Bingeworthy

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ihit “send” on the message I never thought I’d send.

I can’t come home for Thanksgiving. I have to work.

The name “Lucille” pops up on my phone no less than half a second later.

It’s no use sending my mother to voicemail.

When I tap the red button, the woman doesn’t bother with small talk.

“But you have to come home!” she insists. “Thanksgiving isn’t the same without my Tiff.”

With a pang of longing for Dad’s prize-winning pumpkin pie, I take a deep breath and shore up my resolve.

“You’ll survive. It’s one Thanksgiving,” I say.

I stare across the expanse of the office. Workers scurry around, closing out the final details of their various projects before jetting off for their holiday weekends. The coworker on the phone across from me looks irritated, with deep grooves in her forehead.

Lucille won’t hear of it.

“One Thanksgiving,” she repeats back to me. “Sure. That’s what you say this year. And next year it’ll be some other excuse, and then before you know it, you’ve forgotten all about us.”

My god. Nobody knows how to be dramatic quite like Lucille Morrison. As if I’d forget my family.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to divert her with talk about my sister, her wife, and the kids they share. “But Jill and Jen and all the grandkids are coming over. You’ll be so busy, you won’t even miss me.”

The sales rep across from me shoots me a dirty look. Jean, I think her name is.

“But who’s going to help me make room for leftovers in the fridge?” Mom asks.

At this, I have to laugh. “Spraying all the Reddi Whip into my mouth hardly contributes to freeing up space in the fridge.”

“Just trying to lighten the mood. I think you might still be depressed about Carl.”

“Mom! Carl and I broke up months ago. I’m fine.”

If looks could kill, Jean in sales would be shoveling dirt on top of me right now. She slams down the phone, stands up, and marches away.

“Are you sure? I have to ask because you were together for a year, and they say it takes twice as long as the length of the relationship to get over someone.”

“I broke up with him because he’s a cheater. That accelerates the healing process by a lot.”

“By how much?”

I lower my voice and spin my chair to avoid eye contact with any other coworkers who might overhear me on a personal phone call. “In the negatives. I was already kind of over him three months before I saw the nudes on his phone. This truly is about me having to work.”

When did my mom become curious about how “over” I am with Carl? She never liked Carl. In fact, Mom and Dad have never been fans of any of my boyfriends in the last five years. Which lines up with the time I dated my first boyfriend, Matthew. They loved Matthew, until they didn’t.

Mom is relentless. “There’s no way that office is open on Thanksgiving Day, or the day after. Something else is going on that you’re not telling me.”

“Nothing is going on,” I insist.

Uh-oh. I am not about to tell her I’ll be in the office alone to catch up on work because my last performance review was less than stellar.

She’ll tell Dad, and they’ll both freak out and start strategizing an exit plan.

Dad will call his restaurateur friends in the city to find me a bookkeeping job.

Mom will pressure me to join her event bartending business, Bottoms Up.

She’s been hinting that she wants to create a CFO job for me so she can focus on the creative side of her hospitality empire.

I want to see what I can do without their help.

And right now, all I want to do is try not to lose this job, though my stomach growls thinking about my dad’s roasted turkey and cornbread stuffing.

My head is lost in memories of Thanksgivings past when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Someone is watching me. I turn and see my boss hovering nearby. Mr. Spencer glowers over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses.

Meanwhile, my mom is rambling on about the annual tradition of s’mores around the campfire and the Friday night showtunes-only karaoke showdown.

All the neighbors vote on the best performance, and there’s a shiny gold trophy for the winner.

The whole thing is ridiculous and corny.

Everyone on Queen of Hearts Lane shows up for it year after year.

Well, all except Rocco next door, who hasn’t shown up for anything in the last five years.

But there are more pressing matters than waxing nostalgic.

“Lucille, I’ll have to call you back with that quote,” I say clumsily and hang up the phone.

I clear my throat and try to look innocent as I turn to my boss. “Tiffany, we need to talk,” he says.

Sheepishly, I follow my boss into his office, and I can’t help but catch Jean’s smug expression as we walk by the cluster of salespeople gathered around the coffee station.

I close the office door behind me.

“You were warned in your performance review about taking personal phone calls at work. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go,” Mr. Spencer says.

My jaw drops. “I was expecting an official write-up, but a stone-cold firing on my second offense?”

He frowns. “This isn’t your second offense. I have a list…”

“A list?”

Jiggling the mouse on his desk, he wakes up his computer and pulls up a document. Yes, that’s right. He has a document of all my infractions, and from here, the list looks long. And detailed.

“According to the team, you’ve taken seven personal phone calls this month.”

I’ve got nothing to lose at this point, so I shake my head in dismay and mutter with a wry laugh, “Bunch of preschoolers.”

“You think this is funny?”

“Not at all. I think the people who work here don’t like me, and I think you don’t follow protocol.”

As I say the words, I realize I don’t feel anything. Not devastation or sadness, or even that much anger.

I pack my personal effects into my crossbody bag and flip Jean the bird.

I submit my wrongful termination complaint to Debbie in HR, and then I turn in my badge to security. On the way to the elevator, I switch gears and decide to take the stairs. I’d prefer not to cry in front of people.

Lucille is overjoyed at the news.

“Great!” Mom says. “Now you can take over the financials for Bottoms Up,” she says, referring to her business.

“Mom!” I reply, horrified. “No nepotism.”

“Fine, fine,” she says. “You can start out bartending for Housewife parties and work your way up to CFO, if you insist. Just make sure you sign the release for filming so you can insert a little free advertising, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Really?”

“No!”

Realizing how tacky she sounds, she throws in a halfhearted, “Dear, it’s terrible you lost that job. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you."

She makes some supportive noises, then says, “We’ll talk more when I see you tonight.”

The lump in my throat is coming on strong.

“You mean tomorrow morning. The last train upstate has already left.”

She scoffs. “Don’t be silly. Your ride is on the way.”

“Mom. An Uber’s going to cost $300.”

“You’re right, which is why Rocco’s picking you up.”

I freeze on the stairs. My parents’ neighbor? That Rocco?

The whiplash is intense.

“M-Matthew Burlington’s dad?”

“How many Roccos do you know?”

“But how…why…” My stomach gets that upside-down roller coaster feeling.

That kind of request is outrageous, even for Lucille. That’s over four hours of driving in one evening.

“You seem flustered. It’s simple. Rocco mentioned that he’s renting out his condo in the city and will be spending the holidays upstate this year.

He offered to pick you up on his way home.

I was about to call him to cancel that arrangement when you phoned back to tell me you were coming home after all. ”

Over the years, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that Mom and Dad are nudging me toward giving Rocco’s son, Matthew, a second chance. Which makes zero sense to me, all things considered.

“It’s all very convenient,” I say.

She scoffs. “I thought it was nice of him to offer.”

“Since when does the man speak?” I ask, bemused. “He’s the Boo Radley of Queen of Hearts Lane.”

My mother chides me. “Not anymore. What’s past is past.”

“Is Matthew…”

“No, no,” she explains, anticipating my anxiety over that long-ago prom date. “Matthew’s in Florida with his grandparents.”

The relief I feel is intense.

And yet, I have to spend two hours in the car with the dad whose son caused my first heartbreak. The first in a long series of heartbreaks.

Which is why I say what I say next. “Are you sure you want your youngest daughter riding in a car with him?”

Lucille is horrified. “The incident was five years ago. A lot has changed. And please. You’re 23 years old now. Call him Rocco.”

This from the woman who raised me to address anyone of an older generation as Mr. or Mrs.

“You suddenly seem to know a lot about the hermit next door,” I say.

“We all grew close over the summer.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” I say, now realizing that I’ve taken all 18 flights down to the lobby.

I step out of the dank stairwell and onto the impeccable marble floor, passing the Art Deco fountain. This is the last I’ll see of it.

“I don’t know, Mom. It’s awkward,” I say, stepping outside into the cold November air.

“But tonight’s the pajamas and popcorn extravaganza! You don’t want to miss that. Elizabeth, Sam, and Juno will be bummed if you’re not here.”

Mentioning my nieces and nephew is so, so crafty of her. She’s got me right where she wants me.

“Fine.”

“Wonderful! I’ve texted him your address, and he should be there whenever you’re ready,” she says.

I’m about to hang up when I get the eeriest feeling that I’m being watched.

Staying on the phone, I look to the street. There, silent and smooth as a ghost, a gleaming midnight-blue SUV pulls up to the curb and slows as I walk, matching my pace.

I speed up. The car speeds up.

I peer at the car and identify it as that electric luxury German make and model. Chic, but also safe. On brand for a wealthy, sensible dad with good taste. Not the type of vehicle that slows down to harass me on the street.

My heart beating out of my chest, I ask, “Mom, what kind of car does Rocco drive?”

She tells me, matching every detail down to the trim of the car that’s following me.

I slow my pace, and one of the tinted windows rolls down.

It’s him. Rocco.

The tousled, wavy hair is unmistakable.

“He’s here already, Mom,” I say breathily into the phone.

“That’s so thoughtful, he went to meet you at your office!”

“Who told him I worked there?”

“I admit nothing,” she says.

“Wait, what?”

“Have fun!” Mom chirps and then hangs up.

I’m about to call her back to tell her to abort this plan. But then the car door opens, and the six-foot-four, bespectacled Rocco is standing on the sidewalk, looking striking in a navy fisherman's sweater that no dad his age has any business looking this good in.

He gives a slight nod of his chin, as stoic as ever. The last time I saw Rocco, he was standing on my parents’ porch, writing a check. “There’s no need for that. No one was hurt,” Dad had said. Rocco had been insistent. “Then put it aside for Tiffany. For a rainy day.”

I witnessed the conversation from the gable window in my childhood bedroom. I never asked about that check. I was too shell-shocked over the events of prom night.

Today, Rocco has barely aged, save for the wisps of white in his hair at his temples and the lighter streak of one soft curl, off kilter from his forehead. The scruff on his chin is turning lighter, too. If I were to name this color, I’d call it “lighthouse-keeper white.”

My throat is dry, but I manage a smile, “Mr. Burlington?’’

He blinks. “Hi, Tiffany. Please, call me Rocco.”

His voice is rich and deep. Rather officiously, he holds out his hand to shake mine.

Warm, strong fingers surround mine.

“It’s gonna take a minute to get used to using your first name.”

With no hint of humor, he replies, “We have 120 minutes alone together for you to practice.”

My muscles tighten at the way he phrased it. Alone. Together.

“So, we’re not picking up Matthew?” I bite my lip. I need to be sure my mom’s not manipulating me to get back together with my long-ago ex.

Rocco shakes his head and lets go of my hand. All warmth seems to leave my body.

“Not sure why you wanted to meet me here, since I don’t have my things with me.”

“It’s close to my condo and I happened to see you on the street while I was on the way to your apartment,” he explains.

“Crazy coincidence,” I point out.

He turns and opens the passenger door. “I’ll take you home to get your things.”

Am I doing this?

On the short drive to my apartment, which would take thirty minutes by subway, I welcome the warmth of his car and the faint scent of spicy aftershave. Much better than the aroma of pee down in the tunnels.

“So, how’s Matthew?” I ask. He’s the thing we have in common. What else do I do? Sit here in complete silence?

Rocco’s knuckles grip the steering wheel harder, then relax. “Matthew moved to Florida to work for his grandfather’s landscaping business. He’s spending the holiday there.”

I tilt my head. “Why aren't you there now?”

“Lucille and Derek invited me first,” he says.

My parents have invited Rocco to holiday festivities year after year, but he’s been a hermit for half a decade. So why did he say yes this time?

At my apartment, Rocco waits on the curb, leaning against his car with arms folded.

I push down the wild, unidentifiable feelings about this mysterious man as I hurry upstairs. The essentials get tossed into my weekend bag, along with a few nonessentials.

I lock up my shitty apartment, wondering what Rocco’s condo looks like. He probably doesn’t have to share a kitchen and bathroom with five separate 200-square-foot apartments.

Back down on the street, Rocco’s gaze darts to the weekend bag that I have slung over my shoulder. Before I even have time to feel awkward about his eyes on me, Rocco slides the bag away and hauls it to the car.

It’s then that I notice my bra strap has slipped down my shoulder. I reach into the front of my coat and hike up the strap, hoping no one sees.

The hatchback closes, and he turns to me, holding open the passenger door. His face is passive.

Rocco had the same look while watching me leave for prom that night with Matthew. He had stood on his porch, leaning on a post. Only he was wearing a wrinkled concert tee-shirt. And there was his son, my first boyfriend, in a picture-perfect suit and tie, and yet I couldn’t take my eyes off Rocco.

I had locked that moment away until now.

I didn’t understand my reaction to him then, but now I do.

He’s old enough to be your dad, Tiffany. And besides that, what are you to him other than a painful reminder of the past?

Whatever physical attraction is happening right now, I need to stuff it all down for good.