23. Internal Payload
TWENTY-THREE
INTERNAL PAYLOAD
Vance
There’s a marked difference between the first time I sat in Heartbreakers’ parking lot and today.
Parked a few spots down, with high shine glitter paint that’s giving me a headache, is a stripper van. It must be a stripper van, because why else would anyone take the time to make a soccer mom vehicle that flashy?
Which begs the question of why a stripper needs a van. For road trips? Is it some sort of strip club Uber? And if Heartbreakers was going to make it that noticeable, why not plaster the side with their logo?
In my 4Runner’s driver seat, I angle myself away, trying to hide my eyes from the van’s cornea-destructive glare.
One look at that unbelievably conspicuous paint job and my headache from Friday’s Boilermaker bonding session with Ian comes roaring back.
It makes me want my space helmet, with the sunshield coated with a thin layer of gold to filter out harmful solar rays.
But as noticeable as the stripper van is, what’s equally noticeable is the absence of Rose’s gold sports car.
It’s a half hour past the start of pole dancing class, and Rose isn’t here.
I tried texting and calling her yesterday. Nothing. It went straight to voicemail.
I even drove to her apartment but was stopped in the building’s foyer by the doorman. It seems Vance Bodaway is no longer on the approved visitor list.
In just days, Rose has effectively cut me out of her life.
Which should be fine. It was what I was hoping for, after all. That Rose’s feelings would be casual enough that she’d be able to simply move on once we put an end to our friends-with-benefits relationship.
But instead of feeling gratified by it, I’m depressed. I hadn’t needed the weight of the doorman’s condemning stare to know I screwed up. Not just by misunderstanding Rose’s feelings but misunderstanding my own.
A cloud shifts away from the sun, and the van’s blinding reflection becomes a death ray.
“Screw this.” I turn off the ignition then shove open my door. The van glares at me as I stalk past, and I glare right back. By the time I reach Heartbreakers’ front doors, dots of light float across my vision.
The first thing I notice when I enter is the music. Instead of the usual hard rock and hip hop, Bing Crosby’s White Christmas plays from the speakers. The second thing I notice are the rotating ceiling fixtures. Rather than the normal multi-color lights, they’re a mixture of green and red.
“I’m telling you, Helen, he’s a big ol’ sweetheart. He’s perfect for you.”
I blink a few times, wondering if the van did more damage to my retinas than I thought.
Because the third thing I notice is Rose.
Rose in a full length, metallic red, sleeveless spandex onesie, complete with black belt and fur-trimmed neckline.
And if that wasn’t enough, it’s tucked into thigh-high, black stiletto boots.
I have never, not once, in all my life desired to dress up like Santa. But seeing Rose dressed as a sexy Mrs. Claus, looking like a Christmas morning wet dream, makes me want to rethink all my life-long fantasies.
“I appreciate it, Rosie, but I haven’t dated, in well”—my mother, dressed in white leggings and matching sports bra and doused in what looks like a gallon of silver glitter, shrugs and laughs—"ever, really.”
“Go on, girl!” Myra, in a hunter green track suit and elf ears, eggs on my mom. “Get yourself some.”
“Yeah,” Angela butts in, eyes down as she arranges her brown triangle bikini top more securely over her breasts. “Holiday nookie is the best.” She sighs and reaches up to straighten her antler headband. “Or so I’ve heard. It’s been so long I’d make a better Virgin Mary than reindeer.”
“Sooooo.” Rose cajoles my mother with her elbow. “You’ll let me give John your number?” More elbows. “Eh? Eh?”
Mom flushes. Or I think she does. It could be the red spotlight. “I don’t think so. I’m too old for all that nonsense.”
“What?” Rose steps back, looking my mother up and down. “You’re not old—you’re hot.”
My mother laughs again, appearing youthful. Enchanted. Almost like she really, really wants to say yes.
But Mom doesn’t date. She never has. I always thought it was because she never stopped grieving Dad.
Mom opens her mouth to respond, and I’m suddenly very nervous about what she’s going to say.
“Rose.” I cut my mother off, my voice projecting over Bing’s and sounding hoarse in comparison.
Rose’s eyes snap to me, her smile vanishing. “What are you doing here?”
Four sets of eyes focus on me, their weight enough to tip the scales of judgment out of my favor.
“Is anyone else getting a sense of déjà vu?” Myra glances around. “At my age you have to be careful. One minute it’s déjà vu, the next it’s dementia.”
“I didn’t think you were here,” I tell Rose. “I didn’t see your car.”
“Anyone?” Myra asks, ignoring me.
Angela pats Myra’s shoulder. “You’re fine, Myra. I feel it too.”
“Oh, good.” With that, Myra adjusts her fold-out chair to face me and sits down, looking ready to be entertained.
Rose’s head tilts to one side. “If you didn’t think I was here, then I take it you’re not here to see me?”
One of the lights shoots across my face so I can’t make out her expression. “No. I am here to see you.” Holding up my hand to block the light, I walk closer to the stage. “I was going to apologize after class was over, but I got worried you weren’t here.”
“Well, I’m here.” She chews on her red bottom lip a moment. “Now what?”
My mother’s eyes have been moving back and forth between us.
With each glance, her frown gets deeper and deeper.
“Did you do something wrong? Is that why Brit said Rose isn’t coming to Christmas dinner?
” One of her white platform fur boots taps an impatient, angry rhythm, causing silver glitter to fall around her like a snowstorm. “Do we need to have another talk?”
“God, no more talks.” I hold up my hands, warding her off. “It has nothing to do with the clitoris, Mom.”
She crosses her arms over her sports bra that doesn’t cover near enough of what I would like it to. “But you did do something .”
“Yes, I did.” Looking at Rose, I let her watery eyes dig the pit in my chest deeper. “I am s o sorry, Rose. Honestly.”
Myra, looking like she wants a bag of popcorn, scoots forward on her chair.
Mom switches to Rose. “What happened?”
Rose lays a hand on my mom’s shoulder. “I didn’t tell you sooner because I didn’t want our last class before the holidays to be awkward.” She flicks her eyes to me, then back to my mother. “The truth is, Vance and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”
“What did you do ?” Mom didn’t look this mad when I drove the car through the garage door when I was fifteen without a license.
“I—”
“It’s not his fault.” Rose surprises me by coming to my rescue. “Not really.” Not even the glitter and disco lights can mask Rose’s pain. “We just feel differently is all.”
“No we don’t.” My voice is firm, echoing around the empty club.
Rose startles, facing me. “We don’t?”
“We don’t.” I stride to the stage steps and bound up them, not stopping until Rose is just inches away, her sky-high-heeled boots bringing her eyes level with mine.
“I love you.” I’ve never heard a ‘ring of truth’ until now.
It gives me confidence that I can make this right. Make Rose and me work. For real .
But I have to be honest. I have to make sure she understands the risks.
“You do?” The wonder in her eyes brings me so much satisfaction that I call myself ten times more an asshole for not discerning my feelings earlier. She tilts her head back, her gaze now skeptical. “Since when?”
“Maybe since I caught you getting drunk on bridal champagne at Jackie’s wedding.”
Rose snorts.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Myra nudge Angela with her foot. “This is getting good.”
I hold Rose’s gaze. “Probably when you dared me to take Blow Jobs at the bar.”
“What now?” Myra asks.
Angela waves her to be quiet.
Rose bites her lip, holding back a smile.
“And definitely when you bribed a butcher for a Thanksgiving turkey when my sister failed to defrost hers.”
“I knew it,” my mother mutters behind me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t realize it as fast as you.” I let my gaze meander over every inch of her, noting the chunky snowflake glitter in her hair and the peek of a cash roll between her breasts. “Because I do love you.”
Myra sighs. “This is just like when my second husband proposed.”
Angela covers Myra’s mouth with her hand.
Rose reaches out a shaking hand to me but retreats before I can grab hold. “But you don’t want kids.”
Mom gasps.
Ignoring what I know without even looking is my mother’s wounded expression of betrayal, I close the distance between Rose and me, holding her in my arms. “I know I said that, and I’m sorry.
” Unable to hold back longer, I kiss her forehead, inhaling her sweet scent and praying I can find the right words.
“I was wrong to spring all that on you like that. I must be going senile in my old age.”
Myra scoffs, and I lean back to catch Rose’s eyes. Fingers crossed she’ll mirror my smile.
She does.
Until she doesn’t.
Rose’s eyes narrow. “So… you’re not getting a vasectomy then?”
“ Vasectomy !”
I hunch my shoulders in preparation for the attack my mother wants to launch, but thankfully it doesn’t come.
“I’m going to cancel it.” My thumbs sweep across her shoulders, the feel of her skin calming me.
“You want kids then?” She’s speaking in the same slow, careful way that a police officer would to someone on a ledge. Which may sound dramatic, but me imagining even the possibility of children feels pretty on par with jumping off a building.
Breathing deeply, I prepare myself for what I’m praying will be enough for her. “Maybe.”
Her eyes blank. “Maybe.”
Not enough then.