10. An Absolute Beast
10
AN ABSOLUTE BEAST
Layla
“Mojitos are on me, my pets!” I call out to my friends as I stride into The Lucky Spot that night. I’m feeling triumphant, because triumph is a better emotion to nurture than missing a man who’s far, far away.
Harlow and Ethan wait for me at the bar in Chelsea. The place is bustling since it’s seven, so I weave my way through the crowds. When I reach my besties, they immediately thrust their arms up in victory.
Then Ethan turns to Harlow, staring at her pointedly. “Pay up,” he says, wiggling his fingers.
I slide between them and poke Harlow’s shoulder. “You doubted me?”
Harlow just shrugs. “You’re notoriously picky,” she says. “I didn’t think it was going to happen.”
“O ye of little faith,” I say. Then I turn my gaze to Ethan, snarling over the top. “So that means you think I’ll just spread ’em for anyone?”
He cracks up. “No. It means I bet on twenty-three years of pent-up horniness spilling over in one week in Miami for you. And I was right.”
I narrow my brow at him, then faux growl. “Damn you.”
Ethan turns to the curly-haired man behind the bar, who does a double take when he sees my guy friend. But just as quickly, the bartender slides into business, asking, “What can I get for you?”
“His number,” I mutter to Harlow, who nods big and long.
“Two mojitos,” Ethan says to the guy. “And an iced tea.”
“Coming right up,” the bartender says, then flashes an unnecessarily large and wholly clear smile at Ethan before he heads off to mix drinks.
I hum a naughty little tune then nudge my matinee idol friend with the ink on his arm. “And will mojitos be on you soon too?” I wiggle my brows at the bartender.
Ethan shakes his head, but I think he’s redirecting rather than denying. “Don’t distract us.” He pats the stool between him and Harlow. “Sit your ass down. And tell us a story. Leave no item of clothing undone, no bed sheet unturned, no condom unused. I want the full Monty story.”
“I second what he said,” Harlow says. “And start now because we’ve got two hours until Ethan’s set.”
Ethan stabs the bar with his finger. “Story time. Now. Spare no details.”
The details are everything.
The details will feed my fantasies for a long time.
“He’s a venture capitalist. He’s got this whole intense, dominant charm and he’s also a great listener,” I say, then pause to set up my final point. “And he walked me to my gate this morning. At the airport. He kissed me goodbye right before I boarded my plane.”
Ethan whistles in appreciation. Harlow claps.
So I give them a little more. “He was dirty and dreamy and demanding and also, obsessed with my pleasure. And he told me if he lived in New York, he would’ve taken me out tonight. He even said he’ll be here later this year.”
Harlow’s eyes widen with intrigue. “So you are going to see this guy again?”
My heart does a loop-the-loop. Stupid, hopeful organ. I shake my head, making light of it. “It’s just something he said. I’m not going to think about whether he’s coming here again. I’m not going to look him up. And I’m not going to fantasize about an uncertain future,” I say, then I glimpse a familiar face by the door when a striking brunette walks in alongside a busty redhead.
“It’s our cousins,” I say brightly, using the nickname we gave Jules and Camden.
Harlow turns and waves at Jules Marley. The brunette works with Harlow’s boyfriend, Bridger. She’s become his right-hand woman helping him run his new TV production company, and she’s sharp as an eagle. Next, Harlow waves to Camden, Jules’s friend.
More than a year ago, the three of us ran into Jules and Camden at a dance club, and Harlow pulled them into our spot on the dance floor, where we grooved the night away to pulsing music in a big group of arms and limbs and drinks.
So we annexed them into our group. I also convinced Jules and Camden to take Krav Maga with me, so they join me occasionally at the gym.
While the three of us—Ethan, Harlow, and me—will probably always be like long-lost siblings, Jules and Camden feel like cousins we just discovered.
When Jules, decked out in jeans and a shiny black spaghetti-strap top that shows off her creamy skin, curves, and strong arms, joins us, she asks, “Did we miss all the good stuff? If so, will you recap the juiciest deets?”
Yeah, she’s definitely become part of our family. “Layla had an excellent—wink, wink—time in Miami,” Harlow offers.
I just shrug impishly, owning the fuck out of my time there.
Jules’s eyes twinkle. Camden’s green eyes brighten in obvious curiosity as she asks, “I’m gonna need more. How excellent, exactly?”
Ethan clears his throat. “A quartet of excellent.”
“Damn, Layla,” Jules says, impressed.
“Lucky bitch,” Camden chimes in.
We all crack up, then I tell the story again, and I don’t mind sharing the details of a night I’ll never regret.
Because that’s what it was—one wonderful night under the sultry Miami sky.
Later, as my friends and I head to Rebel Beat to rock out to Ethan’s music from the front row, I do my best to put those details in the past and move forward into my future here in New York.
My mother is sweating.
It’s a rare sight, but the woman plays like an absolute beast on the tennis court.
On the other side of the net, I’m tempted to shout, “Go, Anna,” but she’d deliver a withering smile and tell me to focus on the match.
But we’ve been playing for too many points, too many games, just far too long, so even though I was raised to be a tennis beast too, when she serves the next ball I maybe, possibly, deliberately stretch my arm too far and miss it.
Oops.
It rolls with a thud to the edge of the court.
“Damn,” I mutter, dropping my shoulders. Like this is the worst fate ever.
She arches a doubtful brow. Yes, from several feet away and across the net, I can read her dubious stare. “Darling, did you let me win?”
“Please. I’d never do that. I’m so competitive.”
In business. Not in sports. I couldn’t wait to hang up my tennis racket when I was in high school. Just like I can’t wait to pack it into a bag today.
Mom grabs a towel from a bench and wipes her brow. “Up for a rematch this afternoon?”
Where does she get her energy from? She’s been like this for the last few years. Busy . I don’t know if it’s real or a new survival strategy. A distraction from pain tactic.
“I would, but I have to prep for seeing Geeta tomorrow,” I say.
“Where are you meeting her? In public?”
“At a tea shop, so yes,” I say, trying to hide the exasperation from my tone.
“Do you trust her still?”
“Of course, Mom.”
She arches a brow. “It’s not an unreasonable question when it comes to a business partner.”
“But I’ll never be able to give you an answer that’s satisfying.”
She huffs, perhaps knowing I’m right, but saying nothing.
“It’s all good with Geeta, Mom. It really is,” I reassure her. “And we have a lot to catch up on.”
“Right, of course. The Makeover app gets all your attention,” Mom says, shifting gears, and you can’t miss the dig in her voice.
Or the envy.
I ignore it as we stride off the members-only court on Randall’s Island, where the elite of New York play one of the most elite games. The membership roll call looks like descendants of the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers.
“So how was Miami? I can’t wait to hear all about it. I’m not that jealous of The Makeover,” she says, even though we both know she is. At least she’s being honest about it now.
But she wants what she wants—and that’s for me to ditch The Makeover app and come work for her, then to take over the company.
“It was great,” I say, then share all the safe-for-work details as we head inside. Once we turn into the ladies’ locker room, Mom gasps in excitement then wags a finger at a regal blonde with silver streaks in her hair. “Rose! You sneak. You didn’t tell me you were coming today.”
The tall, elegant woman shuts her locker and comes in for a cheek kiss, dusting Mom with one of her own. “Oh, it was a last-minute thing. My appointment with my stylist was canceled,” Rose says when she pulls back, pouting for emphasis.
“Whatever will you wear to the silent auction next weekend then?” my mother asks in concern because attire to charity functions is the height of concern in their world.
“I don’t have any idea. But Bertrand tells me he’ll see me first thing tomorrow morning so, crisis averted. He can still pick my emcee gown for the literacy gala.”
My mother wipes her brow dramatically. “Thank god.” Then, she squeezes my arm, inviting me into the conversation. “Layla and I are going to catch up over cobb salad on all our various charitable board endeavors,” she says, pride in her tone. “It’s our thing.”
Rose smiles approvingly. “I love your generosity.”
“Yours too,” Mom says to her, and even though there’s some typical one-upmanship between them, they both back it up with their pocketbooks. Mom taught me the value of charity a long time ago.
Rose turns to me. “And did your mother destroy you on the court like she does with everyone?”
“She always does.”
“Anna, do save a match for me,” Rose says. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Sounds lovely,” my mother says, then the woman leaves.
Once she’s out of earshot, Mom whispers, “I want her to be my doubles partner. She’s been through a lot too.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I simply say, “That’s great.”
Even though it’s probably not.
When we’re done showering and changing for lunch, we leave the locker room and head to the restaurant. As we walk down the hallway lined with photos of club members, Mom cups the side of her mouth. “Rose’s son David is still single. You two would be so good together. He’s very interested in charitable endeavors too.”
This is what it’s come to? I can’t believe she’s started recycling. With a straight face, I say, “Mom, I dated David Bancroft in college.”
She blinks. “You did?”
My throat burns with the threat of emotion. Those were the Xanax years for Mom. She spent a lot of my college years struggling with depression. Completely understandable. She’s only recently started to emerge from the fog of grief. So gently, I say, “I did. We’re still friends. I haven’t seen him in a few months since he went to Canada on a wilderness expedition.”
“And Rose says he’s returning this week. We’re both so grateful he’s finally done with that… Jersey bartender he met on the trails,” she says, her tongue sharp, rankling me.
“Do you have an issue with her being from New Jersey, or her being a bartender?” I ask, guard up. Sometimes the older generation is so…judgy.
My mother stares at me like I’ve gone mad. “Darling! Neither, of course. I was simply saying he’s finished his wilderness dalliance with a girl from the other side of the bridge. He should date you… again ,” she says, delighted to play second-chance matchmaker. “A Bancroft and a Mayweather.”
I can see the Fifth Avenue wedding in her eyes. “Like I said, we’re friends , Mom,” I emphasize, trying to put her straight. She’s convinced I’ll be safe if I marry a man from a family she knows. A family she’s vetted.
“I was friends with your father,” she says, and I want to point out that that’s not entirely true—they became the best of friends while married, but they weren’t friends first. But it’s better to let her memory remain untarnished. “Let’s set something up,” Mom persists. “He’d be so good for you. He’d definitely walk you home. Unlike Bryce.” She sighs. “Forgive me for Bryce. Let me make it up to you by working my magic with this new one.”
The woman is nothing if not relentless.
Truthfully, I was going to see David anyway. He texted me a few weeks ago to tell me he was returning to New York later this month. Would it be so terrible if I said yes to Mom’s offer simply to get her off my dating back for a little while longer? What’s the harm in Mom thinking it could be something even though it won’t? Saying yes would make her happy. I’ve seen so little happiness from her in the last six years. Seems the least I can do for her. I made a promise, after all.
“Sure. I don’t think anything will come of it since, again, we already dated, but you can go ahead,” I say. There. At least I was honest.
“Lovely. I’ll put you two in touch,” Mom says, cheery again.
But I know her cheer will drain away any second since we’re near the end of the hall.
As if on cue, she stops in front of a cherished photo. The picture makes my heart lurch every single time.
My parents. Onstage at a charity ball held here.
Dancing, smiling, gazing.
So in love.
My fingers itch to reach out and touch his bow tie. I tied it for him that night. He knew how, of course. But I’d taught myself on YouTube, so I tied it in our living room. “A perfect bow for my favorite dad,” I’d said.
“A perfect bow from my favorite daughter,” he’d echoed. It was one of our games—the favorite dad/favorite daughter one.
When he left that night to take my mom to the ball, he kissed her cheek at the door, told her she looked radiant.
“You always say that, John.”
“You always look radiant,” he’d said, then he’d kissed her again.
No wonder she was so happy in this photo. He doted on her, and she adored him.
No wonder, too, it always makes her cry.
It was taken one week before the end of my father’s life.
My mother stares at it like it’s an altar she prays to. She purses her lips. Blinks back tears, then swipes a hand under her eye.
My throat tightens, both from her reaction and from the hole in my heart too.
“Miss you, Daddy,” I say to the handsome, magnetic, protective man in the picture.
Then, I turn away from the photo, but I feel like I’m carrying it with me the rest of the day.
I’ve been carrying all the memories of him with me since the night he was murdered six years ago.