Pinpoint (Point #4) (14 page)

Never one to back done from my stoicism, my mother waves a hand. “Don’t try to dissuade me, Oscar Alexander. Your professional achievements are outstanding, I will give you that, but personally, there’s much work to be done.”

“Mom.” I soften my tone. “I love you. There’s not a day I wake up and am not thankful that you and Dad raised me. So when I say this, know that it is with the utmost respect for a woman who I love and respect unconditionally. This”—I gesture to the piece of paper—“is not a topic open for discussion.”

Elizabeth Alexander never shows fear or intimidation. Hell, I learned confidence from her and my father, Jacob. “Some things are impossible to ignore, Oscar. What did I find on Sunday when I came by for the Mariposa paperwork? A well-mannered woman desperately cleaning a makeup stain off your pillowcase. And where was my son? Nowhere to be found. I could have overlooked it because you’re absolutely right, your relations with women are none of my business. And then I found this note. Oscar Alexander, your father and I raised you better than that.”

I clench my jaw so tight it pops. She’s right. Leaving that note was an amateur move, and I didn’t plan to treat Iris coldly. When I brought her to my house, I was going to tell her I had business in L.A., but then she looked at me with those fathomless fairy tale eyes, darkened with lust, and I lost all sense. She intoxicated me, and I felt helpless to battle against her allure. I stood above her sleeping form, watching each exhalation of breath, and contemplated saying ‘fuck it’ to my responsibilities and climbing back into bed with her. That lack of control solidified it for me—I needed to leave this woman. At that moment, I decided a clean break would be best for both of us.

Except you’ll have to see her every Wednesday for the next year, you idiot.

Admittedly, it wasn’t my best-thought-out move. On top of this, I have my mother lecturing me on my post-sex etiquette. How did I fuck up this badly?

Furious with myself for letting this situation spiral out of control, I grit the words. “You’re right. It was an impolite act.”

Her eyebrows shoot to her forehead. Most women immersed in Chicago’s socialite circles are no stranger to Botox. Elizabeth Alexander prefers authenticity above all else. Geez, she’s right. She taught me better than to hide and avoid confrontation. Not that Iris would have fought me. Iris is all sweetness, and apparently, I’m all sour. I bite back another swear word.

“Okay.” I hold up a hand to keep her from interrupting. “Leaving Iris alone like that was an epic mistake. There’s no one to blame but myself. She—I had to go early in the morning, and it didn’t come up the night before.” The excuse sounds lame even to my own ears.

All of a sudden, a slow smile splits Mom’s cheeks. Her eyes light with a mischievous gleam. “I see.”

“Mom, I have to be at Mariquita in an hour. Would you like to join me for eggs?”

The way she chuckles makes a fissure of uncertainty part in the back of my mind. “No, darling, I’m on my way to lunch with your godmother. When can we have a family dinner? It’s been too long since we got together without a business meeting attached.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what she finds funny, but if I do that, it will likely lead to more discussion about Iris, and I’m not prepared for more analysis. “Let me look at my calendar. I’ll call you.”

“Do that. Please. I miss you.”

There’s one place in my hardened heart that remains malleable. Loving my parents, letting them in, was never the problem. I just remain wary and guarded of everyone else. “Love you, Mom.” I walk around the island and hug her tightly. She pats my cheek in the way only a mother can do to her child without seeming patronizing.

“Apologize to that charming young woman.”

Instead of a verbal acknowledgment, I make a non-committal noise. Something has to be done with Iris, but I’m not sure it’s necessarily an apology. Perhaps an explanation.

Mom’s moss-colored eyes narrow, then relax. “That’s good,” she murmurs to herself. Again, I don’t bother to dig deeper. When I hear the garage door close, I turn my attention to my now cold eggs. The first bite tastes like sawdust. I’m disgusted with myself.

Iris

“Tomorrow’s an early start. Don’t stay out too late tonight.”

My shoulders clench infinitesimally at Violet’s instruction. The thing about working for your sister is often the line between boss, sister, and in our case, ill-advised mother blurs.

“Don’t worry about me. I know the schedule.” No trace of annoyance is in my words, only in my mind. I haven’t been late or missed an event yet. In fact, Violet often tells me that she couldn’t run Expertly Planned without me. Yet she’s started reminding me of responsibilities as if I’ve been missing assignments. It hurts my feelings. Does she think I’m irresponsible? Have I been slacking? Yes, I’ve been daydreaming about the inevitably awkward run-in I’m about to have with Oscar at Mentoring Chicago, but I haven’t missed one email.

Tossing my purse over my shoulder, I wave good-bye to my sister’s wishes of good luck and hurry out to the car. Violet helped me pack the trunk with aprons, ingredients, and recipes cards. This time, the drive to Grover School is anxiety ridden for a whole different reason than last week. I feel queasy and dazed. First, there are the new tactics to win over my students. Then, there’s Oscar.

Shoot, shoot, shoot! Nerves chase down my shoulders relentlessly.

The worst part of this entire situation is I haven’t talked about it with anyone. I don’t want Violet to be disappointed in me. In fact, she’ll probably be doubly upset with me. First, I didn’t tell her about the date before it happened and then, I slept with Oscar the first time we ever went out. At a time when I want her advice more than anything, my pride and unwillingness to fail my kindhearted sister keep me from saying anything to her. She’s given me the chance to hit the reset button on my life, and what did I do with the opportunity? Let her, and myself, down.

Bruce, or anyone else for that matter, is not around to offer assistance with bringing my materials into the classroom tonight. I move swiftly through the hallways, taking two trips with all my attention focused on the task at hand. I don’t dare look at the classroom across the hallway from mine to see if there are signs of Oscar or even the lights illuminated. Again, I flick on music and set up the room for my ten teenagers. I pretend as if I don’t care if Oscar is at Grover High School and that I am unaffected by our hookup and his subsequent rejection.

Yeah. Right.

“Um, Iris?”

I plaster a smile on and turn to face the voice. “Hi, Michael. What’s up?”

The teenager looks at me hesitantly. “Well, um, I was wondering if I could talk to you before everyone else gets here.”

“Of course.” A trickle of hope flows through me.

“Last week, I wanted to tell you, but the class went by really fast and then I had to go home and babysit.”

Hearing him say this releases more hopefulness. I remember how I felt shunned when the students ran out of the room, and I realize that I was too focused on myself in that assumption. These may be teenagers, but they have things to do too, like homework and babysitting their siblings.

“No worries. I’m here, so we can talk now.”

“The thing is I’ve been baking since I was a kid and I really love it. And, uh, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I was wondering if I could show you some of the recipes I’ve made.” The words come out in a rush as if his interest in the kitchen embarrasses him. “Well, I didn’t really make them. I just modified some I got from books.”

“Oh, Michael, it would be my pleasure to review what you’ve been working on. Did you bring anything to show me today?” I look at the wall clock. “Your classmates will be here in a few minutes, but if you’d like to talk after the session, that works.”

“I gotta babysit my sister and my cousin,” he says with no lack of forlorn.

“Then next week. Would you like to come to the classroom early? We can chat say thirty minutes before we get started. Or longer, if you’d like.”

Michael’s eyes light. “Cool. Thanks, Iris. What are we making tonight again? I forgot.”

“Cupcakes, and you’ll learn a few different icing techniques.”

Michael watches me pile the aprons on the first kitchen’s center island. “Need any help?”

Warmth fills my chest. What a sweet young man. “That would be great. Grab the recipe cards from that tan bag, split them in half, and put a stack in each kitchen, please.”

“When did you start baking?” Michael asks while doing his task.

“Like you, ever since I was a kid. Kept me busy and I am an introvert who prefers to be in a kitchen than out in the crowds.” I don’t know what inspires me to open up to Michael, but I remember what Oscar told me. If I want the students to respect and open up to me, I need to offer them the same. “Plus, my dad is a pastor. Churches always have a need for baked goods. It was a good excuse as any to experiment.”

“I like seeing people eat what I make,” Michael says. “That’s probably my favorite part—well, and licking the bowl.” He grins at me with childlike idealism, and it’s all I can do not to hug him (that’s against the Mentoring Chicago rules, anyway). His wonder reminds me what it was like to fall in love with baking.

“Yo, Iris!” London leads the other teenagers through the classroom smacking on gum.

Showtime. As discreetly as possible, I inhale and exhale a fortifying breath. I’m ready for this.

“Hello, everyone. Please sit down for a minute. I have a few things to go over and then we’ll start with cupcakes and frosting.” There’s no dispute, thankfully, and the students file to their desks. I turn off my portable speakers and turn to face them with my most stern expression. “Last week, I don’t think we got off to the best start.” Even though no one tries to interrupt, I still lift my hand as if to ward them off. It’s an instinctual reaction. “This was completely my fault because I was pretty nervous. In case you couldn’t tell, this was my first time teaching baking at Mentoring Chicago. Ultimately, this is your class. First things first, we’re going to have a DJ. I could tell you didn’t love my music, so I want to hear what you like. London, you’re up. No explicit lyrics. That’s my one rule. No cursing in this room and no cursing with the tunes. Got it?”

London hops to her feet, making a beeline for my cell phone. “I can pick anything?” she asks, showing signs of interest. Small victory. Some tightness in my shoulders slackens.

“Within limits.” The words are still stern but friendly. The students are looking at me differently, with no mistrust and almost all intrigue. The thump of bass fills the classroom. “A little quieter, London.”

Then the darndest thing happens.

“Sure, Iris.” The volume decreases, and I fight back the urge to beam. For the first time in the past three days, Oscar is a distant memory.

Two hours later, the students are packing up their things. “See you next week, Iris,” Amber says.

“Bye,” I echo several other of the teenagers while they pile out of the classroom, cupcakes in hand. I slump against one kitchen counter in relief. Thank goodness, that went much better than last week. Not only did they listen, but the teenagers also engaged with me. I’m floating off the ground, thrilled with the outcome until . . .

“Iris.” The curve in my spine goes straight.

Oscar fills the doorway of my classroom, one shoulder leaning around the doorjamb. “Do you have a minute?”

I want to say no. Badly. I have no reason to be unkind to him, but my body screams otherwise.
Be rude. Run away. He had his chance.
Fear replaces the earlier pleasantness from spending time with the kids. I’m scared of what he could say, scared at the confrontation. I have no idea what to do.

“Iris, you ready?” My breath gets caught in my throat.
Dex.
I nearly forgot he and I had plans for dinner.

Oscar’s eyes darken with a glint of annoyance. He whirls around to find my friend. Almost immediately, his tense shoulders relax. “Dex. Good to see you.”

Oh. I didn’t realize they knew each other.

I watch in surprise at Dex’s gall as he pats Oscar on the chest patronizingly and walks around him. “Hey, Oscar. How’s it going?” Dex gives away nothing, but still, Oscar looks on edge.

“Not bad. You two going out?” As if he knows he appears uptight, Oscar puts his hands in his pocket. It reminds me of the casual stance he had when the red carpet reporter interviewed him. Not a care in the world.

A slow fury starts to build. I
don’t
have to talk to him.

“Actually, we have dinner plans with friends, and we need to hit the road soon if we don’t want to be late,” Dex says easily. I realize then I haven’t spoken a word; I’ve simply stood in the center of the kitchen watching the exchange silently.

“H-hey, Dex.” I clear my tight throat, but there’s no hiding the edge in my tone. “Need to do a tiny bit of cleanup here and then I’m ready. Oscar, I’ll have to see you another time.”

Oscar stares at me as if I physically stung him with my words. An instant wave of guilt washes over me.
You have to protect yourself,
I remind myself harshly
.