Losing Control (2 page)

There’s another muffled sob and I can see in the window reflection that she’s pressing her fist against her mouth. The other passengers are beginning to notice and look away, not wanting to catch whatever grief we’re not handling well.

“We make too much money,” she finally chokes out.

“What’s that?”

Her head swings toward me, and in her gaze I see guilt. Lots of guilt.

“I already looked. Because I worked this year, we make too much to get public assistance and not enough to move.” She presses her lips together but they tremble with the effort.

“When did you . . .” I trail off. If she looked, then she must have had some inkling she was sick again. “When did you know?” I ask accusatorily.

“A couple of months ago,” she admits.

“A couple of months?” I screech, bringing curious glances our way. I lower my voice to a hiss. “You’ve been sick for a couple of months, and this is the first time you’ve gone to a doctor?”

“I hoped it would go away,” she says defensively. “The last thing we need is more medical bills.”

Hearing this makes me crazy angry, and I know that it is not the right emotion to be expressing right now, so it’s my turn to avoid her eyes. If I open my mouth now, I’m bound to say something I regret.

“I’m sorry, Tiny.” Tears flood her eyes, and she begins to weep again.

The sound and sight of her grief destroys my anger.
Be her shield.
I gather her close, ignoring her struggles to push me away. “No worries, Mommy,” I whisper. “We’re going to be alright.”

She says nothing but continues to cry, and no matter how hard I hug her, her tears won’t quit. By the time we arrive at our stop, she seems to have run out of water and all that is left are dry, shaking heaves. I help her off the bus, trying to shut out the pitying glances that are cast our way as we exit.

By the time we walk the half block to our apartment complex, she’s already breathing heavily. As I unlock the exterior door, she stares at the staircase as if it is some giant mountain, too big for a mortal to ascend. The stairs between each level are split in half so that there are six stairs and then a square landing and then six more to reach the next floor. That’s sixty in total that we walk twice every day. Sixty stairs that must look like Mount Everest to my mom.

“Come on,” I encourage. “We’ll take it a few at a time.”

She smiles wanly and takes my hand. We walk up to the first landing and she’s leaning heavily against me. The next twelve steps are taken with determination, a spark of Mom of old. But at midpoint between the second and third floors, she collapses and I barely react quickly enough to keep her from tumbling backwards.

Heart racing, I sit my butt on the edge of the second floor landing and pull her against me. She’s trembling and crying.

“I can’t make it, Tiny,” she sobs out. “I’m not going to make it.”

I pretend she’s only talking about the stairs.
Only the stairs.
My eyes are wet too, but I’m going to get her upstairs to the apartment. And when she’s lying down and resting, I’m going to make a phone call. I crouch in front of her. “Climb on,” I order.

“No, Tiny,” she protests but after a moment realizes that there are no options for her—I’m not leaving her here in the stairwell. Her slim fingers curl around my shoulders, and I begin the laborious task of carrying my five-foot-six-inch, one-hundred-and-forty-pound mom up the last three flights of stairs. I’ve never been more grateful than at this moment that I’m a bicycle messenger because if it weren’t for the fact that I bike dozens of miles a day, I never would have made it to the fifth floor.

By the time I reach our apartment, my thighs are burning and I’m gasping for air like I’m on the last mile of a marathon. “See, easy peasy,” I tease her when I’m able to catch my breath, but it’s not enough to generate a smile. She looks defeated and stumbles into the bedroom to collapse.

She’s asleep before I can tug off my shoes and get her a glass of water. Setting the full glass by her nightstand, I pull out my phone and dial up a number.

“Hey, it’s me, Tiny. You still need someone to do that special job of yours?”

W
HEN
DISPATCH
CALLS
AT
SEVEN
the next morning to ask if I’ll cover for a sick courier, I say yes before Sandra can finish her request. It’s either bike around in the sunshine earning time-and-a-half or watch my mother stare out the window at the large brick wall across the alley.

“I’ll stay if you’d like.” Given that I have my bike shorts on and my helmet on the table, we both know the offer isn’t very genuine. She waves her hand at me, doesn’t even turn around. Sucking in my lips and all the things I’d like to say, I grab my helmet and pull my bike down off the wall.

At the sound of my bike wheels hitting the floor, she rouses enough to say goodbye. “Be safe, dear.”

“I will.” It’s enough to make me smile as I carry my bike down the five flights of stairs.

Then it’s the rush of riding. If my thighs aren’t burning, I’m not going fast enough. The wind whistles as I speed down Second Avenue toward the offices of Neil’s in the Flatiron District. On a Saturday morning, there’s very little traffic to avoid. The four-mile ride takes less than fifteen minutes, and I’m inside the second floor of the building where Neil’s is located and sticking the packages in my pack before most people could have hailed a taxi. It would have been ten minutes, but there were cops out and I had to obey a few traffic signals. Saturday’s a day for residential deliveries—clothes and small goods for rich, lazy people who can afford a special delivery.

“This one’s fragile. Goes to Wiggin’ Out over near Broadway.” Sandra, our dispatcher, is a mass of curled black hair and heavy eyeliner. She’s got a Puerto Rican background and her skin is a gorgeous warm brown year-round without the use of fake tanners. I think Neil, the owner, has a thing for her. Whenever I’ve been in the office, he stares at her overlong until she sighs audibly and picks up the phone to make a personal call to her boyfriend.

Even though she’s not technically allowed personal calls, this routine can be observed regularly. No one knows if she actually has a boyfriend or if she’s calling a friend and faking it. I’m uncertain whom I’m supposed to feel sorry for—Sandra having her boss lusting after her or Neil having unrequited feelings for Sandra. Both make me uncomfortable, and I try to stay out of the office as much as possible.

“This box is like paper.” I squeeze it and the sides nearly collapse.

“Hey, I said it was fragile.” She reaches over the desk to slap at me.

“Aren’t they all?” I roll my eyes but hold the box gingerly as I leave.

Neil’s is a specialty delivery service. We specialize in the confidential, discreet, and fragile package delivery. Packages are delivered swiftly but not at the breakneck pace seen on television. This doesn’t mean I move slowly. I use my brain as much as my legs. Biking can be like playing a game of chess. You have to anticipate the other players’ moves before they execute them. Is the car at 10 o’clock going to open its door in the next twenty seconds? How long will the bus stop before it pulls out into traffic? Can I squeeze through these two cars and make the corner before the light turns?

Neil pays us hourly rather than by commission because he thinks it reduces his accident insurance premiums. If we aren’t required to go so fast and make so many deliveries at one time, we won’t get doored as often. Doored is when a car door suddenly opens and either strikes you directly or causes you to lay down your bike. Or, in the case of my ex, sends you into the windshield. He only needed twelve stitches after that one.

The best thing Colin Carpenter gave me during our on again, off again relationship, was a tip for Neil’s Courier Service. Or “Neil’s,” as it is known. He was biking, and I was looking for a new job because waiting tables wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be. While it was simple to remember everyone’s order and I had no problem delivering the food, I couldn’t write an order fast enough because of my damn dyslexia. The restaurant owner was a decent woman and tried to accommodate me, but it was hell for the back of the house. I got the boot after only two weeks.

Colin was delivering something to the shop next door and nearly ran me over. We exchanged numbers, and then later that night we exchanged bodily fluids, and I started delivering the next day. I’d borrowed a bike from a friend of his until I splurged and bought my current machine, a single speed Nature Boy that could accommodate larger tires for winter riding.

Colin left after a few months because he didn’t like dating one person and I didn’t like being part of the crowd. He got a job that paid commission and kept him out of my hair. But once you sleep with someone, it’s awfully convenient to keep doing it even when you both know it’s bad for you. I kicked the Colin habit for good when my mom got the all clear from her first bout with MCL. We were getting rid of all the bad stuff in our lives at that point, and Colin was one of the unhealthy items I took to the trash.

I hadn’t been able to install something better. Men in the city aren’t known for their fidelity or their staying power. At least the men I’ve met. But I’m twenty-five, so there’s still lots of time, I figure. Right now there are more important things for me to think about—like how I’m ever going to get enough money to pay for first and last month’s rent and pass a credit check for an apartment with an elevator.

The phone call I made last night was the first step toward solving that problem, so long as I didn’t mind doing things that could get me fifteen years of incarceration if I got caught. At least I’d get free room and board in jail.

I brood all morning long, and I’m not in the mood to find one of the last of my morning deliveries delayed. When I see the sign in the window that says, “Be back in 15 minutes,” I let out a little scream of frustration and kick the doorframe.

“Bad morning?”

The question comes from a rich, deep voice to my right. Some stupid actor. The notes of his voice are perfectly modulated, as if he spent years perfecting the tone and depth to reach the biggest audience.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?” I challenge because I’m not in the mood to be chatted up by some wannabe in an off, off-Broadway production who wants to try out some new lines on a messenger girl.

My sneering gaze melts right off my face when it lands on the owner of the voice. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, the stranger gives me a slow smile as I take him in. He’s tall, much taller than my five-foot-four-inch frame. My eyes have to trek upward to see the entire package.

And there’s so much to appreciate—from his trim waist to the wide shoulders encased in a gray wool suit coat that fits him so well I wonder if he was sewn into it. Tiny stitches on the lapel mark its expensive provenance. A darkly tanned neck gives way to a firm chin and lush lips.

“Bee stung” is the description that I’ve heard used to describe the same look on supermodels. Those lips are about the only soft thing on his face. Those lips and a hollow on the side of his face that appears when those plush lips curve upward. The divot is too shallow and wide to be termed a dimple, but it’s as devastating.

One hand is stuck in a pocket and his jacket is pushed behind the hand to reveal a flat stomach. No desk paunch on this guy. There’s an intense sexual aura about him. The nonchalant stance, the dark gaze, the lush lips are all an invitation to rip the buttons of his snowy white shirt apart and see exactly what lies underneath all of those fabrics.

In the guise of giving my chin a scratch, I stick a thumb under my jaw to make sure my mouth is closed. This guy? He can practice lines with me all he wants.

His half-smile widens knowingly. “Kind of a beautiful day to be kicking doors down.”

It’s obvious he’s well acquainted with his effect on women. Too bad I can’t sneak a picture for my mom. A verbal description is not going to do him justice.

“If I can’t deliver my packages, then I won’t have time left to enjoy said beautiful day.” I lift the Wiggin’ Out delivery to show him.

He nods and pushes away from the post he’s leaning against. “I’m in complete agreement. I say we blow our responsibilities off and head to the park.”

He bends his arm and pulls up his suit jacket sleeve to reveal a thick watch with exposed gears. It looks expensive, too. He’s too well put together to be an actor, and they don’t wear suits unless they’re on stage or being interviewed by a late night show host. His attire is more suited to downtown in the financial district where pin-tucked lapels and ice-blue ties with tiny white dots that are paired with snowy-white shirts are deemed normal. This guy’s outfit says investor, not poor actor.

“Are you lost?” My mouth opens before my good sense can catch up.

“It’s the suit, right?” He flips up the end of his tie and gives me a roguish grin. What is it that Pam from
Archer
says? Oh right,
you could drown a toddler in my panties right now.

“It’s the suit,” I confirm.

“Not lost,” he says, “But if I was, would you have lent me a hand?” He lifts his own hand, palm up, as if to gesture for me to take it. I follow the thick line of his arm and am surprised at how capable that hand looks. Strong. Like it could hold you up if you stumbled. I want to grab it and clutch it to my chest. Not the hand of an investor either. Because I’m not able pigeonhole him, he’s all the more fascinating. I step closer.

“Yes,” I say—because who wouldn’t? Random tourists would walk out of expensive Broadway shows if he announced that he needed help.

My immediate answer is rewarded with an even deeper smile. It’s kind of magical. My bad mood, the worry about my mother, the stress over our lack of money all melts away like ice cream on the sidewalk on a sunny day. I want to stand here and bask in the warmth of this handsome stranger’s smile. We smile at each other as if we’re both happy to be sharing a moment. His hand is still upward, still waiting for me to take it. I lift my own hand slowly and reach toward him, already anticipating that it will be dry but warm, solid but not hurtful. He doesn’t move—not an inch—somehow knowing that I can be easily startled away.