****
I’d just about slept off all that lonely when it was time to go to work, throw myself back into a project that was slowly killing me, and prepare for another Coffee Wednesday with my now-taken friend. I wasn’t in the mood for any of it.
Marty was already in my office when I got there. He’d taken it upon himself to lounge comfortably in my wing chair, one fat ankle propped on the opposite fat knee. There weren’t any papers or anything in his lap, so I deduced this was either a check-in call or a social call. I considered just turning around and walking out, but what was there to walk out to? This job was my life, for better or for worse. Marty, to clarify, was pretty much the ‘worse.’
“Monroe, good morning,” he smiled, his beady eyes twinkling. “How is everything?”
“Fine, Marty. Nice to see you.” I nodded to him, trying to go about my usual morning routine as normally as possible. I hung my jacket on the hook on the back of my door, placed my purse under my desk, and sat down. My message light was blinking, my email inbox was full, and a huge stack of layout suggestions needed to get down to the printer in, oh, twenty minutes. But all of that had to wait so I could kiss Marty’s ass a little more.
“You, too. I wanted to check in on your progress. We’re presenting to the panel next week, so it’s especially important that everything be prepared as soon as possible.”
“Well, we’re just about ready to finalize the test copy of the first issue. I think you’ll be really pleased with the design and the youthful feel we’ve accomplished. It’s fun and fresh, but also informative. I think it’s exactly what we’re looking for to reach this key demographic,” I rattled off all the right words, almost without thinking about them. At the end of the day, isn’t it always the same garbage over and over again?
God, what’s gotten into me? If Marty hadn’t been sitting across from me, hanging on my every word, I would’ve slapped myself across the face. Wake up, Tessa.
“That’s great to hear,” he looked genuinely pleased. “The board presentation is next Thursday, so I’m hoping that maybe we can get together Wednesday and go over everything together. Does that work for you?”
I pulled out my planner and scanned the open time slots for next Wednesday. “Sure, I’m free any time after one.”
“Great, how about seven?”
“Seven?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise.
“For dinner.”
“A
business
dinner?” Clarification, I’d learned, was important around Marty.
“Yes, right. Business dinner,” he took my hostile tone in stride. “To discuss this
business
matter.”
Oh God, oh God. This couldn’t possibly go well for me, no matter what I did. “Yes, that sounds good.” I mustered a tight-lipped smile. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Marty. I really have to get back to—”
“Yes, of course.” He stood up and took a step toward me, but caught himself. There was a great big desk in between us. He made an awkward half-bow, half-curtsy movement around all his belly fat and then turned for the door. Once he was out of sight, I breathed for the first time in minutes.
I had too many errands to run and messages to return to be bothered with this. I’d have to deal with it in a week’s time. For now, there were too many layout designs to approve.
****
As though I hadn’t filled my awkward quotient for one day, my best friend was acting weird at Coffee Wednesday. I wanted to tell him about all the doubt I’d been experiencing as of late, but I just couldn’t find the right words to express my feelings. How could I define something I’d never felt before? So instead, I tried to stay quiet and let him do all the talking. It only took him about seven or eight minutes to catch on.
“What’s wrong?”
“Huh?” The quick break in a steady stream of words shook me from my daytime reverie. I straightened up, lifting my chin from my palm, and met his eyes for the first time since we sat down together. “What?”
“Where are you right now?”
“What do you mean?” I could feel my cheeks redden. It was bad enough that I’d tuned out his conversation, worse still that I’d gotten caught. “I’m sitting in Tosca’s, talking to you.”
“Sure, physically that’s where you are. But my Tessie is miles away.”
I sighed, considering an admittance of defeat. “It’s nothing,” I said instead. “I just have a lot going on. I guess it’s tough to concentrate.”
“Sorry to bore you.” His voice was flat, almost hurt.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
I slid back in my chair, thinking of all the places I’d rather be than here, having this conversation. “I just meant that I’m tired and my brain is overworked and I’ve got no room left for normal things.”
“For your friends?” He tilted his head, studying me.
“Of course not.”
“But you weren’t listening to me just now.”
“Yes, I was.” I poured more milk into my coffee, watching the white swirls cut through the blackness and spread outwards.
“What did I say?”
“You were talking about Savannah.” Usually Kendra was the one doing the cross-examining. “Why are you being like this?”
“Because I’m trying to ask for your advice about this and you haven’t heard a word I’ve said. Are you thinking about work again?” His gaze narrowed and I sunk back into my chair, away from him. “I know you’re under a lot of pressure right now, but I’m worried about you, Tessie. Ever since
that day
.”
“What day?” A fleeting moment of sadness cut across his features. Once he’d regained control, his expression was unreadable. “I’m not really sure what’s going on right now.”
“Apparently.” He pushed back his chair, dropped a five dollar bill on the table, and kissed my cheek. Stunned, I let him walk away, leaving me with a half-filled pot of coffee and a very confused Mr. Antonio.
But no one was as confused as I was.
CHAPTER TEN
Dinner at my parents’ house was never a pleasant occasion. Since there was no way to celebrate my sister Lucy’s twenty-fifth birthday without them, I bucked up and went. I was careful, as always, that my hair was neat, my makeup impeccable, and my clothes neatly ironed. I picked out something semi-casual that flattered my good points and hid my not-so-good ones. If I absolutely had to see my mother, the least I could do was disarm her big grenades. Yet even with less ammunition, she’d still find a way to fire at me. She always did.
“Tessa!” she shrieked at the door. “Where have you been?”
“Mom?” I faltered. I could never get used to her abrasiveness. “Hello to you too.”
“You’re late.”
“I’m always late.” I hugged and kissed her. Struggling to hold onto Lucy’s birthday gift, I squeezed past Mom into the hallway. Sometimes the best thing to do was avoid her, not take the bait. “Happy Birthday, Luce!”
My sister was standing in the living room, a drink in one hand and a frown on her face. “I said no gifts, T-bag.” I shoved the box into her arms anyway and instructed her to open it. She pulled of the pink bow and stuck it on top of the dog’s head. My mother’s teacup Chihuahua Geronimo didn’t seem too displeased as he circled Lucy’s feet and barked ferociously at the crinkling paper.
“Gerry, hush!” my mother tried, in vain, to calm the little beast. I honestly can’t understand how one dog could bark as much as Geronimo, how my father put up with it, and what on earth my mother saw in the squidgy little rat-beast. In my opinion, dogs had all the bad qualities of small children with only one good one as consolation: they were cute. And Geronimo was lacking any and all cute genes. My mother scooped her dog off the floor, cradling him against her cheek and saying, “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” over and over again. It was more affection than she’d shown my sister or me since birth.
Lucy tore the last of the wrapping paper from her gift and turned it over. “A blender?”
“To replace the one I broke last summer.” That was an interesting day of margaritas and mayhem, one easy to imagine given my history with kitchens. “So there, it’s not really a gift.”
My mother shook her head at me. It was a well-known head shake, the one that said
How disappointing that my daughter explodes kitchens
, as if she’d ever cooked a meal in her life
.
Luckily for us, my dad was a pretty good cook so we didn’t starve as kids. It seemed I’d gotten my mother’s genes in that area since many nights spent with Emeril, Barefoot Contessa, and sometimes Rachel Ray—but only when I’m drunk—did absolutely nothing to improve my culinary skills. I still couldn’t pick up a spatula without injuring myself.
My mother ushered Geronimo out the back door to pee on his special patch of grass, and Lucy dodged out the front door under the pretense of putting the blender in her car. I knew she was sneaking a cigarette and I half wanted to join her. Instead, I found my dad in the kitchen, happily manning a pot of tomato sauce on the stove. He stirred gently, inhaling the spices that opened up to his skilled touch. The whole house was filled with the delectable fragrance, but I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I was actually faced with the source of the smell. At least dinner would make the conversation—and the unpleasant company—more tolerable.
“Hey Daddy,” I greeted him with a hug and a kiss, and he smiled at me.
“You look beautiful, Tessa. Are you ready to eat?”
“Starved!”
“It’s just about done.” He tapped the spoon on the side of the big stainless steel pot and turned to me, concern in his eyes. “How
are
you?”
“Good. I’m fine,” I mustered my grin, trying to look natural.
“What’s bothering you?” It was no use against my father, who often regarded me with clarity far superior to even Christian’s. I looked right into his eyes, willing him to leave me be for the night, but he seemed unmoved. I’d been told all my life how much I looked like my father, but our stubbornness was as identical as our eyes.
“I don’t really want to talk about it now.”
“Nonsense,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “I’m your father, I’m here to help.”
“But Mom—”
“Forget your mother. She loves you girls, she’s just not good at expressing it,” he squeezed me to him. This was a speech I memorized by about age nine. “So tell me what’s going on. Is this about a boy?”
Bless my father, he still considered me young enough to date ‘boys.’ I didn’t want to break the news to him that I was knocking on thirty’s door, pretty hard too. So I just shook my head. His face changed a little as he took in my pained expression.
“Well, let’s eat then.”
When my mother returned, a new issue occupied her mind. “No friends tonight?”
As my best friends, and favorites of both my parents, Kendra and Christian were the blessed beneficiaries of an “open-door” policy. If they wanted to come to dinner, at any time, they were always welcome. Helping me to cultivate strong friendships in my youth was one good thing my parents had done for me. As critical as my mother was, and as soft-spoken as my father often behaved, they believed in real love, healthy friendships, and good familial relations. Growing up, dinners together were a mandatory practice every night, no matter who had dance rehearsal or soccer practice or a budget meeting. More often than not, my friends would also be seated at their places at the table.
“Christian had a photo shoot, Kendra’s not feeling well,” I answered shortly. Was it not enough for her that I was here? I checked myself, remembering how important it had once been to have my mother approve of
anything
I did, and let it go.
Christian was supposed to come with me, but after our abruptly ended Coffee Wednesday, I texted him that dinner was canceled. I was such a gigantic liar, on both sides of the issue, the guilt was already consuming me. In reality, I just couldn’t handle everything from all points of my life in one room. I mean, the only one missing would’ve been Marty.
“Oh, well that’s too bad.” Satisfied, she set about gathering plates and serving the spaghetti. Lucy brought out the salad, I poured the wine, and my dad expertly drizzled sauce on each pasta plate in a dance perfected throughout the years.
We sat down together in our usual spots, my father and mother on opposite ends of the oblong table, my sister and I across from one another on the sides. My mother had set out the fancy dishes, the candles, and a gorgeous fresh bouquet of daisies, a springtime favorite at my house. As children, my sister and I often received daisies from my father for no reason at all. He said his girls were as beautiful as flowers, and he wanted to bring home the prettiest bouquet he could find to be sure we still were. In my apartment now, I displayed a fine collection of gorgeous garden shots throughout my home, all photographed by one Christian Douglas. He said it was his favorite flower to photograph because of the way the petals were distinctly separate but connected, the way they laid side by side but interlaced over and under. Daisies, he said, reminded him of us.