Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (64 page)

She
laughs her first sincere laugh, I think, since I met her and it’s disarming to
see even this small a glimpse of a softer side to her.

“Maybe
you’re right,” she says and finally relaxes enough take a bite of something.

“I
usually am,” I smile.

“You’re
kind of arrogant, you know that?” she asks, but at least she’s smiling at me.

Chapter Nine

Learning to Breathe

Jessica

“Mom,
it’s not that simple,” I groan.

“I’d
say it’s simple enough,” she says over her blueberry pie. “You’ve managed to
make some money, and I bet if you sold that store and the merchandise that came
with it, you’d have a nice little nest egg.”

“I’m
not selling the store,” I tell her.

“Why
not, dear?” she asks. “Are you having money trouble? Harold, grab my
pocketbook, will you?”

“I’m
fine on money,” I tell her. “But I’m not just doing what I’m doing to get
enough money to get me by until I die. I actually believe in what I’m doing.”

“Oh,”
she says, “I didn’t know you viewed selling clothes as some sort of personal
crusade.”

I
rub my temples. “Women’s clothing stores usually fit into two categories,” I
start, “either they’re geared toward bigger women or they’re geared toward
smaller women. My store is a place where any woman can come in, find something
that not only looks good, but makes her feel good, and—”

“Target
has clothes for big and small women,” my mom says.

“That’s
different,” I tell her. “They’re not
just
a clothing store. They can afford to expand their clientele a little bit. There
are more crossovers like mine than there used to be, but we’re still in the
distant minority. A lot of the places that do offer more sizes tend to stop
with single or double XL or the plus sizes they do have are just terrible. I’m
not just selling clothes. What I’m trying to do is to tell women, big or small,
tall or short, rich or poor, that they’re already beautiful, that they’re
already good enough to feel good about themselves.”

“Oh,
surely you can’t think that every woman is already good enough,” my mom says,
and I’m starting to wish that I didn’t bother coming over to visit tonight.

“What
did the doctor say?” I ask in order to avoid yelling at my mother all the
things I’ve wanted to yell at her since I was a teenager.

“Oh,
doctors don’t know anything,” she says.

“He
said that they’re going to go in and remove the tumor,” my dad says. “There
shouldn’t be any need for amputation.”

“That’s
good,” I say. “When are they going to do that?”

My
mom shrugs, but my dad answers, “They’ve scheduled surgery for next Tuesday.”

“They
said it’s not progressed to the point where they need to get right in there and
take care of it right this minute, can you believe that?” my mom asks.

“That’s
good, though,” I tell her. “It sounds like they’re confident.”

“Oh,
all doctors are confident,” my mom says. “So, when are you moving back home?”

“About
that,” I start. “I really don’t think it’s going to be in anyone’s best
interest for me to just move home. I’d have a huge commute every day, and I
wouldn’t want you and Dad to think that this isn’t your house anymore. Why
don’t you just let me pay the—”

“It’s
not about the money,” my mom interrupts.

“What
do you mean?” I ask. “I thought you were getting behind on mortgage payments.”

“We
just think that the city’s not the right place for you,” she says. “You’ve
always been such an innocent child,” read that as ignorant, “and I don’t think
you’re ready for that kind of world.”

“Mom,
I’ve lived in the city for years now. I think I’m good to go,” I answer.

“It’s
not just about that,” my mom adds. “How are you ever going to find a good
husband in that unrepentant Sodom?”

“New
York really isn’t all that bad,” I tell her. “Besides, I hardly think my
situation would be improved by moving back to a place where someone new moving
to town is a community event. I’d worry about inbreeding.”

“Now,
Jessica…” my dad starts. It’s a sentence that he’s never finished.

“I
know you’re having fun with your little rebellion or whatever this is, but it’s
time to come home where we can take care of you.”

My
phone beeps.

“What
was that?” my mom asks.

“I
just got a message,” I tell her. “Can you give me a minute? I just want to make
sure it’s not something to do with the store.”

As
I get up from the table, my mom leans toward my dad and, loudly enough that
she’s sure I hear it, she says, “I bet it’s one of those gigolos from the
city.”

The
bright side about having such a backward, judgmental mother is that she’s often
the source of some really great comedy, though she apparently has no idea why
I’m laughing.

I
walk out the back and sit on the porch swing as I check the message.

It
reads, “Haven’t talked to you today. How’s it going?”

I
write back, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear from you. I’m here with my
mom, and it is just horrendous.”

Through
the kitchen window, I can hear my mom and dad talking. Dad’s on my side, for
now at least, but my mom just keeps on repeating, “It can’t be too long before
they chew her up and spit her out. She does the best with what god gave her,
but do you really think she’s ready to handle that kind of life?”

My
phone beeps and the discussion inside stops.

I
read the message. It says, “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”

I
write back, “Just the usual.” After sending the message, it occurs to me that
he has no way of knowing what “the usual” is, so I enter another message,
saying, “She has it in her head that I’m still four years old and couldn’t
possibly make it in the real world. Any advice?”

“She’s
just not built to stand on her own two feet,” I can hear my mom telling my dad.
“She needs someone to look after her and point her in the right direction. Otherwise,
who knows what’s going to happen?”

It’s
that last sentence that really catches me.

My
phone beeps.

The
new message reads, “Not much you can do. Moms are moms, and in my experience,
there’s not much you can do to change their minds about anything.”

I
write back, “Your mom does this kind of thing, too, huh?”

My
dad’s inside saying, “At some point, you’ve just got to trust that she knows
the right thing to do. That’s our job as parents: To teach our children the
best we can and then let them live their own lives.”

Mom
has apparently either forgotten or has stopped caring that I can hear her as
she bellows with laughter and, in a loud voice says, “Do you really want to
know what kind of a life she would choose to lead if we didn’t give her the
right direction? Do you remember that boy—oh, what was his name?—Billy or
something. He was the one with the Camaro.”

“Dear,
you’ve got to let that go. People make mistakes,” my dad says.

He’s
a great ally to have for about the first ten minutes of every disagreement. The
problem is that he gets tired of arguing so quickly that anything longer than
that ten minutes and he’s just going to say whatever he needs to say to halt
the disagreement.

“It’s
a wonder she knew to use a condom,” my mom adds and my phone beeps again.

“Yeah,”
I call, “that means I can hear you, Mom!”

I
look at the screen and read, “She used to, but we lost her a few years back to
cancer.”

That
was a little more real than I was expecting.

“I’m
sorry,” I write and try futilely to think of something to add. There’s nothing,
so I just send the message.

The
back door opens and my dad comes out.

“Mind
if I sit with you?” he asks.

“Go
ahead,” I tell him.

“You
know, I used to hold you out here when you were just a baby and we’d watch the
stars come out at night.”

“I
remember,” I smile. “Not that far back, obviously, but we did that for a long
time.”

“I
always loved this time of night for that reason,” he says. “You know, your
mother and I just want to have you close because we love you. It’s not that
we’re trying to keep you from having your own life. We just want to be a part
of it.”

It
still surprises me that I forget how my dad can be even more effective with the
art of the guilt trip than my mom can. If
guilting
was a sport, they’d take gold and silver every time.

“You
are
a part of it,” I tell him. “I can
come visit more, but I can’t just give up my life because Mom still wants to
treat me like a toddler.”

“She
loves you, dear,” my dad says. “I love you, too. We just want what’s best for
you.”

“Then
trust me,” I tell him. “I’m doing great on my own. I have problems just like
anyone else, but I find solutions. I’m actually doing some really great things
in the city. My store remodel just got finished, and—”

“Do
you have any pictures?” he asks.

I
waited until after Eric and his guys left, but I did snap some photos with my
phone, so I pull up my picture gallery and hand it over to him.

“Wow,”
he says. “It looks like they did a really good job. I love the sunken floor
right there.”

“Yeah,
and that window used to only go to this corner,” I tell him, pointing at the
picture, “but I had them take it around the side so people coming down the
street can get a view of the window displays before they get to the store.
People are much more likely to see something if it’s in front of them, or close
to in front of them than if they’re already walking past it.”

“Didn’t
you say they started this a couple months ago?” he asks.

“Yeah,”
I answer.

“Why’d
it take them so long to finish it?”

My
dad is probably the only person on the planet in front of whom I’d feel
embarrassed about changing my mind so much, so I just tell him, “Some of the
materials they needed took longer to ship than we thought they would, but it
came out pretty nice, huh?”

“It
looks great, honey,” he says and hands the phone back to me. “How much did that
cost?”

“You
really don’t want to know,” I tell him.

“I
really do,” he says.

“No,
New York prices are different than prices almost anywhere else. It would just
sound like a waste of money.”

“I
know New York is expensive,” he says. “Come on, how much?”

“All
told,” I start, “a little over one sixty.”

I’m
already cringing in expectation of my dad’s response.

“One
sixty what?” he asks.

Now
I’m cringing harder. “Thousand, Dad, it was a little over a hundred and sixty
thousand. It was going to be a little cheaper, but I thought of some changes
before they were done and I had them implement it.”

 
“Where did you get that kind of money? You
didn’t take out one of those payday loans, did you?” my dad asks.

I
laugh. He’s so sincere, and he’s just looking at me with those big eyes, but
that just makes me laugh even harder.

“Dad,”
I wheeze, “I really don’t think those places deal in that kind of cash. I took
out a normal bank loan, but I was able to pay a chunk of it with my savings.”

“How
much?” he asks.

My
phone beeps, but unfortunately, my clandestine friend will have to wait a
minute or two.

“A
little over half,” I tell him. “I like to save most of my money. Investing in
the future is better than blowing all your money for a fleeting present.”

“Well,
I’m impressed,” he says. “That must have cleaned you out, though. We can’t let
you pay for our—”

“I
left about twenty-thousand in my account,” I tell him. “I didn’t want to
completely gut my savings. After all, you never know when times are going to
get tight.”

“Where
did you get all this money?” he asks.

“From
my store,” I tell him. “Despite what Mom thinks, it’s actually a really good
concept.”

“Don’t
be too hard on your mother,” he says. “You know that she has trouble letting
go.”

“I
get that,” I tell him, “but that doesn’t mean that she just gets to belittle me
when she won’t even listen to what I’m doing with my life. I’m not her little
girl anymore.”

I
regret the words because I can already hear the cliché they’re going to elicit
before he says it.

“You’re
always going to be her little girl,” he says.

“Yeah,
I know,” I tell him. “I’ve seen the Lifetime movies, but that doesn’t mean that
she can’t let me grow up. Whether she likes it or not, I already have.”