on their offer—that’s why I’m never out of fresh beanies—but Iliad would be the game changer.

  Not only would I get that sponsorship, but I would get invites to the next round of pro contests and exhibitions. It’s basically the career-maker special.

  All I have to do is figure out how to drop in.

  I’m not even worried about what happens when I come back up the other side and catch air. I’ve caught plenty of air off of straight vertical jumps. That’s not a problem. I’m as comfortable with that as I am with anything.

  Maybe that’s it.

  When I climb back to the top of the wall, I’m just as tense, but it’s a different kind of tension. It’s the tension of anticipation.

  I think I’ve figured it out.

  “You ready to get this right?” Rob asks.

  I just nod.

  I’m in my zone now. Rob was wrong. It’s not anger that pulls out the determination in me: it is epiphany.

  Every time I’m trying to get a new trick and it’s just not clicking, I run into a veritable brick wall time and time again until something clicks in my head and I finally understand the process behind what I’m trying to do.

  “I’m not going to drop in from the lip this time,” I tell Rob and Nick. “I’m going to jump in.”

  “That doesn’t seem like such a good idea,” Rob says.

  “No, it is. I know how to land on something like this. I’m just all fucked up about the long roll in after adjusting from the lip,” I tell him. “If I can get it through my head that dropping in isn’t really different from landing something like this, I’m golden. Then I can start focusing on my all around work instead of parking my brain at the top of this fucking wall all day and night.”

  “If you think it’ll help,” Nick says. “I’m with Rob, though. I think you should get first to easing in before you start trying to be Captain America.”

  Rob and Nick spend a few moments discussing whether or not the character Captain America was ever on a skateboard, but neither of them being comic book fans, the debate dies pretty quickly.

  Me, I’m transfixed, and unfortunately, it’s not on my little moment of clarity.

  On the other side of the park is a group of people about my age, some of them skating, but most of them just sitting back and chatting together. I’ve been to this skate park countless times. I have never seen her here, not once, and the one time she decides to show up, it has to be right now, while I’m standing on top of this wall with these two douchebags, getting ready to jump in and probably leave a pint or two of my vital fluid on the concrete below.

  Yeah, I’m really looking forward to this.

  I’m trying not to make it obvious that I’m keeping an eye on Mia out of my periphery, making sure she’s not looking as I approach the side of the wall. I’ve got to stop thinking about this as a wall and start thinking of it as a vert ramp, but as I look down to plan my drop in, all I can think are those four letters: W-A-L-L.

  It’s okay. This is going to be okay.

  Things are a little awkward between Mia and me ever since her dad came in while we were talking and decided I was the antichrist. Maybe dropping in will give me the confidence to skate over there and see if she’d like to try to find a time to delegate out responsibilities for the rest of the project.

  Not that I’m really thinking about the project right now.

  I’m not thinking about what I should be thinking about, either, which is taking a flying leap down the side of the ramp and coming out at the bottom, still on the board.

  Don’t think about it. Just do it. Don’t think about it. Just do it. Don’t think about it. Just do it.

  My board is hanging from my hand vertically, and one foot, and now the other foot, is in the air. I get the board under my feet and my body angled for the ride down. Before the wheels even touch the upper portion of the ramp, I’m already feeling more comfortable doing this.

  I do this a few times and then practice dropping in from a smaller lip and I’ll have this thing figured out in no time.

  That’s the last willed thought that goes through my head as the wheels come down against the flow of inertia and, although I try to correct the angle, the board comes out from beneath me and I’m still halfway up the ramp.

  The rest is just a deceptively long journey into the inevitable.

  I manage some version of the tuck and roll and, although I don’t come out on my feet, I’m generally spared a harder impact. Still, when I hear the gasping, for a moment, I think it’s coming from me and I almost lose what’s left of my head until I realize it’s the sound of neither Nick nor Rob being able to get enough air to laugh at me properly.

  The best I can do is try to hurry to my feet, but Rob catches his voice, as does Nick a moment later, and the sound may as well be trumpets heralding my inadequacy to any and all within earshot.

  I’m walking with my back toward the greater portion of the skate park as I go to retrieve my board, but I can only pretend like I’m the only one who can hear the two of them so long before I turn back around and see everyone, including Mia and that friend of hers, looking in my direction, most of them pointing and all of them laughing.

  There’s no sympathy whatsoever.

  Assholes.

  * * *

  I manage to get home with a sliver of dignity, but you have to really want to see it.

  Mom’s home health nurse, Jackie, is running water for Mom’s evening coffee. Dad… I don’t really know where Dad is right now. He’s probably at some fundraiser or something.

  Dad and Mom were never really close, at least not from anything I can remember, but he’s always made sure she’s well taken care of. The thing is, in my dad’s book, being around someone, spending time with them, savoring what moments of clarity she has don’t really come under the definition of caretaking.

  Dad’s real love has always been his work, but at least Mom’s got Jackie.

  “How are you doing tonight, Jackie?” I ask. “Have you thought about you and me and my plan for the two of us to run away together?”

  “I have,” Jackie says in her matter-of-fact, New England way. “I must tell you that I have some concerns.”

  “Such as?” I ask.

  “Well, first off, you are far too young for me. You’re what, 17?” she asks.

  “Twenty-one,” I answer. “I’m legal, baby.”

  She gives a throaty laugh. “I’ve got you by 30 years,” she says. “What are you doing flirting with someone so much older than you?”

  “I can’t help it,” I tell her. “You put a spell on me with your wiles. The way you put those coffee grounds into the filter—it’s just magic.”

  “You’re an odd young man, you know that?” Jackie asks.

  “I’ve heard such rumors before and I categorically deny them all,” I answer. “How’s Mom today?”

  “She’s having a bit of a rough one,” Jackie sighs. “When she woke up, she was h
er old self, but she’s been losing touch more and more.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “I guess that’s what we expected, though, right?”

  “Listen,” Jackie says, “I hear that you have some big competition coming up. Is that right?”

  “Yeah,” I answer. “It’s still a little bit off, but it’s coming up quick.”

  “I was wondering if you could do me a favor,” she says.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Well, the competition’s going to be broadcast on ESPN, right?” she asks.

  “I think it’s something like ESPN Four or something like that,” I answer, “but yeah, if you’ve got extremely extended cable, you should be able to pick it up. Why?”

  “I was wondering if you and your father have talked about the possibility of your mother going to the competition with you,” Jackie says.

  I close my eyes and take a slow breath. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I tell Jackie.

  “I think it would be nice for her, when she’s having days like today, to be able to see a video of you and her and see how successful her son is,” Jackie says.

  “Do you really think Mom’s up for something like that, though?” I ask. “I talk to her every day, Jackie. I know how she’s been doing.”

  “There comes a point in treatment when there’s simply not much more you can do,” Jackie starts. “Medication has given her some time that she wouldn’t have had otherwise, but there are going to be more days like today. Sometimes you just have to do whatever you can and hope that something helps, even temporarily. Would you at least consider it?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “It just seems like she’s having more time, even around close family. I don’t think that putting her in a crowd of a few hundred or thousand people would be such a—”

  “These competitions really draw out hundreds of thousands of people?” Jackie asks.

  I look at her quietly a moment, blinking a few times. “No,” I tell her, “a few hundred or a few thousand. Something like this, it’s hard to tell what turnout’s going to be like. It’s more likely going to be a few hundred, but you never know. Sometimes people get that wild hair up their ass and show up—it doesn’t really matter whether it is a hundred or a hundred thousand, though, does it?” I ask. “She can’t go, can she?”

  “No,” Jackie sighs. “She can’t.”

  “Then why would you bring up her going as a possibility for me to consider?” I ask.

  “I wanted you to know that she wouldn’t be able to go and I wanted you to come to that realization on your own,” she answers. “I’m sorry. I thought it would be the most diplomatic approach. I screwed up.”

  “I don’t understand why you’d do that,” I tell her.

  “Well,” she says, “I thought it would be mean to just come in here and tell you that your mom wouldn’t be able to come to your big competition, so rather than doing that, I thought that if I brought up the possibility of her going, you’d kind of get there on your own.”

  “Is she up?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Jackie says. “I’m sorry. Should I have just told you she wouldn’t have been able to make it?”

  Jackie’s problem is that she never wants to make anyone feel bad about anything, ever. That sounds very nice and flowery and all that, but it leads to some of the most brutal situations I’ve ever encountered.

  This one’s just confusing, though. “I didn’t expect that she’d be able to make it,” I tell Jackie. “She hasn’t been able to come to any of my competitions for a while now. Why would I think this one was any different?”

  “I don’t know,” Jackie says. “I’ve just heard you and your friends talking about it.”

  “When have you heard me and my friends talking about it?” I ask. “I haven’t had anyone over in a long time. I always meet my friends at the skate park.”

  “Oh no,” she says, physically walking backward, her hands up and in front like I’m holding a gun on her or something. “I didn’t mean—it wasn’t, just sometimes—I don’t know. I just hear things, you know.”

  “You hear things?” I ask. “Have you been listening in on my phone calls?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head and smiling entirely too big. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that sometimes I’m walking from one room to another and, while I’m just minding my own business, I overhear conversations or bits of conversations.”

  “So you’ve been eavesdropping on me?” I ask.

  “You’re not listening—it doesn’t matter,” she says. “This one’s different, though, right?”

  My phone starts ringing in my pocket.

  “Yeah,” I tell Jackie, pulling my phone out. “This one’s different.” I answer the phone. “Yeah?”

  “Hello, is this Ian Zavala?” a woman asks.

  “Who’s this?” I return.

  “We have you down as a part-time volunteer, is that correct?” the woman asks.

  “Oh,” I answer. It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten to expect the call.

  Jackie’s just standing there in front of me, listening in unrepentantly. There’s something vile about gossip, but I’ve got to respect her willingness to fly her busybody flag so brazenly.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Seven

  Gerald

  Mia

  “I’m still mad at you,” I tell my father. “You need to stop treating me like I’m some precious antique that can’t get any fingerprints on it.”

  “Has he been putting fingerprints on you?” Dad asks.

  I don’t have to think about it: my eyes just roll on instinct. “I’m not even sure I know what that means,” I tell him. “This is some apology.”

  “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  Dad’s been trying to “apologize” for the way he behaved with Ian. He’s been trying for about the last 15 minutes, but every time we seem to be making a little headway, he jumps right back into Looming Father Figure Man—a superhero I doubt will ever have a movie of his own—mode and then we’re right back where we are now.

  “I wanted to do something to show you how sorry I am,” he says.

  “You’re cosigning a lease on an apartment for me?” I ask, though I’m smart enough not to expect such a thing.

  “No,” he says, looking down at the ground, his hands in some strange fidget war with one another. “It’s a surprise,” he says.

  It kind of weirds me out when my dad is all contrite and reasonable. Usually, he’s the guy he’s been apologizing for, not the guy doing the apologizing.

  “I’m supposed to meet him again tonight,” I tell him. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “You’re not doing it here, are you?” he asks.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I answer and grab my jacket from the back of the couch. “I’m going to go out for a walk, maybe into a body of water and, you know, not stop until I’m floating.”

  “Hold on,” he says. “Before you go all Virginia Woolf on me, would you at least get in the car so I can take you to pick out your surprise?”

  “That was distasteful,” I answer, then look at the door and back at him. “What do you mean, ‘take me to pick out my surprise?’ You’re not trying to win me over by taking me out for ice cream, are you? I am 20 years old.”

  “It’s not ice cream,” he says. “You’ll see when we get there. When are you meeting your tattooed friend?”

  I scoff. “His name’s Ian, Dad,” I tell him. “You know his name is Ian. You’re really bad at seeking forgiveness, you know that?”

  “I know,” he says. “Just get in the car, and I promise it’ll be worth it, all right?”

  I look at the clock.

  As long as he’s not trying to take me out of the city, I should have time for whatever his surprise is before I meet up with Ian. That said, I’m not sure if I can really stomach too many more of my dad’s half-apologies.

  “Is there any way you can leave your little comments ab
out my class partner while you’re trying to buy me off?” I ask.

  “I will do my best,” he says.

  “I’ve seen your best,” I tell him. “It’s not very inspiring.”

  “Fine,” he says. “We won’t even talk about it. Come on, I want to get there before they close.”

  It’s pretty early in the day for a store to be closing. What kind of stores close early in the day?

  With that, he’s got me. I cannot abide unsatisfied curiosity, even with something as trivial as wanting to know what kind of store closes at 4 o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon.

  It’s a crack in the armor, but there hasn’t been much I’ve been able to do about it.

  “Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll go. Just remember that you’re going to play nice and not end up having to apologize anymore because that really defeats the purpose of the whole thing.”

  “Agreed,” he says. “Come on, let’s get down there.”

  We head out to the car, and as I’m getting in the passenger’s seat, he has to rub it in.

  “It was the comment about the place closing that did it, wasn’t it?” he asks.

  “Why would a store close at 4 o’clock?” I ask. “Some places close at 5, but those are usually banks and other corporate entities which seek the domination and eventual destruction of the human race, but you’re taking me somewhere out of contrition. I don’t think you’d take me shopping at a bank or a post office,” I tell him. “Why would they close at 4?”

  It’s not until we’re pulling away that he tells me he made up the thing about the place closing to get me to quit arguing and get in the car. I’m not sure whether to be madder at him for exploiting a known weakness of mine in order to achieve his goals, or myself for actually being sucked in by something so stupid.

  I decide not to fret about it so much and so I ride in the passenger’s seat with a more generalized hatred toward everything.

  “Close your eyes,” he says.

  “What?” I ask. “Why?”

  “I told you,” he says, “It’s a surprise.”

  I close my eyes.