Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (65 page)

“I
know, dear,” he says. “You’ve grown up so fast.”

My
phone beeps again.

“So,
who’s sending you messages?” he asks. “Is it a boyfriend?”

“No,”
I tell him. “It’s just some guy. I don’t even know him.”

“You
can block him,” my dad says. “I read that online.”

“We’re
living in a strange world,” I tell him. “It starts with parents coming to a
functional, albeit gradual, understanding of technology and where does it end?
Next thing we know, kids will start doing their homework willingly and
politicians will stop accepting bribes to sway their votes. It would be
madness!”

My
dad chuckles, and it’s still one of the most comforting sounds in the world to
me.

Growing
up, he was always the one cheering me on when I had soccer games or dance
recitals. Mom, she’d always say the same thing, no matter what I was doing,
“Just remember, Jessica, you may not be the smartest or the prettiest, but you
go out there and do your best anyway.”

There
was never any, “I’ll be proud of you no matter what,” or “You’re going to do
great.” It was always, “Do your best even though it’s not going to amount to
much.”

“Dad,
does Mom hate me?” I ask.

It’s
a dramatic question, but maybe it’ll get him to realize that her behavior is
more than a mother just hanging onto her little girl a bit too much for a bit too
long.

“Of
course not, honey. Why would you say something like that?” he asks.

“Well,
I don’t think she actually does, but you know the way she talks to me. She’s
always talked to me that way, and it doesn’t matter what I do or how well I do
it, she never trusts that I’m going to make the right decision about anything,”
I tell him.

“She
just worries about you,” he says. I wait for him to finish the thought, but
apparently that’s it.

I
pull my phone back out of my pocket and check my messages.

“Is
he a good man?” my dad asks.

“I
don’t know,” I tell him. “So far, he’s about the closest thing I have to a
friend besides the people I pay to work for me.”

The
statement was a bit blunter than I intended, and I can see the result on my
dad’s expression.

“You
work too hard,” he says. “I bet if you were to go out there and have a good
time, you’d come home with a bunch of friends.”

“Maybe,”
I tell him and look at my phone.

“What’d
he say?” my dad asks.

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

“He’s
not being disrespectful, is he?” my dad asks, and I have to smile. He’s always
been the protector. “You know, despite what you may see on television, it’s not
okay for men to say the nasty, sexual things that they do to women.”

“It’s
not that,” I tell him. “He’s never talked to me like that, actually. I was just
telling him about Mom and the cancer.”

“What
did he say?” my dad asks.

“He
just told me to hang in there—that it’s going to be okay.”

I
leave out the fact that my text-friend’s mom died of cancer. Dad has enough on
his mind as it is.

“Well
that’s good,” my dad says. “Now, why don’t you come inside for some more of
your mother’s award-winning blueberry pie?”

“Dad,
I know you’re the one that makes it,” I tell him.

“What?”
he asks, feigning ignorance. “What are you talking about?”

“Every
time we have blueberry pie, your hands are stained purple,” I tell him. “Mom’s
never have been.”

“She
wears gloves, dear,” he says and gets up from the porch swing. It’s a ludicrous
response, but it’s too endearing to argue with him about it. He smiles and
holds a stained hand out toward me. “Shall we?”

*
                   
*
                   
*

 
“I think I’ve become my mother,” I write.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love her and everything, but she’s not exactly who I
thought I would be at thirty years old, you know?”

I’m
sitting on the corner of my old bed in my parents’ house, hoping that he knows
male/female propriety well enough to try to convince me that I couldn’t
possibly be anything like my mother.

“Tell
me,” he writes, “if you could go anywhere in the world with anyone in the
world, who would it be?”

Well,
it’s hardly the response I was hoping for, but at least he knows male/female
propriety well enough to change the subject.

“I
don’t know,” I write. “Where did that come from?”

Along
with coming to talk to my mom and dad about the house, I came here for another
reason.

It’s
hardly new. In fact, it’s something that I’ve tried to talk myself into doing
for years now, but I can never find the nerve to just do it.

My
phone beeps.

The
message reads, “In my experience, when someone starts to think that they’re
turning into one of their parents, it usually means it’s time for a vacation.”

I
cover my mouth as the laugh escapes me.

“Well,”
I write back, “you’re right about that. It’s starting to look like you’re right
about a lot of things.”

Even
as a little girl, I tried so hard to impress my mother, to show her that I
wasn’t this frail, stupid thing she’s always thought me to be. Apart from
trying to convince my parents to help them with the mortgage, I’m here to
confront what is quite possibly the saddest part of my childhood.

My
phone beeps.

“That’s
something I never tire of hearing,” he writes. “What specifically am I right
about this time?”

I
write back, “I should start trusting my employees. I’ve had a few lackluster
workers in the past, but the staff I have now is pretty amazing.”

I
joined every club in high school and before that I went for every team,
volunteered for every school play, every bake sale, every fundraiser... One
year, I tried out for the cheerleading squad, but the coach said I didn’t smile
enough.

He
wasn’t wrong.

My
phone beeps and the message reads, “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m
going to start management training,” I write. “It’s terrifying, but I think
it’s time I realize that I’m not the only one who can do it.”

Despite
my cheerleading disappointment, over the years, I built quite the collection of
first place ribbons, trophies and certificates declaring me champion at this or
first place with that.

Every
time, I would come through that door and I’d walk right past my dad and show my
mom what I’d won.

Every
time, she said the same thing, “That’s okay, honey, you’ll do better next
time.”

When
I was younger, I tried to explain that I had, in fact, done better than anyone
else, but she’d just pat me on the head and say, “It’s not nice to take
advantage of people’s kindness.”

It
took me years before I realized what she meant. She was saying that I only got
the awards because the judges felt sorry for me.

After
that, I stopped tacking up my certificates and stopped polishing my trophies.
Now, they all sit in the bottom of the closet in this room.

My
phone beeps.

The
message says, “You’ll do great. Have you ever done employee training before?”

I’d
been trying to ignore the fact that I’ve never in my life trained a person to
any level higher than salesperson or cashier.

“No,”
I write, “not to that level. It can’t be that much different than normal job
training, though, can it?”

When
I got to be a teenager, I’d still try out for everything and I’d still come
home with awards and certificates, but by the time I walked through the door
and saw my mom sitting in her chair, I’d be overcome with a sense of dread at
the response I knew was coming, and I’d just walk in my room, open up the
closet door and toss whatever I’d gotten in one of the boxes I’d placed in
there.

It’s
been so long since I opened that closet door that I don’t even remember how
many boxes I put in there.

I’m
pretty sure my high school diploma’s in there somewhere.

The
phone beeps and I read the message.

“That’s
all right,” he writes. “Do you know anyone who has trained other people to
higher positions?”

“Not
really,” I start, then as the thought comes to me, I groan. “There was a guy
who was doing some work for me. He’s done that sort of thing, but I’d feel
weird asking him.”

I
lie back on the bed.

Eric
probably wouldn’t help if I asked him anyway. Besides, they’re totally
different kinds of training.

The
phone beeps and the message reads, “Are we still avoiding the finer points of
our lives, or can you give me a little more to go on? What kind of work do you
do?”

There’s
really no reason for me not to tell him what I do. I mean, I’m nowhere near
ready to actually meet him, so it’s probably best to keep the store name out of
it, but maybe it might actually help to give him a little more to go on.

“I
own a clothing store,” I write. “The guy’s a contractor.”

I
just close my eyes and wait.

My
mom’s still got the TV blaring like she used to and my dad’s already in bed,
though how he can sleep with that racket, I’ve never known.

A
new message comes in, saying, “They’re different kinds of work, but I bet the
basic principles are close enough that he could help you. Why don’t you ask
him?”

“Maybe
I will,” I write, “but have kind of a weird relationship. Things are starting
to even out, but he doesn’t work for me anymore.”

I
sit up and look back toward the closet and decide that tonight’s the night I
open that door again and pack whatever I find in the car.

This
is something I’ve done every time I’ve come home and stayed in this room, but I
already know that the shot of courage is not going to last.

I
lie back down and wait for the beep.

“Do
you have his number?” he writes after a few minutes.

“Yeah,”
I write, “well, his work number anyway, but he’s never answered it. I don’t
even know if it’s a working number to tell you the truth.”

After
a minute, another message comes in, “Well, now that he’s not working for you
anymore, he might be more willing to answer that phone. Try giving him a call.”

He
has a point.

Stupid
as it is that Eric didn’t answer his work number—granted, I only ever called it
while he was working on the other side of the store—he’s got to be hoping for
someone to call, so I find the number and press send.

“Hello?”

“Hey
Eric, this is Jessica from Lady Bits,” I start.

“Oh,
hey there,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Hey,
I know you’re probably really busy and everything, but I was wondering if you
might be able to point me in the right direction on something.”

“What’s
that?” he asks.

“I’ve
decided to take your advice and move up some of my people. The problem is—”

“You’ve
never trained a manager before and you’re worried that if you screw it up, all
of your worst fears will come true?” he asks.

“Something
like that,” I answer.

“Well,
I
am
very busy,” he says over the
unmistakable sound of an aluminum can hissing as it’s cracked open, “but I
might be able to help. When did you want to get together?”

“Oh,
no,” I laugh. “I was thinking more of a phone mentorship or something like
that.”

“A
phone mentorship?” he asks.

“Yeah,”
I answer. “You know, if I get into a training situation where I don’t know what
to do, I give you a call.”

“The
problem with that is that you’re assuming you already know the proper way to
train a manager in the first place. Did you take any business courses?”

“Yeah,”
I answer, “but they only went over general theory.”

“All
right,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the shop when you open tomorrow.”

He
hangs up before I can tell him that tomorrow, we’re closed.

I
try calling him back, but the number just goes straight to voicemail.

I
can’t believe this is the guy that I’m really going to for advice on higher
training for my employees.

This
is going to be a disaster.

Chapter Ten

Threading the Needle

Eric

I’m
still not sure if Jessica would slap me or hug me if she found out I’m the one
she’s been texting back and forth, but I really don’t think that now is the
time to find that out. I’m totally in to her after these messages and don’t
want to fuck it up so soon.