Pinpoint (Point #4) (13 page)

“Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

I go as still as a statue at the sound of a cultured voice. Ever so slowly, I twist my upper body. A slender woman with shiny blond hair in an elegant twist stands at the garage door entrance looking at me not unkindly, but with a mixture of amusement and confusion. She wears a tailored Kelly green sheath and holds a handbag even I know to be extraordinarily expensive.

Oh, no.

“Um . . .”

“I’m Elizabeth Alexander, Oscar’s mother. I apologize for coming over unannounced, but Oscar said I could pick up a few files from his office,” she explains. Her dignified stature doesn’t align with her gentle eyes and sympathetic smile.

She knows.

Humiliation appears again, and I want to cry. I could have gotten through this on my own, but having someone witness the most embarrassing, confusing, hurtful moment of life thus far is out of my control.

“I’m sorry,” I say hastily. I want to get out of here as quickly as possible. “I was just cleaning this. Th-there was a makeup stain, and I didn’t want anyone else to be responsible for cleaning it. I’ll be gone in less than ten minutes. Please don’t let me get in your way. Again, I’m so sorry.”

Elizabeth places an elegantly manicured hand on my shoulder. “Not to worry. I’m the intruder here. This is Oscar’s place, after all. He is welcome to whatever guests he likes.”

My face must fall because her eyes go even softer if that’s possible.

“Looks clean to me,” she says gently.

Thankful for something to do, I glance at the small wet spot the stain stick left behind. There’s no trace of makeup as Elizabeth pointed out.

“Nothing left,” I agree.

“I’ll go to the office and let you be on your way. Have a nice day, dear.” Elizabeth reminds me of one of those television moms. There is no judgment in her, only kindness. That kindness nearly sends me over the edge.

The tightness in my throat makes it unbearable for me to speak, so I nod. Elizabeth pats me on the shoulder and skirts around me. Her red-soled shoes click against the floor. I wait until the sound of her footsteps disappears.

I launch into survival mode, the one I know by heart from living with my father, and race upstairs. I shut off my feelings as I make the bed. I don’t think about the repercussions of my actions while I latch on my shoes. I don’t contemplate ways to avoid Oscar at Mentoring Chicago when I request a taxi from the ride application on the phone. A wall blocks me from the dizzying amount of distress building within me during the short ride to my apartment.

It’s not until I find an empty apartment that I let my emotions swallow me. Trembles wrack my body. An invisible fist squeezes my stomach.

What have I done?

“You’re acting weird.”

I pause mid-Bundt cake flip. “What are you talking about?”

Violet studies me with a critical eye. Warily, I continue gently prying the Bundt from its pan onto a cake stand. It’s almost five in the evening. Violet and I are hosting an award show watch party at our place.

“Leave her be.” Violet’s friend Stella shoots my sister a pseudo glare.

“She’s my sister, and if I say she’s acting weird, it’s my business to find out why.” Violet sticks her tongue out at Stella.

“Very mature,” Stella jokes.

“It’s nothing.” I hurry to defuse the situation before Violet asks more questions. “I’m trying to think of ways to connect with my students at Mentoring Chicago.” This is only a partial lie. I am worrying about the class on Wednesday—because of the students but also because I wonder how I will avoid Oscar.

“See? Quit mothering her and help me with these trays.” Stella and I are the official cooks in Violet’s life. I manage the desserts, and Stella controls all things Italian cuisine. Her family owns and runs a staple in Little Italy where she mastered home cooking.

“Pot meet kettle,” Iris teases.

“That’s right. I’m the mother hen of this group. Don’t get our roles twisted,” Stella jokes back.

I laugh at their banter, enjoying the momentary lapse from my complicated whirl of emotions. Self-loathing reigns supreme. A healthy dose of disgust is there, too, directed at both Oscar and myself. Fault: I put myself in a vulnerable position that I didn’t think through. Fault: Oscar disappeared into thin air. Talk about inconsiderate. Still, he’s not to blame for the situation itself. My stomach churns at the thought of the note. In my haste to leave Oscar’s house, I’m unsure where it fell.

“Sister, sister, will you grab the napkins?”

I jump to attention at Violet’s request, grabbing the napkins and the cake stand.

“Let me help you with that.” Felix, Violet’s closest friend, relieves me of the cake stand. He inhales deeply, taking in the scent of my chocolate-banana cake. “You have a gift, girl.”

“Happy to oblige.”

“Sit here,” he says, angling his head toward the corner of the couch.

Dex, Felix’s boyfriend, sits at the other end of the sofa. He sips a beer. “What are we watching again?”

Violet sighs with mock exasperation. “Only the most important award show for television royalty.”

“Right, right,” Dex murmurs not bothering to hide his disinterest. He shoots me a private smile along the back of the couch. Of this little group, he and I are the only ones not interested in the Hollywood glamor and award season. Stella, Felix, and Violet can’t get enough of the fashion, the drama, and the speeches. But I like being a part of the group. Apparently, Dex does too because, for the most part, he’s here without complaint.

“Shut up and eat. You love Stella and Iris’ cooking.” Felix plucks a piece of prosciutto wrapped melon and pops it into his boyfriend’s mouth.

Dex chews then swallows the appetizer and grins. “True enough. And I have Iris here to keep me sane. Switch seats with me, babe. I want to talk to someone else who has no idea what’s going on when you talk Dior and diamonds.”

Felix shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“Oh, my gosh!” All eyes turn to Violet, who stares at the television in surprise. “That’s Oscar. Was
The American Chef
nominated for best reality show?” She doesn’t wait for a response, increasing the volume.

“Will we see you at the judge’s table on the next season of
The American Chef
?” A red carpet host thrusts a microphone at Oscar to answer her question. I stare at the screen in shock.
This
is what he meant when he said he had to go to L.A.?

Darn it! Why does he have to look so good? Clad in a classic midnight black tuxedo, he could have stepped off the set of one of the black and white movies I love to watch. His thick wavy hair is pushed off his forehead, chiseled cheeks cleanly shaven. There’s some comfort in knowing Oscar actually is in L.A., that he didn’t lie in his insensitive note. Point one for Oscar. I fight back the building sardonic smile. Lost in my thoughts, I’ve missed most of the interview, but one question nabs my attention. I can’t help but be riveted by the scene on the screen.

“Oscar Alexander, you have a lot of fans all over the country. We asked them to Tweet us questions, and the Internet has spoken with one predominate question: are you single?”

Oscar chuckles—the sound sending a shiver through me—and pushes his hands into his pockets. “No special ladies in my life. I’m the perpetual bachelor.”

There it is. In case I had any questions, Oscar just told me exactly where I stand. Bleakness rolls over me. I am forgettable, so inconsequential that Oscar doesn’t flinch when he answers the question. Now, I know what it’s like to be crushed, like he slammed my heart with a freaking meat tenderizer.

“Ah, looking to be the next George Clooney, are you?” the interviewer jokes. “Even he got married.”

Oscar shrugs, unaffected. “Not happening anytime soon, June.”

Hurt piles on top of hurt. Not that I expected anything as far-fetched as Oscar marrying me, but his obvious disdain for relationships makes me feel even more duped. Forgetting the room around me, I slump into the couch cushion in distress. He couldn’t have brushed me off more than if he had literally taken a broom and swept me out of his house. This is on national television; his message couldn’t be more clear.

“When will he get rid of the playboy shtick?” my sister gripes. “It’s obviously a way to hide insecurities and loneliness. The man works himself into the ground because he’s too afraid to be in a committed relationship.” Violet sighs.

“I don’t disagree with you, but it’s his choice,” Felix says. A television star appears on the screen with her much younger songwriter boyfriend and the attention of the room shifts. Except for me. I push to my feet and wander into the kitchen.

“Anyone need a drink?” I ask weakly, trying to disguise my behavior. No one responds; they’re too busy gossiping about whatever’s happening on the red carpet.

I pour myself a large glass of ice water and gulp it down hoping to cool the shameful burn coursing through my body.

“Been there before.” My shoulders jump in surprise at the voice behind me. Dex stands there with a sympathetic expression.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Glancing over his shoulder, I try to see if our friends notice our absence.

“They’re too busy with accessories to look over here. How my big, burly fireman can be a closet fashion whore is beyond me,” Dex says eliciting a tiny smile from me. “Look, I don’t want to butt into your business, but when he gave that bullshit line about not dating anyone, it looked like he sent a dagger straight through your heart. I’m not going to ask questions, but you should know you aren’t alone in getting hurt by a dude. If you want to talk to someone, I’m here.”

A solution to one of my problems pops into my mind. “Do you have plans on Wednesday night?”

“None that I’m aware of. Felix has an overnight at the station. What are we doing?”

A genuine smile curls my lips upward because this may rescue me from one potentially awkward interaction. “Would you like to have dinner with me? I’ll be at the Grover School doing Mentoring Chicago until half past six. If it’s not too much trouble, maybe you could swing by there and pick me up? I’ll have my car, but . . . Well, it would be helpful if you came to the classroom.”

Dex’s eyes light with understanding. “Sounds good. Do I have your number?” He fishes his phone out from his pocket, and we exchange digits.

“Do I have a reason to be jealous of you two? Come join us,” Felix calls to us.

“Maybe a little jealous.” Dex leans down to kiss Felix on the crown of his head when he makes his way back to the couch. “Iris accepted my request for a date, of the platonic sort.”

“Fun!” Violet says, always the beacon of unconditional support.

“You’re the best, sister, sister,” I tell her impulsively.

Violet shoots Stella a triumphant look. “See? She forgives me for being nosy.”

“Fair enough. Iris, you aren’t eating. Take some food.” Violet and I share a look, and we burst into laughter. If nothing else, I have my friends and my sister.

Oscar

The weekender bag hits my bedroom floor with a depressed thud. I toss the garment bag across my bed with a similar disregard. I am exhausted. Taking the six a.m. flight to L.A. and then the red-eye back in one day is not my idea of relaxing. To no one’s surprise,
The American Chef
didn’t win best reality show. It was a long shot, and the only reason I hauled my ass across the country was for a compromise with Clint. He agreed to stop nagging me about the second season of the show if I would attend the award ceremony. Publicity and all that shit.

The thing about red-eye flights from the West Coast to Chicago the ride is only four hours. Not nearly enough time for solid rest. I am bleary-eyed and need to sleep. I toe off my shoes, remove my clothes, and climb into bed where the scent of sugar and vanilla instantly wraps around me.

Christ.

I tried damn hard to push Iris from my mind while I was gone. I got what I wanted. I laid my cards on the table, and she knew where I stood. Still, I feel like the world’s biggest prick for leaving her the way I did. And that note . . . I really am an asshole. She deserves much better than I can ever give her. I try not to think of how eager she was beneath me, how sweet she smelled, or how soft her flawless skin felt between my fingertips. When I fall asleep, I’m still thinking of her blond hair spread across my sheets.

The last coherent thought I have before drifting into unconsciousness is that I’m a moron for starting something with a woman who deserves so much more than a tussle between my sheets.

Midmorning, I wake to a vibrating noise. With a groan, I shove the blankets away and grab my discarded jeans to find my cell phone.
Clint calling.
The bastard knows I was traveling all night.

“Is this urgent?”

“Nice work yesterday, partner.”

“I said I’ll be in the office by one. Unless this is a life or death matter, I’m hanging up, Clint.”

“Jesus, what crawled up your–”

Dial tone meets whatever else he says. I toss the phone on my bed and head to the bathroom to make myself human with a shower and brushing my teeth. Ten minutes later, I’m poaching eggs when I hear the door leading to the house from the garage open and shut. Heels click along the floors. Only one person has the keys to my place, and I’m smiling when her carefully styled hair appears.

“What brings you here?” I ask my mother. My smile quickly turns flat when I see her frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Apparently my mothering skills,” she says ominously. She stands on the opposite side of the island from the stove, places a piece of paper on the countertop, and slides it over to me with the tip of her manicured nail. She looks like she can barely stomach whatever she’s touching.

I turn the stove off and use a slotted spoon to remove the eggs from their pot. I stay calm because no one appears to be sick or dying. After I season the eggs and ignore my mom’s huffs of annoyance, my gaze flicks to the piece of paper.

Oh, shit.

In an effort to shift her attention away from whatever torrid scenario she’s painted in her mind, I keep my expression impassive. “How is it that despite my personal and professional successes, my mother continues to insist she has the power to control my life?”