Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (61 page)

“That’s
what I’ve always heard,” I write and laugh as I continue, “but I have a
sneaking suspicion the people telling us that are the ones who are actually
benefitting from the work we do.”

“Are
you sure you don’t want to talk about work?” he writes. “It seems like that’s
what’s really on your mind right now.”

“I’m
sure. I’m sorry. I’m just trying, although failing, to think of something else
to talk about. Work is really the only thing I do anymore.”

“No
sorries
,” he writes. “You said ‘anymore’ what did you
do before you worked all the time?”

It
takes a minute for me to recall, but my mind finally settles on a vague, hazy
memory, “I used to paint. I was never really that good at it, but I really enjoyed
doing it all the same.”

“Why
don’t you paint now?” he writes.

I’m
sitting on my couch, and I look out the window at the night. There are a lot of
things I’ve had to push to the side in order to make it work at the store.

This
is what it’s like to own a business and not be super rich.

I
type, “Sometimes, to fulfill one dream, you have to give up on others.”

It’s
the most depressing thing I could think to write, but it’s also the most
accurate.

People
don’t get ahead by trying to follow all of their dreams at the same time. It’s
like multitasking: Yeah, you can work on multiple things at once, but it takes
longer and nothing gets done nearly as well. It’s all about focus.

The
phone beeps.

“I
understand that you have to refine your plans, but that doesn’t mean you have
to lose who you are and the things you love in the process,” he writes.

Yeah,
I kind of do.

Who
knows what would happen if I
wasn’t
there all day every day? Someone would probably end up breaking in and I’d end
up getting a phone call from the security provider on my way homes from my
cancer-ridden mother’s house.

Wait.

It’s
not that I don’t trust my staff—I wouldn’t have hired them if I didn’t. It’s
just that they have a way of doing things and I have a way of doing things.

While
I’m there, I can oversee them and correct their course, but if I’m not there,
they’ll just do things the way they think they should be done, rather than the
way I
know
they should be done.

My
phone beeps again.

“Still
there?”

I
write back, “Yeah. I guess I just don’t trust that things would get done if I
wasn’t always there to oversee it.”

I
flip on the television, not so much for the entertainment value, more for the
fact that it’s just nice to hear another voice than the one through which my
thoughts come. Mine.

“Bad
staff?” he asks.

“No,”
I write, “they’re great. They helped me build this thing. They just don’t have
the inside experience to deal with everything that could come through the
door.”

The
more I’m watching myself explain this, the less convinced I am that it’s the
right course of action. The problem is that I don’t know how to do it any other
way.

My
phone beeps, and I read, “Why not?”

I
sit there and stare at the phone.

It’s
a simple question that really should have a simple answer, but I’ve got nothing
here.

I
write back, “What do you mean?” just to by myself some more time, but I don’t
think that’s going to work.

My
phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey,
Jessica,” it’s my dad. “I don’t want to worry you, but your mother and I are in
the hospital. She’s fine, but she’s in a lot of pain. I was wondering if you
might be able to come and sit with her a bit tonight.”

“Yeah,”
I tell him. “Of course, Dad, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“All
right,” he says. “They’re going to go ahead and keep her here for a few hours.
I guess they’re just going to go ahead and do the bone scans they had planned
for her next appointment so she’s going to be here for a while. I just don’t
want to have to leave her here all alone.”

“Where
are you going?” I ask.

“I
have to get back to the house. A young couple made a late appointment for a
walkthrough, and if they can’t see it tonight, they’re not going to be able to
see it for at least another month,” he answers.

“A
walkthrough? What are you talking about?” I ask.

The
line is silent for a minute.

“We’re
selling the house, dear,” he says quietly.

“What?”
I ask. “Why?”

“Between
my medical bills and your mother’s medical bills, I just don’t think we’re
going to be able to keep up with the mortgage payments,” he says. “Don’t worry,
though, we’ll be fine.”

“Let
me help you,” I tell him. “I’ve got money saved up from the store. I can pay
your mortgage until you two get back on your feet.”

“We
couldn’t let you do that, Jessica,” he says. “You’ve worked hard for that
money, and we really don’t need a house that big anymore. I think this is going
to be for the best. With my health and your mother’s health, we’re not really
going to be able to take care of all the upkeep on it anyway.”

“Dad,
I can’t just sit by and watch you and Mom lose the house,” I tell him.

“It’s
already done,” he says. “We’ve found a realtor and put it on the market. If
this couple likes it as much in person as they did on the website, I think we
might just get an offer tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

“Don’t
do anything until I’ve had a chance to talk to you about it,” I tell him. “I
have money that I was going to put toward finishing off this remodel, but it’s
almost done anyway. The only reason I was going to have the workers keep going
was for spite—let me help you.”

“We
can’t let you do that—hold on, your mother wants to talk to you,” he says and
hands the phone over.

“Jessica?”

“Hey,
Mom, how are you feeling?” I ask.

“I’ll
be all right. I’m in some pain, but the doctor says that’s normal. If anything,
this is a good thing because his schedule seemed to magically open up when I
came in,” she says. “Now, I don’t know exactly what it is that you’ve been
saying to your father, but based on what I’ve heard from this end of the
conversation, I get the idea that you’re thinking of doing something really
stupid.”

“Mom,
I can’t just—”

“It’s
what has to happen,” she interrupts. “We can’t take your money and we can’t
keep caring for that house as it is. Promise me that you’re not going to blow
your savings trying to keep us in a house that we can’t afford, and that’s too
big for just the two of us anyway.”

“But
Mom, I—”

“Promise
me,” she interrupts again. “One of the only perks to having cancer is that
people start listening to you. Are you really not going to listen to your
mother?”

Now
there’s the guilt trip from hell.

“We’re
not going to let you do it, sweetheart,” she says. “We’ve already found a nice
little apartment in town and it’s really going to be much closer to what we
need, so I want you to promise me that you’re not going to fight us on this.
This is what we want and it’s what we need.”

“What
if I buy it?” I ask. “It has more room than my apartment, and I bet it would
end up being cheaper anyway,
‘
cause
it’s outside the city. Everybody wins.”

“I
don’t know, sweetheart,” she says. “I know rent in the city is horrendous, but
do you really think that you’d be up for taking this place on? It’s a big
responsibility.”

And
that right there, I think, is the root cause of my ambition: to prove to my mom
that not only am I not afraid of responsibility, but that I can handle it
better than she can. Of course, she’s calling me from the hospital, so I think
it’s
best that I leave that part out of my response to her.

“It
won’t be a problem,” I tell her. “Do you have enough to stay there another
month? I can start getting my stuff moved and everything, but I do need to give
my landlord
thirty-days
’ notice before I just up and
leave.”

“Why
don’t we talk about it over dinner tomorrow night?” she asks. “You don’t have
to come down here. At this point, I’m just here for some tests. The doctor gave
me some medication for the pain, and it’s really starting to kick in, so I
should probably let you go.”

“I’m
not going to make you go through all that by yourself,” I tell her.

“Hold
on a minute,” she says.

I
sit and wait.

My
mother, when she’s not sick, can be a bit of a handful. Okay, she’s still a
handful.

When
I was growing up, my dad was always the one telling me I could do anything I
want to do. Mom always told me that it would be better for me to manage my
expectations.

Their
house isn’t huge, but it does have more room than mine. Plus, if I can talk
them into selling it to me, I might be able to talk them into staying there.

Not
too many people would be so persistent with the idea of moving back in with
their parents. In most cases, I wouldn’t be either, but this is a unique
situation.

“Are
you still there?” my mother’s voice comes back.

“I’m
here,” I tell her.

“Your
father’s going to stay with me,” she says. “He’s calling the potential buyers
right now and he and I are going to discuss the possibility of having you move
in there.”

“Sounds
great, Mom,” I tell her. “Let’s get together soon and we can go over the
details.”

“All
right, sweetheart,” she says. “You have a good night, now.”

“You
too, Mom,” I respond. “Love you.”

“Love
you too, dear.”

I
hang up and a moment later, I realize what just happened.

My
mom and dad would never go for just letting me buy their house outright. That
comes from the same stupid pride that made my dad refuse my offer to help them
with their mortgage for a while.

There’s
one major trait that I got from my mom, and that is the profound ability to get
people to come around to my way of thinking. It doesn’t always work at first,
but if worse comes to worse, we both have unmatched skill in convincing others
not only to go along with what we want, but that it was the other person’s idea
in the first place.

Mom’s
been telling me for years that I should save my money and just move home. I’ve
always told her that I wanted to make it on my own, and if I couldn’t even
afford an apartment, then I had bigger problems than just money.

She
just convinced me to move back home. Not only that, she convinced me to take
over their mortgage, all while I was thinking that I was the one coming up with
the heroic solution.

I
try to tell myself that I’m digging into this too deep, that they’re just in a
bad position and that pride can only go so far anymore, but this is exactly
something my mom would do. It’s not even out of character that she’d use the
looming threat of her cancer to add weight to the plan.

I
don’t know if she really believes that I’m incapable of making it on my own, or
if that line of tripe is just her way of trying to get me to visit more, be
around them more.

Of
course, she’s never really been the sentimental type. We get along really well
when we don’t talk about anything even remotely personal, but she’s always
chided me on every decision I’ve ever made, always telling me that “mother
knows best” and various similar versions of the thought.

Regardless
of anything, it’s hard to fight the realization: my mom just played me.

Chapter Eight

That Moment When It All
Becomes Clear

Eric

My
crew and I show up for work, but the door is locked.

“You
know…” José starts, but I interrupt with a quick shake of my head.

“You’ve
really got to learn some patience, José,” I tell him. “Breaking in here is the
reason why we’re working pro bono. Do you really want to know what’s going to
happen if you do it again?”

‘Good
morning gentleman.’

We
turn around to find Jessica standing behind us in a dress that hugs her hips.

Damn
she is looking fine.

“There’s
been a little change of plans,” she says.

“What’s
that?” I ask.

“Well,
it occurs to me that I’m not really going to be able to justify having you all
continue to work when it’s so obviously driven customers out of the store. You
said that you were close to being finished yesterday, correct?”

“Yeah,”
I answer. “What you’re saying is—”

“What
I’m saying is that I’m going to need you to finish up what you’ve got going now
and then I’m going to have to let you go. How long do you think that’s going to
take?”