Losing Control (9 page)

“Why you for what? The job or the ice cream date?”

“Both.”

“The job I can explain to you later. The other should be patently obvious, but since you seem obtuse about this unlike most everything else, I’ll share. You turned down my money, returned my box of gifts, challenged me in my loft, and spurned my advances. I’m not sure you could have made yourself more irresistible.”

“Because you like the chase,” I conclude grimly. It’s all because I turned him down. “I dated a guy like that once. He wanted me up until the point that he caught me and then dumped me three weeks later. He said I was too pushy.” Did that sound bitter? I hope not.

There’s a beat of silence and it makes me anxious. I’ve turned him off already, I think sourly, and then in the next moment I chastise myself for even caring. One thing Ian has said about me is right. I have a weak bunny heart.

“The chase,” he says slowly, as if trying to parse out exactly the right words to make sure I don’t hang up on him, “just whets the appetite. And if what you catch has no substance, then yes, the chase was the only worthwhile part of the whole game.”

The mass in my stomach feels like hard stones. “At least you’re honest,” I say, faking some brightness so he doesn’t hear my disappointment. I have no right to be upset. Colin once called me a stage five clinger because I’d been upset about him sleeping with other people. At the time I was angry at him for being a cheater, but maybe relationships aren’t about fidelity but enjoying the experience. I don’t think I can do that. I fall too quick, too fast, too easily.

He sighs at this. “When is your next outing with your mom?"

"In a few days. She has chemo on Monday, so we do something the weekend before.” The thought of spending time with my dear mother outside while she’s feeling healthy immediately lightens my spirits. Who cares what my new employer thinks of me? I’ve got no time for game-playing men.

“Specifically,” he adds.

“Saturday probably.” I wonder if he is finally going to tell me what this secret project is all about.

He hums. “Alright, have a nice day.” With that, the line goes dead. Tossing the phone aside, I actively fight the feeling of disappointment at the abrupt ending to the conversation. I recite all the positive things in my life. I’m in good health. I have some money. My mom is still alive. She and I are going to the park. These are wonderful things, and I certainly don’t have room or time for a half-baked relationship with someone who undoubtedly wants to screw me and leave me.

Renewed, I get up and fold the bed away.

“T
EN
DELIVERIES
DOWNTOWN
AND
THEN
come back.” Sandra orders. With a nod of assent, I’m gone.

The deliveries downtown consist mostly of shuttling paper between law firms. Sometimes its tubes of architectural or design plans, but mostly it’s still just paper. All these firms and all their technology but nothing can replace the signed blue signature on the bottom line.

Makes no sense to me, but as long as there are things to be delivered, I still have a job. It’s about all I’m capable of doing. The thought makes the space between my shoulders pinch and all morning long when I’m usually able to just enjoy the activity of being outside and whipping in and out of traffic, my useless future rides me.

By mid-morning I’ve nearly run into four cabs and one bus. I’m behind because I swerved into the curb and punctured my tire to avoid getting leveled by a bus. As I’m patching my tire, I lecture myself. If the last few years of dealing with my mother’s cancer has taught me anything, it’s that you can only deal with one day’s worth of shit at a time. Otherwise you’re paralyzed by the fear of tomorrow.

I don’t hear from Ian again, so all of his talk about helping out really was nothing more than niceties mouthed to a pathetic girl. I put him out of my mind the best I can.

Malcolm keeps me busy along with my regular job. I deliver drugs to three celebrities—two actors and a Broadway star. The famous people are very uncomfortable. I stare at the ground and pretend not to recognize them. The rest of my deliveries are mundane. Rich housewives, a few business people based on the briefcases in the entry hall or suits that they’re wearing when they answer the door. Some try to tip me—hoping I guess that the extra money will help to keep my mouth shut. Don’t they know that we’re all in the same boat? I’m not going to tell anyone I’m delivering drugs to these people because I don’t want to go to prison. I just tell them that discretion is part of the service. They nod and I leave, both of us feeling uncomfortable.

Most deliveries are to different addresses although there are a couple that I’ve delivered a package to each week. I try not to think about what the drugs are doing to these people. Maybe they all have cancer and it’s just weed I’m delivering. I’d like to think that were true, but I’m sure it’s not.

When Saturday rolls around, I deliberately start humming in order to put myself in a good mood. I don’t want to ruin the day.

“Have a good week, dear?” Mom asks as I putter around our small apartment getting ready.

Today I’m getting my mother out of the house and springing for a nice meal with the money I’ve made.

“It wasn’t bad, but how can I not be happy on a today like today? The sun is shining. I’m spending the day with my best friend. And we’re going to see cute animals.” I give her a gentle pinch on the cheek and she grins back.

We hold hands on our way into the park, Mom swinging my arm like she did when I was a little girl. I realize in this moment that nothing I could ever do for Malcolm or Ian wouldn’t be worth seeing the smile on my mom’s face. We reach the zoo’s open gates and join the other families going inside. Is there any place happier than the zoo? I think not. Glancing at my mom, I give her a huge smile and refuse to allow the worry to color our day together.

Leaning over, I give her smooch against her forehead. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, sweet dear.”

“I can see where you get your looks.”

My head snaps up. It’s Ian. Ian fucking Kerr is lounging against the iron post of the left zoo gate, looking for all the world like he owns the place. Hell, based on what he told me the other night maybe he does. He’s wearing his standard uniform of boots, jeans, and big watch. Instead of a T-shirt, he’s wearing a Henley with the top three buttons undone and the sleeves pushed up to showcase muscular forearms, sprinkled with dark-colored hair over heavy veins.

“Were we meeting someone?” My mom turns to me with a twinkle in her eye. “You should have told me you had a surprise for me. No wonder you’re in such a good mood this morning.”

Oh, shit. She thinks Ian is my boyfriend and that I’m bringing him to meet my mom.

“Mom,” I protest. “I was in a good mood because you and I were going to the zoo!”

“Mrs. Corielli, I’m Ian Kerr. Friend of your daughter’s.” He picks up the hand that she offers and actually kisses it or presses his face to it. It’s archaic but causes my mother to flutter like she’s a tween at a One Direction concert. “Come on in, I’ve bought the tickets.” He waves three tickets in front of my face. My mother heads toward the ticket attendant.

“Malcolm?” I mutter under my breath as I pass him. The side of his lips twitches but he says nothing. “Hope you paid through the nose for the information.”

“If I did, it'd be worth every penny,” he responds. No waiting for my retort, he catches up to my mother, who was apparently trying to give me a moment with my new boyfriend. He tucks her hand into the crook of his arm and I follow sullenly behind them as they stride toward the sea lion exhibit. My mother is asking him what his favorite animal is. His response is low-toned and I can’t quite make it out, but it sounds like he says “bunnies.”

Ian escorts my mother around the zoo for two hours, and I dawdle behind them in part because I don’t mind staring at Ian’s fine ass but mostly because I’m trying to gather my wits and figure out what his angle is.

Ian takes us to lunch at the Boathouse, a restaurant in the middle of the park. I don’t want to go because it’s far too expensive, but he insists and my mother looks elated. He begins flirting outrageously with my mother from the moment we are seated.

“Medical transcriptionist? You must have the best stories,” he declares.

My mother coos, “Hair-raising tales, but unfortunately none that I can share. Confidentiality, you know.”

“Your daughter must have all your best features. Bright, funny, gorgeous.” He leans toward her and spreads the napkin on her lap. “Did she go to school here in the city?”

“Mostly, although there were a few years we lived in Queens.” The Malcolm and Mitch Hedder years. “But Tiny is a born and bred Manhattanite. I don’t think you could get her over the river now, even for all the money in Jersey.”

“Tiny’s such an interesting name for Victoria.” He butters bread for her and then moves a water glass closer to her hand. Every action of his is focused on ensuring both she and I have everything we need even before we think of it.

“Didn’t Tiny tell you how she got her nickname?” Mom shakes her head as if I’ve engaged in some outrageous behavior. “She can be so closed mouth about herself.”

“Tell me about it,” groans Ian. “I feel like I’m always doing the talking. She’s more mysterious than the Sphinx.”

He’s so infuriating yet so smooth I can’t help but be impressed. Watching the volley of words back and forth would be extremely entertaining if the topic wasn’t me.

“Well, she was the tiniest baby. A thirty-three week preemie. So small that I started calling her Tiny from the very beginning. It’s almost more her name than Victoria.”

“Victoria is a lovely name.” Ian pats her hand, and she flushes with pleasure under his approving gaze. Incredible. I shake my head when he gives me a surreptitious wink.

The entire lunch continues in this vein, with Ian anticipating every want of my mother’s, sliding me mischievous grins whenever my mother reveals something about me that he finds particularly interesting, and charming the pants off my mom, the wait staff, and anyone within a ten foot radius of our table.

“How will you be getting home, ladies?” he asks as we finish our dessert.

“Bus,” I say.

“I suspected as much.” He stands and pulls out my mother’s chair. Holding out his elbow for her to take, he heads toward the door, stopping only to sign a slip of paper discreetly slid to him as he exits.

“Did you pay?”

“I did.” He holds open the door and motions for both of us to exit. “Dining and dashing isn’t considered good society anymore.”

My mother smothers a giggle at this. “What my daughter means to say is thank you very much.”

“Yes,” I agree, chastised a bit. “Lunch was very nice. It was good to see you again, Ian, but we should be going.”

My mother’s energy is waning. I can see it in the slowness of her walk and the way her brow is slightly furrowed. I consider splurging on a taxi given that I have a little extra money because I didn’t buy lunch.

“Please, allow me to see you home.” He tucks my mother’s hand in the crook of his right arm and then gathers my stiff, wooden frame with his left. “Perfect day. Two gorgeous women on my arms. Best Saturday ever.”

I want to say something bitingly clever, although I don’t know what it would be. My brain cells are shorting out because I can feel his warm hand gripping my waist through the thin T-shirt I’m wearing. Despite the cool temperatures under the canopy of leaves, I feel as if I’m in danger of overheating. Plus my right arm is awkwardly mashed against my side between his body and mine. It would be so much easier if I allowed myself to drop my arm behind his back and grip his shirt.

Never once in my twenty-five years do I remember walking in the park with my man and my mom. This is something I hadn’t even fantasized about before because I never imagined it would feel so good, but there’s a sense of rightness to this setup. A belonging that I've never felt before. Not only do I feel cared for, but the gentle concern Ian showed to my mother all morning and throughout lunch made me feel like she was cared for too.

By the time we reach 5th Avenue and East 72nd street, I notice my hand has crept behind Ian’s back. It’s resting on the top of the waistband of his jeans, the henley he is wearing providing the only real barrier between his naked flesh and my questing hand.

I drop my hand immediately, but it brushes his ass. Ian leans down and murmurs against the top of my hair, “Feel free to touch me all you want, bunny.”

Before I can retort that I’m not a small garden animal, Ian’s expensive gray vehicle pulls up to the curb. “I can’t allow you ladies to take public transportation. After all, I’ve invited myself to your morning excursion and your lunch. This is the least I can do.”

“Such pretty manners.” My mother pats him on the face and climbs into the back of the vehicle. He waves me in next so that I’m seated in the middle between him and my mom. “This is quite nice, Ian. Have you owned it long?”

“A few years. I have another sedan I’m testing out but Tiny likes this one, don't you?”

He adopts my nickname like we're old friends.

“It's ostentatious,” I say. I have no idea what other sedan he’s talking about. I’ve only seen him in this big shiny gray monster.

“I'm sure she means it's lovely,” Mom interjects. “How many do you own?”

Her delivery is airy, but it’s no idle question. This time my mom’s the interrogator and Ian's on the hot seat. He shows no resistance to her though and reels off a fleet of cars along with properties he owns, including a townhome recently purchased on the West Side along with real estate in London, Hong Kong and Tokyo. I can’t tell if he’s bragging or trying to make my mother believe he’d be a good provider and then I wonder why he even bothers. Is this part of the chase?

After a few more questions—such as where he went to church (he was agnostic) and where his family was from (native, ma’am)—Mom subsides and then ultimately falls asleep against my shoulder. Without the volley of words to distract me, I feel Ian’s big body even more keenly. His arm has been thrown across the back of the bench seat and her weight against my side presses me ever closer to him. His thigh feels like granite next to mine, and he smells delicious. I’m too agitated by his presence to talk. He somehow senses that and for once leaves me be.