My Accidental Sugar Daddy

by Cassandra Dee

  I should feel guilty for not working anymore, but I don’t because I’m figuring out what truly matters to me, and what I actually want to do with my life. Handing out sandwiches to the homeless may not pay a salary, but it makes me feel good inside and gives meaning to my life. It’s something. It’s a start, and at least I’m contributing to the world, unlike before, when I was unmoored and practically useless.

  I shake myself from my reverie as I approach my usual park bench. Someone’s already sitting there, and I have a feeling I know who it is.

  “Marla!” I greet from a good ten feet away, and she waves enthusiastically.

  “Whatcha got for me today, sweetie?” she asks as I come closer.

  “Ham and cheese or peanut butter and grape jelly!” I reply cheerfully.

  “Ooh, I haven’t had a PB&J for a long time. Can I have one of those?”

  “Yeah, of course!”

  As I dig in my backpack for a sandwich, I surreptitiously eye Marla. She’s smiling, and her grin is friendly and open. The older woman is probably only about five feet tall and as thin as a whip, but she’s looking a little sturdier these days. I catch a whiff of shampoo or hairspray as she leans near and takes the sandwich I offer. Marla definitely has somewhere to stay at the moment, and relief washes over my heart. If I could buy her a house without my older brother losing his mind at my “reckless spending,” I would.

  “You can’t help everyone,” Channing’s said in the past.

  “But we can help some,” I insisted. “Why don’t we do more?”

  My brother just rolled his eyes.

  “Please, Laurelin. Not now. I’m busy.”

  I don’t blame him because Channing was in the middle of wedding planning back then, and up to his eyeballs in invitations and ribbon samples. His wife is a darling, but Jolene gives as good as she gets, and she made my brother participate, whether or not he wanted to.

  But meanwhile, back to the present.

  “You look good, Marla,” I tell her as she munches her sandwich.

  She raises a brow. “You think so?” she asks. “I think I look like shit.”

  I can’t help but laugh. Marla is older but whip-smart, with a great sense of humor. I met her the very first day I started handing out sandwiches, and we’ve been fast friends ever since.

  “But you,” she continues, “Sweetie, have you been eating? You look pretty damn skinny.”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine. More than fine. I’m just naturally built like this.”

  Her expression softens. “Still sad about your mama?”

  I shrug but can’t meet her gaze. My dad and I were never close, but my mom was always my shelter from his unpredictable storms. When he passed away, Mom helped me process my confusing, conflicting emotions. But when she passed away, I felt like I had no one to help me deal, not even, really, my older brother. I probably should have seen a therapist, but it feels too late now. I mostly try to push my feelings on the subject down, and hope that, someday, they don’t rise back to the surface and overflow.

  “It’s okay, sweetie. I know how you feel. I’m still sad about my mama,” Marla says, “and she passed damn near forty years ago. There’s no shame in feeling your feelings.”

  “I know.” I smile at her, simultaneously embarrassed and grateful. “Thanks, Marla. Now, enough about me. Where are you staying?”

  “I’m at a good shelter now,” she nods. “I get hot showers and meals. I know I should probably leave your sandwiches for someone who needs it more, but I can’t resist coming to say hello.”

  I take her hand and squeeze it. “I’m glad you came by. I’d miss you if you didn’t.”

  As Marla and I chat, other people begin to approach us and ask for sandwiches. I recognize a few of them--Jerry and Lisa, a young couple who fell on hard times; Mark, a disabled veteran; and Patty, a friend of Marla’s. They all accept the sandwiches gratefully and fill me in on how they’re doing. It’s heartbreaking, sometimes, to hear their stories, and especially difficult to learn how the system is failing them, or how they’re not getting the support that they need.

  “This is my first meal in about two days,” Mark says as he’s about to leave.

  Without hesitating, I offer him a second sandwich and push a water bottle into his hands. “Here’s another. I made plenty, don’t worry! We have enough.”

  His smile is pure sunshine. “Thanks, doll. Appreciate it.”

  Finally, only two sandwiches remain, and almost everyone has left. Marla takes my hand again in her cracked, gnarled one.

  “See you in two weeks?” she asks.

  I grin. “Of course. Take care of yourself until then, okay?”

  “I’ll do my damndest,” she says. “Thank you for doing this, Laurelin. It means more than you know.”

  To my surprise, her words touch my heart and my eyes begin filling with tears. “I know. I wish I could do more though.”

  Marla smiles. “I know you do, and that’s what makes you a good person.”

  With that, she gives my hand one last squeeze and then strolls away, stopping at a nearby flower to inhale its perfume. I wish more people appreciated my friends because how many folks really stop to enjoy their lives? How many people pause to take pleasure in something as simple as a flower? They ignore people like Marla, but the truth is that Marla could teach them a thing or two.

  My friend disappears with one last wave, and I brush a tear away with the back of my hand. Then, I take a deep breath and sit down on a bench to collect my thoughts. The park is still full of people, and the midday sun is at its warmest. I’m getting hot so I take off my flannel and tie around my waist so I’m just in an old white (or, more accurately, yellowish-white) tank top. Sweat beads on my brow and I probably look like a mess. It’s fine though. No one’s looking.

  Then, I peek into the duffel bag and see that I still have two water bottles left, so I take one out and twist the cap off. The water is lukewarm now, but still refreshing as I take a sip.

  I could go home, but there are still some sandwiches left and I’m a little hungry. Besides, even though it’s hot, it’s still such a beautiful day. I would feel guilty if I just sat in my apartment when I could be enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.

  My stomach rumbles loudly. I peer at the last two sandwiches. Maybe I could eat one, and then save the last one to give out a little later? Am I being a bad person I if I eat one of the sandwiches? My hand hesitates as I reach into the bag. After a moment, though, my hunger wins out, and I grab a peanut butter and jelly from the bag. (I gave the ham and cheese sandwiches out first so they wouldn’t spoil.) To make up for my moral failing, maybe I can come back next weekend instead of waiting two weeks. The thought cheers me a little, and I bite hungrily into the sandwich.

  As I’m staring off into space, eating my PB&J, a sudden barking near my feet brings me back into reality. I blink and look down. A little terrier, its leash still attached to its collar and dangling behind it, is sniffing my shoes intently.

  “Hey buddy,” I say, scratching behind the pup’s ears. “Did you come looking for a sandwich, too?”

  Someone suddenly reaches down to grab the leash, then hands it back to a frazzled-looking woman who’s jogged to my bench. “Sorry!” the woman pants, both to me and the stranger. “I thought I had the leash tied up, but I guess it wasn’t as secure as I thought. Did he bite you?”

  The stranger laughs, a deep, male rumble. “No, he just chased me as I was jogging, and then decided to make a pit stop here for a snack.”

  “Sorry again!” the woman exclaims, and then she and the yappy puppy stroll off, the dog still casting curious looks my way.

  My attention, however, is fixed on the mysterious man who has his back to me. He’s wearing only a pair of black athletic shorts and black running shoes, a pair of headphones slung around his neck. Sweat glistens on the defined V of his back, and slicks down his dark hair. Damn, I think. I haven’t even seen his face yet and I already know he’s a 10
.

  In the split second before I realize the stranger’s about to turn around, I try to pat my hair down a little. When he turns, my hand is still on the top of my head, and I awkwardly transition into making it look like I was scratching an itch on my scalp. Smooth, Laurelin, very smooth. Now he thinks you have lice.

  “Did that little beast attack your shoes?” he asks. His piercing blue eyes smile along with his mobile mouth. I was right--he’s a 10 on the attractiveness scale if I’ve ever seen one, and may even break the chart entirely. His face body is sculpted and bronzed, and his face fit for a matinee idol with a strong nose, piercing blue eyes, and a square jaw. Black hair waves at his temples, as dark as night, and my mouth goes dry. I have to remind myself to speak.

  “Oh, yes,” I manage to croak. “Although, at first I thought he would bite my foot right off.”

  “You’re lucky I intervened when I did,” the man chuckles. “That little thing was chasing me, I swear. I thought I was a goner.”

  “We’re both lucky,” I laugh. “We got away without any injuries.”

  His brow arches slightly, blue eyes dancing over my frame. “Yes, indeed.”

  I’ve been around enough men to know when one is checking me out, and this guy is subtle, I’ll give him that, but his eyes still unmistakably flicker up and down my frame. For a second, I wonder if he likes what he sees, but then, I remember, with a horrified jolt, what I currently look like. Stringy hair. No makeup. Shabby clothes. Smelly shoes. If he’s a 10 on the scale, I’m currently a negative 1. Or maybe a negative 10, come to think of it.

  But he doesn’t shudder, or roll his eyes, or walk away. Instead, the handsome man grins and says, “I feel like I’ve seen you before. Have I?”

  And with a jolt, I realize he has.

  Before I’m able to say it, though--before I’m able to confess that, yes, we have met before--he says, “I’m sorry. That was insensitive. I run in this park almost a lot, so I’m sure I’ve seen you here. There are a million people in Tompkins every day. Can I help you with anything?”

  The utter confusion I’m experiencing morphs suddenly into understanding, and my jaw drops open but I’m unable to speak.

  This gorgeous man doesn’t recognize me from when we met several years ago. Instead, he thinks I’m homeless! Hurriedly, I try to review what I must look like to a casual observer: messy, lanky hair; pale, drawn face; clothes with patches and holes in them; and most of all, I’m devouring a free sandwich generally reserved for homeless folks. Of course, a sandwich is a sandwich, but right now, there are three or four of my friends hanging out by the trash can, and they too are munching happily at PB&Js.

  I look up at the gorgeous stranger and stammer.

  “Um, actually …”

  3

  Tate

  * * *

  While I generally prefer to run in the morning, an afternoon jog through the park never hurts my mood. And today, my mood has been piss-poor.

  That seems to be the norm lately. It’s not that work is going badly, because it isn’t. In fact, business is booming. I started my electric car company, Minerva, from the ground up in the late 90’s, and we’re currently experiencing a golden age. We’re selling more and more vehicles, and as a result, I’m treating myself to more and more expensive bourbon. My professional life couldn’t be going much better. The personal side of things, though…

  “You’re such a fucking asshole!” the leggy redhead yelled last night, just before throwing an eighteenth century vase against the wall. I watched helplessly as it shattered, and then the woman stormed out of my townhouse.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have underestimated a redhead’s temper.

  But she’d underestimated how busy I’ve been. Sure, I hadn’t called her for a while; yes, I was only responding to her increasingly verbose texts with one or two words. But how was I supposed to know that, despite my lack of attention, she had developed feelings for me? Where the hell did they even come from? Sure, we’d slept together and it was fine, but as far as I can recall, there was never much conversation even. It was more along the lines of, “Yes baby, more,” or “Daddy, put it there.” That kind of stuff.

  Of course, I’d anticipated some pushback when I tried to break things off because I’m a rich man, but I didn’t think it was to go as spectacularly badly as it did. Damn. I liked that vase, even if I was glad to see the back of her.

  Today, though, a dark cloud seems to be lingering over my head. I snapped at an employee during a meeting. I stubbed my toe on the side of my desk. I even swore at the French press when it wasn’t making my coffee quickly enough, even though the thing’s obviously an inanimate object. Clearly, I’m in worse emotional shape than I realized.

  A few years ago, I probably would have just turned to drinking expensive bourbon out of my coffee mug at work. I’m a little older now, though, and hopefully a little wiser. A mid-afternoon run seemed like a much better idea.

  As soon as my running shoes hit the sidewalk, my mood began to lift. I’m a creature of habit, and one who functions best when my body is in its best shape. Hangovers and Taco Bell were fun in college, and still are on occasion, but I’d much rather do what I can to take care of myself these days. Younger Me would have scoffed at such a statement, but my dad died at around the age I am now. Who am I to assume that I’m guaranteed much more than he had?

  After a few blocks, my breathing settles into a controlled cadence, and I’m moving at a comfortable jog. I’m definitely more of an endurance runner than a sprinter, and I tend to go with the “slow and steady” approach. I look around idly, not really seeing anything per se, but rather just blanking my mind with my eyes open. Soon, I’m in a nearby park, and stop for a moment to catch my breath.

  It’s a hotter afternoon than I anticipated. Sweat is already running in rivulets down my back, and I’m grateful for the cover of the elm trees lining the park sidewalk. I have a water bottle strapped to my waist on an extremely high-fashion, masculine fanny pack (okay, maybe it’s neither of those adjectives, but I don’t care). Thank God I’m not wearing a shirt or it would be soaked already. I used to dress a little more modestly on my runs because I tend to get some attention when I’m without a shirt. It makes sense because I’m tanned and athletic, with a visible six pack and solid, thick pecs.

  It's a douchebag thing to be vain, and I fully realize that, but my appearance is what it is. Women--and some very interested gay men--have stopped me to chat more than once when I was running sans top. However, I’ve since realized that I’d much rather be stopped mid-workout by a beautiful woman than stopped because I’m dying of heat stroke or drowning in sweat. No shirt has been the way to go.

  I start jogging again when suddenly, someone gasps and screeches, “Moxie! Come back!”

  Trying not to break stride, I look over my shoulder to see a very small black-and-white dog tearing after me, its bright pink leash dangling behind it.

  I’m not afraid of dogs. In fact, I love pups. I had a few of them growing up. However, I think every runner has a natural wariness of the creatures. No matter how small they are, they can still nip at your ankles or tear up your expensive footwear.

  I turn around and jog a few steps backwards, trying to train my eyes on the terrier that’s quickly approaching me. I’m ready to grab it if need be, and hopefully not get bitten in the process. However, when it’s within ten yards of me, it suddenly veers off the path, slows, and stops at the feet of a woman on a bench.

  I jog up to the bench and wipe my brow when I stop, trying to catch my breath. Meanwhile, the woman is bent over and petting the dog, who seems to be sniffing her shoes. While the pup is distracted, I stoop to grab its leash, and wave at the owner who is laboriously speed-walking her way over.

  “Sorry!” the middle-aged woman pants. She’s the kind who’s got full make-up on for a walk in the park, as well as matching pink velour sweats. “I thought I had the leash tied to the bench, but I guess it wasn’t as secure as I thought. Did he bi
te you?”

  I shake my head. “No, Moxie here just chased me as I was jogging, and then decided to make a pit stop.”

  “Sorry again!” the woman says as I hand her the leash. She bats her lashes at me a bit, but I pretend not to see while taking a sip from my canteen. Disappointed, she spins away with her dog beneath her arm.

  “Thanks again,” she calls. “Byyeeee!”

  I try not to grimace. Moxie’s mom, whatever her name is, is definitely not my type. From the back, it looks like she’s gotten some kind of plastic surgery to her butt to make it look enormous in comparison to her waist. Is that really a thing?

  Then I turn back to the woman on the bench. That’s when the air whooshes out of my lungs because this woman is my type. She’s not wearing a stitch of makeup that I can detect, but her features are classical, elegant, and perfect. Her lips are rosebud pink, like her cheeks, and somehow accentuate the pale blue of her wide eyes. Her hair looks to be cornsilk gold, although it’s bound up right now. Most of all, when she smiles, I can’t help but smile as well. She’s absolutely magnetic.

  That smile, though, triggers something--a memory that I can’t quite place. I pause for a moment, unable to speak, stunned by her beauty. When I finally manage to get a few words out, they come in a stammer. “I-I feel like I’ve seen you before,” I confess. “Have I?”

  It could absolutely be misconstrued as a bad pickup line, and I wouldn’t blame her if she interprets it as such. But that smile… I’ve definitely seen it before. But how in God’s name can I not remember when, or where? How the hell can I not remember this breathtaking woman if I’ve met her before?

  Shut up, Tate, my subconscious commands, and I do. But then a sudden realization strikes me as I look at the woman again. Oh shit. I’d been so stunned by her natural beauty that I didn’t notice her clothes, and now I see that they’re raggedy. Those jeans have multiple holes in them, and her top looks faded and stained. There are two tattered bags at her feet, probably with all her worldly possessions stuffed inside, and she’s halfway through one of those free sandwiches they hand out to people in need.