Not Looking For Love: Episode 1 (2 page)

He bends over and picks up a hoe off the ground. "Don't worry about me. I have a change of clothes in my truck."

Brandon's next to me, trying to place his arm around me again. I step to the side, and his arm flails through the air. I could swear pool boy chuckles a little seeing it, but I'm not sure. Maybe it's just what I want to see. I want him to want me.

The sun finally peeks over the fence, and something glimmers a few steps away from me in the grass.

I lunge for it, making both Brandon and the pool boy start.

"My bracelet!" I 'm clutching it so tightly the charms dig painfully into my palm. I know my face is a mask of deranged glee, but I can't help it.

The pool boy picks up the rest of his tools and shakes his head, muttering something that could be 'crazy rich chick,' but I may be wrong.
 

"Do you want to go inside? Get warmed up?" Brandon asks. He's hovering next to me again, standing between the pool boy and me. Going in with him is the last thing I want to do. Pool boy is already at the far side of the garden.

I shake my head and run
 
toward the hole in the fence, wishing Brandon never showed up and I was dipping in the pool with, well, pool boy. I need to find out his name. Pool boy is a dumb nickname. Especially since he's obviously the gardener.
 

Dad is standing on the patio and sipping his coffee, his eyes glazed. I'm not even sure he sees me approach.

"How's Mom?" I ask, forestalling any questions from him and making sure he knows I'm sober and ready for bed.

"She's asleep now. Try not to wake her."

I slip past him, not wanting to share his grief. It multiplies when we're together, breeds, grows, and expands until it's all there is, and I can't breathe. A week or so is all Mommy has left. All the doctors agree. I hope they're wrong. Every second of every minute, I hope they're wrong. And right now, I'd rather loose myself in the fantasy of pool boy and me in the pool than hope for anything at all.

I fell asleep before I could get any kind of fantasy going, and by the time I wake up it's almost one in the afternoon. Since, I ended up sleeping in my sweats, I just pull my damp hair into a messy bun and go in search of some coffee.

I stop by my mom's room, cracking the door open just a little bit to see if she's awake. All I hear is her raspy, shallow breathing. One of her hands is hanging off the side of the bed, and her cover and sheets are all crumbled up like she just woke from a nightmare. Only she's still sleeping, each breath like stone grating against sandpaper.

I slip into the room and tiptoe to her bed. My heart is in my throat, beating against the hot, jagged ball of burning tears that's always there when I see her. I can't let her see me cry because I'm not a little girl anymore, even though that's exactly how I feel most of the time now. Like I'm ten and my mommy is dying. She can't know any of that; it would just make it all harder on her. But she's asleep now, and a hot tear trickles down my cheek. Only I don't whimper, don't let any sound escape my clenched throat. She might wake up. I take her hand, tears rushing from my eyes now, and place it on the bed next to her. She doesn't stir. The nurse is giving her the maximum amount of morphine she can now. It's not always enough to dull the pain. And she's sleeping now. I mustn't wake her. Yet all I want to do is climb in bed with her. Like I did when I was little. Wake her, talk to her. Laugh. Instead, I'm crying, inching back out of the room silently because I can't wake her.

I wipe my tears away as I walk down to the kitchen, concentrating hard on the cup of coffee I'm about to have, until it's all I know and all I think about. I lean against the counter, waiting for the coffee to brew. The window has a partial view of Kate's service driveway and the red pick-up parked there. A magnolia tree by the fence near it is shaking like someone's cutting it. Pool boy or gardener. The memory of him, in his wet clothes this morning sends, tingles through my stomach. He'd be a better distraction than a cup of coffee and much better than one of Kate's wild parties.

I run back up the stairs, untangling my hair as I go. I slip on a sundress with a deep v-cut that I'd normally only wear if it was really hot out. Back in the kitchen, I pour two cups of coffee and walk across the lawn to the fence, hoping pool boy is indeed trimming the magnolia tree.

I climb through the hole in the fence, sloshing hot coffee over my bare leg, but at least I don't spill it all over my dress. Kate's high-pitched laugh echoes from the pool, but the hedge from here to the magnolia tree is so thick she shouldn't be able to see me.
 

The shrubbery hides me from the pool boy too. He's wearing a pair of faded jeans now and no shirt. The sunlight makes his back glisten, and all I really want to do is run my hand down his back, feeling those hard muscles. That desire surprises me. I'm not usually very forward with guys and definitely prefer them to take the lead. He's got one of those electric cutters going, so he doesn't hear me approach.

I clear my throat once I reach him. "Excuse me."

The saw sputters, and the noise dies out. He turns toward me, surprise evident in the way his face hovers between a smile and a frown. I wouldn't mind touching his lips either.

"I thought you might like some coffee," I say, holding one of the cups toward him, sloshing more of it across my arm in the process.
 

He just stares at me like he can't figure out what I'm doing there.
 

"Thank you for saving me," I explain, belatedly adding, "or, you know, trying to."

He puts the saw down, wipes sweat off his face with the back of his hand, and finally takes the coffee.

"I put milk and sugar in. I don't know how you like it," I say rather stupidly.

His eyes, the color of a cloudless blue sky now with just a hint of sunlight dip down to the v of my dress. With the push-up I'm wearing, the dress reveals more than it hides.
 

"Thanks. I like milk and sugar just fine."

His gaze warms me again, heat shooting through my stomach. Somehow, I don't think he's really talking about the milk and sugar.

What I'm feeling must be showing on my face because he chuckles a little and gulps down the coffee.

"Thank you, Miss...?" he says, holding the empty cup toward me.
 

"Gail," I manage.

"Miss Gail," he says and chuckles again.

"No, just Gail," I explain too seriously. His eyes are still taking me in, sizing me up, and sending tingles across all the places I wish he'd touch. "And what's your name?"

"Scott," he says and shakes the empty cup at me. "And you're welcome. Anytime. I'm just glad you're not dead."

Dead, I hate that word. That word used to be scary, now it's terrifying. Dead is what my mom will be. Her two-month sentence will be done in one week. An image of her laughing face flashes through my mind, as she bought me the bracelet in Rome, and as she listened to me telling her of that boy I was so helplessly in love with back in sixth grade. She doesn't laugh like that anymore. Soon she never will. Because she will be dead.
 

Scott's eyes narrow and pull together. He bends down and places the cup on the ground. "I should get back to work. Thanks for the coffee. Have a nice day."

"I'd like to thank you properly," I hear myself saying, with no idea where the words are coming from or where they're going. "Do you have time for a proper drink later, after work?"

I've never asked a guy out so pointedly before. Never had the nerve. Not in sixth grade, not at any time since. So, I don't know why I'm doing it now. I must be crazy.

He lifts his eyes up to mine again, stopping just a little too long at my boobs.
 

My mouth is hanging open, and my eyes must be too wide. I know all this, but can't stop it. I wish I had Kate's easygoing manner with guys, but I don't. And now he'll say no, thinking I'm just a crazy rich chick, and this is the second time I'm making a total fool of myself in front of him.
 

He gives me a lopsided grin, and locks his eyes on mine. "I'd love to; I really would, but..."

I hate that 'but'. At least he's being nice about it.

I want to wipe the expectant look off my face, but it's stuck there.
 

"... that guy, Brandon... he likes you. He's my boss, sort of, and I need this job, kind of, but I'd love to."

I know I'm wearing a confused, unattractive grimace on my face right now.
 

"So is it a yes or a no?" I ask.

A cloud of annoyance covers his eyes, and I look away, down to his chest at his dark red nipples. I wonder what they'd feel like between my teeth. Oh my God, I've never ever wanted to suck a guy's nipples before. What's wrong with me?

"It's a no," he says. It feels more like a slap.
 

I'm going insane; it's the only explanation. I'm asking a gardener out on a date. And he said no.

"Fine, fine, whatever," I mutter, pick up his empty cup, and twirl around, sloshing my own, untouched coffee all over my dress this time.

It's too much. My mom is dying, I've barely slept, I'm not acting like myself at all, and now this guy is rejecting me. Tears blind me.

"I'm sorry." I think I hear him yell after me, but I'm already climbing back through the fence, sloshing more coffee all over myself. What was I thinking? I'm a mess. I should be with my mom, not chasing guys and wondering what their nipples taste like. Not asking gardeners out on dates.

CHAPTER TWO

I'm running up the stairs, intent on getting out of my dirty dress and spending the rest of the day under the covers.
 

"Gail?" Mom calls through the cracked door of her bedroom.

My heart stops, and my foot freezes in midair inches above the step.

Mom's voice sounds so shaky, so quiet. What if this is it? What if today I have to say goodbye?

"Yes, it's me," I croak out so silently she couldn't have heard me. I take a steadying breath and climb up the rest of the stairs. My legs are shaking, and I'm clutching my hands into fists. Why is it always like this? Why can't I just pretend that each day might not be her last? Why did the doctors have to put a number on it? Two months is a very short time. And each day I have less hope that they're wrong.

I relax my hands and push open the door. The French doors are open, and the breeze is blowing the white translucent curtains in and out. The breeze does nothing to chase away the smell of disinfectant, staleness, and the minty ointment that eases her cough slightly.

Her whole face, including her lips, is a pasty, sickly bluish white color, and the bright silk scarf she's wearing only serves to better contrast it. She smiles gently and lifts her hand
 
toward me.

"Hi, Mom," I say and rush to take her hand. It's cool and clammy, but I don't mind. My hands are warm enough for the both of us. A year ago, we were running around Rome, the eternal city, laughing and exploring. She was fine then. Sure, she got tired rather quickly, but otherwise she was fine. And now she's dying.

"Did you just get in?" she asks. Her voice breaks a little on the question, but she manages to stifle a cough. "What happened to your dress?"

I glance down at the large coffee stain. I'd meant to change before anyone saw it, but she called me, and it might have been for the last time.

"Well, you know me. I'm a slosher," I say lightly.

"Looks like more than a little slosh to me." She chuckles, but it turns into a cough. I grab her hand with both of mine, the prickly ball of tears expanding in my throat.

She gains control of her breathing quickly though and squeezes my hand back. "It's not so bad today. In fact, I was just about to watch a movie. Want to join me?"

I nod excitedly. It's been a few weeks since my mom was well enough to sit through a movie. Today would likely be no different, but I don't dwell on it. "I'll just go and change," I say and stand up. "What do you want to watch?"

"I was thinking Titanic," Mom says, a grin spreading across her face. I only just manage not to roll my eyes. She likes her romantic movies, and I'm not about to disagree with her today.

I forgo the shower I'd planned to take, not wanting to waste any of the precious moments of Mom's lucidity. Some days, in the beginning, after they'd already passed the death sentence on her, she'd still get up and walk around, even eat dinner with us downstairs. But the last such day was my birthday. These days, she sleeps for most of the day and night.
 

I'm snuggled next to her five minutes later and pushing play. When Edna the nurse comes up, I'll ask her pretty please for some popcorn. I haven't eaten since dinner last night, but I'd rather starve than miss movie day with my mom. We settle in and after a few minutes, it's just like old times, those lazy afternoons we'd spend watching movies, talking, and laughing. My mom was a high power attorney. But she always made sure to spend time with me, always left work at work when she decided to take a break. International law, specialized in human rights, and it's what I'm studying too. I wonder if she misses work. There's still so much she had meant to do. Maybe I can do some of it for her one day. I swallow the sad thought and concentrate hard on the movie.

The romance between Jack and Rose starts. Not long after, I've already cast Scott and myself in the roles. What was it like for Rose? Stepping out and defying convention by falling for Jack? Must have been exciting, super charged. I'm imagining last night again, Scott and me in the pool, his bulky, strong arms around me and his lips on mine. In my mind, I'm wearing the long, lacy underwear women used to wear, because it fits this fantasy better, and I'm a geek that way.
 

"So do you have a boy you like now?" Mom asks. Blood rushes to my face. I was just thinking about tasting Scott's nipples again.
 

"No," I stammer, totally revealing my lie.

My mom chuckles a little, and there's the ghost of her once melodic laugh there, but it's immediately crushed by the horrifying cough.