19. Lacey
CHAPTER 19
LACEY
It’s been a week since Fingers sent a demand letter to Sergio Lantana, and I’ve been sick with worry every minute. I refresh my emails every ten minutes, more often if I have my phone in my hand.
My mother’s been taking all her unused vacation time to stay home with me. I keep telling her not to and that I’m fine, but I think she wants to distract me, make sure I’m not too down.
And I have been down. Lost in my own thoughts. The only moment’s break I have from the worry about my job is when I’m with Eagle. He’s been working a new construction job all week and hasn’t been in the best of moods about it. All I know is when we’re together, everything else seems to disappear.
But I can’t hide from real life forever, distracting myself with amazing sex with Eagle and binge-watching shows with my mom.
When I finally get an email from Fingers telling me the Lantana wants to mediate, it felt like the weight of the world lifts off my shoulders.
“Come on,” Mom says after I tell her what Fingers set up. “Let’s get mani-pedis to celebrate.”
I offer to drive since Mom insists on paying, and I try not to worry too much about my bank balance.
The Lantana agreed to keep paying me my regular salary even though I’m not working until we mediate a resolution. I used up all my accrued vacation days, and today is the official first day I’m being paid for a job I’m not doing.
Mom turning up the radio as we drive blasts the worries from my brain. Mom sings along very, very badly with Bruce Springsteen, and I can’t help myself. I have to chime in. Even when the world is going to hell, I can still sing with my mama.
The salon is nearly empty when we go in, so we have the massage chairs to ourselves. While our feet soak in piping-hot bubble baths, I rest my head back and close my eyes.
“Do you ever think about your father?” Mom’s question shocks me. Not just because she’s talking about Dad in public, but because she’s talking about him, period.
I whip my head up from the soft cushioned chair, and I look at her. “Yes. I mean, not really. Sometimes. Why?”
My mom shrugs. “Just curious.” She leans her head back and closes her eyes.
“Mom, you can’t just ask a question like that and pretend it’s no big deal. Why? Did something happen? Did you hear from him?”
She chuckles and opens her eyes. “Nothing that exciting.” She lifts her feet from the tub of hot water and wiggles her suds-covered toes. “He got recommended to me the other day,” she says quietly. “On social media. He must be a friend of a friend, so the site thought we knew each other.” She shrugs, leans her head back, and closes her eyes. “So, I friend-requested him.”
My eyes nearly bug out of my head, and I lean forward so far, my feet almost kick over the bowl of water. “Mom, you did what? Did he accept?”
Mom nods. “He did. It took a couple days, but he’s not very active on the site. Not like me.”
I chuckle at that. My mom doesn’t share a lot of personal stuff on social media, but she is the queen of the meme. I’ve always laughed that memes are an old person’s emojis, and Mom lives up to that theory.
“So, tell me,” I demand. “Tell me everything.”
As I say it, I realize I am genuinely curious. Curious why my mother friend-requested a man who did her so, so dirty. Why she is telling me now.
She smiles. “There’s not much to tell. You can check him out, if you want.” She holds her phone out to me. “There’s not much to see.”
I cock my chin at her, curious what she wants me to see. Mom isn’t at all secretive about her phone. I know the passcode, and half the time, she asks me to text things to her friends for her because I type so much faster, and she hates correcting typos when she uses voice-to-text.
I reach across the chair for Mom’s phone, but I leave it in my lap. I am suddenly filled with the same feeling that I’ve always had when it comes to my father. I don’t know, I don’t want to know, and I don’t care.
At least, that’s how I’ve always felt. But a part of me does wonder if maybe, just maybe, I do want to know the truth.
Not if it will hurt me , I remind myself.
But then, I can’t imagine Mom would share anything about him if she thought there was a chance it would hurt. And still, I don’t feel ready to look.
“Is he married?” I ask softly.
“No, honey,” Mom assures me. “Never married.”
That’s one shoe that drops, and I feel something lighten in my chest. “Okay. That’s good, I guess.”
She nods. “Probably so. He never was the marrying kind.”
Mom’s eyes are closed, and her head’s leaned back against the seat. The water that’s supposed to soften and clean our feet is cooling, and a nail tech comes by to check the temperature.
“You ladies have the run of the place,” she says. “Quiet day. You ready to start, or you want to soak a little longer?”
The woman puts a small squirt of lotion on her hands, rubs them together, then gives my mom a quick calf massage.
“Let’s soak a little more,” Mom says. “This is so relaxing. You mind, Lacey?”
I shake my head that I don’t mind, and the lady washes her hands at a small sink behind the chairs. Then she fills both Mom’s and my tubs with more hot water, lotions up her hands again, and rubs my calves gently but firmly while my toes soak.
I close my eyes and relax into the sensations. The hot, sudsy water. The gentle but firm touch of the nail tech. I feel loose and relaxed like a wet noodle by the time she stops. She taps my calf lightly and says, “I’ll be back in just a few.”
After she leaves, Mom breaks the silence. “Your dad rides a Harley.”
My eyes fly open. “What?” I ask. “How do you know?”
She smiles. “He sent me pictures. Look through our messages.”
I don’t know if I want to, but I can’t believe my dad rides a bike. Then I remember Mom telling me she dated a biker once.
“Who was the biker you dated?” I ask. “It wasn’t Dad, was it?”
She shakes her head. “No. Your father was too broke to be a biker back then. But his best friend was. After your father left us, his best friend Eddie looked after me for a while. We went on a few dates, but it was nothing serious. I thought maybe he was snooping around for your dad, trying to find out if I planned on coming after him for child support or whatever.”
That makes me sad. That mom would feel used by a guy that way. It makes me dislike my dad even more.
“But that wasn’t the case at all,” Mom says, her voice cracking a little as she smiles. “Turns out, Eddie liked me a lot.”
I shift in the chair to hear Mom’s story better. Thankfully, only a few customers are filling the stations. They all have their heads bowed as they talk to their manicurists or watch the artistry as their fake nails are applied and decorated.
“Mom,” I ask. “Was it real, then? The thing you had with Eddie?”
My mom sniffs, then lifts one shoulder as if to say who knows. “I had an infant, and I was alone, Lacey. I was vulnerable, and yeah, I guess I thought it was real. But I also knew, even when we were in it, that there was no way it could happen. Not for the long-term. Eddie was your father’s best friend. He knew you were the reason your father bailed. Could you imagine a twenty-year-old guy trying to raise the illegitimate daughter of his best friend?”
Mom sighs.
“Those were different times. But I had fun. Eddie was a lot of fun.” I throw Mom a look at the way she emphasizes “lot.” She giggles. “No regrets here.”
Then she rests her head back against the chair, and I admit, I’m tempted. Tempted to look at what my parents have said to each other. Mom’s eyes are closed, but since I have her permission, I start with the messages.
I read from the top, so the oldest one. It looks like they have been friends for only a week or so. I always knew my dad’s first name, but now I see it in black and white. Darnell Dennison.
I would never, ever have guessed that was his name. My mom always referred to him as Denny. Denny was never his first name at all.
I scroll through the messages, all of which are polite. Denny asked about me right away. But he didn’t use my name.
Denny: How’s your daughter?
Mom: She’s amazing. Brilliant, beautiful. Lacey is the love of my life. Thanks for asking.
Denny: Lacey. Yeah. Of course she is. Good to hear.
Mom: I’m glad to see you’re still in the union. Still working.
Denny: Yeah. Counting down the years until retirement. You?
Mom: Been with the same company over twenty years. Union where I’m at too.
Denny: Finally got that bike I was always dreaming of.
Then, a picture comes through. There’s a bandanna on his head and sunglasses over his eyes, so it’s hard to see him as the same man with the very outdated profile picture. But that’s him. The man who made me then left me.
The original disappointing male.
I go back to Mom and Denny’s exchange.
Mom: Well, isn’t that gorgeous. Good for you, Denny. Be safe on that thing.
Denny: You know it. I’m in no rush to meet my maker.
Mom doesn’t say anything, but then a second message from Denny comes through.
Denny: Maybe this is weird, but I’m glad you reached out. Thanks for connecting. I’m sorry, you know.
Mom: What for?
Denny: History. The past. I always knew I could never give you the fairy tale. And I knew that’s what you wanted.
Mom: Well, my life’s been really happy. No need to apologize now.
They don’t chat anymore that day, and since I’ve seen all I need to see, I close the app and hand my mom back her phone.
“You’re getting close with this Eagle guy,” Mom says quietly. “I like him, Lacey,” she adds. “I like him for you a lot.”
I can’t help but smile. “I like him too.”
Mom nods. “Do you think he wants the same things you want?” she asks.
“Marriage, maybe kids, our own house with a yard for Ruby and all my future dogs?” I ask.
The truth is, I don’t know. I know I haven’t given up wanting the dream to come true, wanting that fairy-tale ending for myself.
But I’m unemployed, living with my mom, and I’m thirty years old. Life doesn’t hand out golden tickets. And all the work I’ve done to make my own luck, I don’t know what it’s gotten me if the decisions I make in my personal life undo all the fruits of my labors.
The pedicurist comes back and asks who wants to go first. “You go ahead,” I say to Mom. I close my eyes and picture Eagle. His tattoos, his bike, him in a tux. He’s the man of my dreams. I’m sure of it.
But I’ve had so many dreams, and none of them have fully come true. Or if they have, they get stolen away in the snap of someone’s fingers. Whether it’s a lying boyfriend, a jealous wife, or a boss who would rather give up on me than fight for what’s right, my brain refuses to believe that this thing with Eagle can have a happy ending.
Just as I’m thinking about him, my phone buzzes with a text. I pull my phone from my purse, and it’s like the sun moves from behind the clouds when I read the message.
Eagle: Babe, Fingers said I shouldn’t be at the mediation. Involved parties only, whatever the fuck that means. But I’m taking the day off work. I’m gonna be in the parking lot in my truck waiting for you the whole time. What time does it start?
I think this might be the longest text Eagle’s ever sent me.
Me: Are you sure you want to be there?
Eagle: There for you the whole fucking time.
I send him a dozen kissy-face emojis, and to my absolute shock, he sends one back.
Me: Since when do you send emojis?
But in response, he just sends me one thing—a red heart.