Chapter 10
Luke
That couldn’t have gone any worse.
A storm of emotions is swirling in me. It’s a tornado in there: bits of my shattered self-confidence whirling around tiny specks of my obliterated pride, fueled by squalls of embarrassment. My mom picked a great time to fuel up on vodka.
I follow Cassie onto the front porch. She turns, folds her arms, and looks up at me with amusement lining the corners of her eyes. That’s a good sign. She’s not flaming mad.
“I am so sorry,” I say after closing the door behind us. “I’ve never seen her that drunk.”
“Is your mom living with you?”
“She’s supposed to be staying in the guest house, but she seems to think she has free, unlimited access to the main house.”
Cassie nods. “I think you’re going to have to restock your liquor cabinet, then.”
“The only thing going in there from now on is pop and Gatorade. My drinking days are over except for the occasional glass of wine.”
“Alcohol does seem to get you into trouble,” Cassie says.
“Understatement?”
Cassie nods again and looks down at her shoes.
I dare to step closer. I feel raw, exposed, more vulnerable than I’ve ever been. It allows her presence to seep into me and penetrate my core. Part of me wants to run and hide, the other wants to collect her in my arms, bury my head in her hair, and let her know she’s safe. The fact that I ever made her feel unsafe eats away at me, every day just a little bit more. I might not be much of a man in ten years if I don’t get back with Cassie or force myself to move on. I can’t keep this up.
“Those things my mom said—”
Cassie holds her hand inches from my chest. I want to grab it. I stuff my hands in my pockets instead.
“You were drunk,” she says. “We all say stupid things when we’re drunk.”
I fall back a bit, slump, and nod. “Sure.”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
“Oh, I’m embarrassed. Trust me.”
Cassie chuckles. “Ya-mmmmm.”
I laugh with her. “I can’t believe she’s thinking about getting back with Dad.”
“It didn’t sound like she was planning on getting back with him. Just, you know, doing it once for old time’s sake.”
I wince and then rub my hand over my face. “Why did I let her move onto my property?”
Cassie flicks a gnat away from her face. A wisp of hair falls in front of her eye. She smooths it to the side. “I think it’s nice of you to let her live here. We need to take care of our family.”
Sometimes silence feels thin, like crossing a tightrope. Other times it’s a warm blanket. This silence feels warm, protective, full of potential. I wonder if it feels the same to her.
She clears her throat. “I gotta go. I have work tomorrow, and preparations are required. And sleep.”
“You hardly sleep.”
“I’m just really tired today.” She yawns. I think it’s fake, but it makes me yawn anyway.
“Sorry,” she says. “I’m contagious.”
“Listen. I don’t think that counts as date number two. How about—”
“We livestreamed it. That makes it official.”
I feel like I’m making headway with Cassie. She’s reticent, but I sense something, a look in her eye that she’s unable to hide. I think it’s safe to try again. No pressure. An innocent question.
“We have a neighborhood meeting on Thursday.”
Cassie flashes me an odd look. I should have provided more context.
“Yeah, um. I have an idea. From one professional to another. If I have paranormal activity in my house—”
“If.”
“We know my house is old. The odds that someone or someones have died here are pretty high.”
She shrugs.
“All these homes are old.” I motion to my neighbor to the left. “This could be an untapped market. What would you think about adding a few stops to your ghost tours? We could...or you could bring it up at the neighborhood meeting to see if people have stories and if they’re willing to buy-in to the idea.”
Cassie cocks her head. Her eyes move side-to-side, her right brain and left brain working in tandem.
“It’s at six thirty,” I add. “I could introduce you.”
She lifts her chin and smacks her neck. Mosquitos. They’re relentless.
“It’s not a terrible idea,” she says after giving her neck a good scratch.
My lips break into a smile.
“But I don’t know. I’m really busy with both businesses at the moment. I don’t know if I have the bandwidth.”
It’s not a “no.” I take that as a victory. “Think about it.” I mask my excitement. If I show too much, it might scare her away.
“Okay.” Cassie shrugs again, allowing her hands to join in. “Well. Today’s been...odd? I guess I’ll talk to you later.” She descends the porch steps.
I don’t want to take my eyes off her petite frame, the gentle swell of her hips, but if she catches me staring, she’ll know it’s true. Everything my mom said is true. So, I enter the house before she climbs into her SUV.
My mom sleeps heavily through the evening. She doesn’t stir, doesn’t move a centimeter. I rearrange her a couple of times to make sure she doesn’t lose a limb from lack of circulation. At eleven o’clock I decide it’s her fault if she has to amputate body parts, and I go to bed.
When I wake up on Tuesday morning, I feel hopeful about my chances with Cassie despite my mom’s drunken word vomit last night. Cassie has a few days to think about my suggestion, and if I know her well—which I do—I expect her to jump on my idea to expand her tours to Benton Street. I can’t believe I thought of that on the fly.
In some ways, I feel like a teenage boy. I want to poke her arm, smack the back of her head in that annoying flirtatious way hormonal teenage boys do—their way of saying, “Hey I like you. Want to come to my neighborhood meeting Thursday night?”
But I’m no longer pubescent. I’m far from needing little blue pills, but my testosterone is on the downswing. In other words, I have a little more control. A little.
I’m reminded of that every time I replay last night’s front porch encounter with Cassie. I keep thinking about her hands, turning the image over and over in my mind, how thin and delicate her fingers are, beautiful enough to sell diamond rings and lotions and acrylic nails. I’m savoring the little details, like the cute curve of her pink nails, the way they gently round off at the tips.
I can’t sit around thinking about Cassie all day. I need to get my head back in the game. My whenever-I-feel-like-it, lackadaisical work schedule ends today.
Korg stirs as I sit up and swing my legs off the bed. As soon as I open the bedroom door, he sprints into the hallway. I let him out the front door to do his business and give him a few minutes to run free before calling him back in.
We both head into the kitchen. I fill his water bowl and dump a can of Pedigree into his food dish, and then I pop a pod into my Keurig. As the coffee is brewing, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Goosebumps cascade down my arms and the skin on the back of my neck prickles.
It’s the cabinet door again. The one on the end that keeps opening by itself. I look over in time to watch the door swing slowly and then stop abruptly. Not weird at all.
I walk over and poke the bottom corner of the door with my index finger and send the door back where it came from, then I walk over, reopen the door, and wiggle it back and forth while eyeballing the hinges to see if they’re out of whack. They seem stable and tight, just like they were yesterday when I checked them. And the day before that.
Option 1: the cabinets are haunted.
Option 2: the kitchen is haunted.
Option 3: my house is haunted.
I’m going with Option 1. Luckily, the cabinets are leaving the premises soon, most likely under duress caused by sledgehammers and crowbars. I might just demolish the uppers myself to make sure it’s done right.
I shake off the eerie feeling and throw together a breakfast before the cabinet door decides to open on its own again. With breakfast in hand, I head to my office for my first honest day of work in two months.
I took time off to get Mom and me moved and settled. Financially, I could draw from my investments indefinitely, but I’m only thirty-five. It’s too early to retire. Besides, I like what I do.
My office is the only room in the house that I’ve bothered to “decorate.” I bought a couple of bookshelves, unpacked my graphic novel collection and my Funko Pop figures, pulled the moving paper off my ridiculously ornate solid wood desk (an impulse buy after I made my first million), and brought in my ergonomic Eames chair. I have dual monitors set up, so I don’t have to hunch over my MacBook. A cheap little ring light sits behind the monitors to brighten my face during virtual meetings.
The moss green walls lack picture frames or other ornamentation. A few cobwebs lace the corners. The bundle of cords at my feet is a technological nightmare. Regardless, I can function in here. I’ll let my interior decorator tend to the details.
My checklist for Stratos Capital’s Charleston office is basic: find an office space, hire an office manager, schmooze with local investors, see if they want a piece of our Charleston branch. That’s when the hard work starts, the part where I facilitate local business development and while doing so, roll up my sleeves and find brilliant people with brilliant ideas that can launch us all into the financial stratosphere. I built the L.A. office from scratch. I can do it again.
At ten o’clock, my partners and I meet with an L.A.-based startup that has developed a line of masculine soaps called Ironforge, like Dr. Squatch but with more sophisticated fragrances, so the owner says. Without the advent of smell-o-vision, I can’t say whether their scents are anything special. I ask the business owner to send me their entire line and the entire Dr. Squatch line for comparison. The man-scent market might be too saturated, but I won’t know until our market analysts run the numbers.
After the meeting, my grumbling stomach tells me I need a snack. I head toward the kitchen with Korg on my heels. He does a little dance by the front door, so I let him out. Fall temperatures have finally descended into South Carolina. It’s not the crisp fall of Chicago, but at least it’s not scorching hot. I sit on the porch steps while Korg runs around smelling every inch of the front yard. When he finally finds an acceptable place to pee, he lifts his leg for what seems like five minutes. I swear that dog has a steel bladder. Finally, the stream reduces to a trickle. He claws at the dirt with his back legs to mark his territory, as if the pee wasn’t enough. I cluck my tongue, and he comes running.
We both enter the kitchen enthusiastically, to the chagrin of my hungover mother. She’s slumped at the eat-in table, cradling her head in her hands.
“Rough night?” I ask as I head to the fridge.
She peeks at me and rolls an eye. I assume her other eye rolled with it, but her hand is covering that side of her face.
Korg perches next to my mom, tongue out, panting, waiting for pets.
I grab cold cuts and cheese from the fridge and toss them onto the island. “Want a ham and cheese sandwich?”
Mom groans.
I didn’t figure. “How about a glass of water and some Tylenol?”
She flutters a hand in the air, and I take it as a yes.
I grab a bottle of Tylenol from the cabinet by the fridge, fill up a glass of water and take it over to her.
“I don’t think it will help,” she says.
“Might not.”
She uncrumples herself long enough to dispense two pills from the bottle, toss them into her mouth, and take a sip of water.
I walk back to the island to make my sandwich. Korg gives up hoping for Mom’s affection and curls on the floor by her feet. When I sit across from Mom with the sandwich in one hand and my own glass of water in the other, Mom winces.
“What,” I ask.
“The smell.”
“I showered last night and this morning.”
“Not you. The sandwich.”
“Oh.” I stuff half of it in my mouth. “Sorry.” My voice is muffled by bread and sandwich guts.
“I had a dream about—”
“I don’t think you had any dreams last night. You were dead to the world.”
“I dreamed you brought Cassie home.”
I take a swig of water and send my inadequately chewed food down my esophagus. “That wasn’t a dream, Mom.”
Mom straightens. The distressed expression on her face tells me the simple movement required a great deal of effort.
“No.” She shakes her head.
“Yes.”
“I told her about my booty call with your dad.” Realization sends the corners of her lips southward.
“The booty call you’re not going to answer.”
“She thinks I’m a slut. She thinks I’ll trade sex for real estate.”
“Pretty much.”
Mom anchors her elbows on the table and rests her forehead against her palms.
She utters a loud groan. “Nooooo.”
“It’s not that bad. She knows you weren’t in your right mind.”
“I told her she was the one. I told her you think she’s the one!” Mom looks up and gapes at me.
“Yes, you did say that.”
“What else did I say?”
“You said I get drunk and sulk about Cassie in my free time.”
Her jaw drops again.
“You implied that I’ve won her back. Which I have not. I’m not done trying but you might have thrown a wrench in things. Oh. And you smelled her hair and told her she smells like lavender. You also said something about green eggs and spam.”
“It tickles.”
“Yup.”
“Luke, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“Vodka.”
Mom groans again. “Did I ruin it between you two?”
I swallow the last part of my sandwich and lean back. Sunlight filters through the window to my left, lighting the tabletop and Mom’s salt and pepper hair. “I don’t know yet.”
“If you’re not back together, why was she here?”
“It’s complicated.”
“How so?”
I tell mom about our livestreamed blind date that ended with her telling me off, riding to I107 like Miss Gulch in The Wizard of Oz, the radio segment that actually went pretty decent, Cassie’s bright idea to livestream our second date so she could get out of having a real conversation with me.
Mom looks horrified. “Was I live on Instagram?”
“No. I swiped the phone out of her hand and shut off the stream.”
“Thank God.” Mom crumples onto the table again.
“I asked her to the neighborhood meeting Thursday, though, so all might not be lost. I’m waiting to hear back.”
“Why would she want to come to our neighborhood meeting?” Mom says in a muffled voice.
“I asked her if she’d like to expand her tour business to Benton Street.”
Mom peeks from behind her forearm and raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re having to jump through all these hoops. I don’t think she’s interested in you, Luke. Maybe it’s time to give up on her.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To save yourself grief.”
“She’s into me. She just doesn’t want to admit it.”
Mom rolls her eyes and then buries her head again. “Not all women are into you,” she says to the tabletop.
“I know, but my instincts tell me it’s not over yet.”
“My instincts tell me to brush my teeth and take a shower.”
My text notification goes off. I pull the phone from my back pocket, expectant, hoping, only to have my spirits dashed. It’s Macy.
Call me. I need to talk to you.
I’m not sure why she always texts me to tell me to call her. But it is what it is.
Mom perks up. “Is it Cassie?”
“No. Work. I have to take this in my office. Drink lots of water. You’ll feel better eventually.” I stand and pat her on the back on my way to my office, Korg trailing dutifully behind me.
I make sure the office door latches, which guarantees a smidgen of privacy assuming Mom doesn’t put her ear to a glass on the other side of the door. She doesn’t know I’m financially supporting Macy and given her recent inability to keep secrets, that’s for the best. After popping my AirPods into my ears, I dial.
“Hey,” Macy answers dully.
“Why do you always text me to call you? You realize instead of all that thumb exercise you could just punch a single button?”
“I don’t want to bug you in the middle of one of your fancy meetings.”
I guess she has a point. “Fine,” I concede. “How is Gabe?” Her phone calls are usually about Gabe and the extra costs he incurs.
“He’s sick again. His doctor said it’s another ear infection. He told me to take Gabe to a specialist.”
“An otolaryngologist?”
“My doc called it an Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor, but I guess if you want to be fancy.”
“What’s with the ‘fancy’ quips?”
I hear a sigh on the other end. “Sorry. I guess I’m grumpy. I’m just so tired. Gabe won’t sleep through the night. He wakes up screaming every two hours.”
“Ear infections hurt,” I say remembering the time we went to Saint Joseph on Lake Michigan and a surprise wave slapped me in the head. I ended up with the worst ear infection of my life.
“Yeah,” Macy says.
“What did the ENT say?”
“He needs another set of ear tubes. Apparently his first set already fell out.”
I whistle. “Poor kid.”
“I’m going to need five hundred. That’s how much insurance won’t cover. And...”
I wait for her to finish. She doesn’t so I assume this next one will be a doozy.
“And?” I prod.
“My tires are bald. I’ve been putting it off but I’m starting to feel afraid to drive Gabe around in that thing.”
By “thing,” she means her 2006 Ford Focus. I’ve stopped short of buying her a new car. I’m willing to help but only so much. Gabe isn’t mine, but after nine months of thinking he was, I built an attachment. I can’t let him suffer because his mom can’t hold down a job for more than two months.
To be fair, it’s hard for Macy. Childcare in L.A. is the cost of a mortgage, and the mortgages out there make even upper middle class folks house-poor.
“I’ll transfer fifteen hundred to your account.”
Macy doesn’t answer immediately. I don’t know if she was hoping for more or what, but that’s my max.
“Thanks, Luke,” she says finally. “I really appreciate it. So does Gabe. Or he will when he’s old enough to know who’s supporting him.”
That last comment makes me cringe. When I agreed to help Macy after I found out she cheated on me, I didn’t set an end date. I should’ve. I should’ve provided expectations, stipulations. Does she think I’m going to send Gabe to college?
I rub my face.
“No problem,” I say. “Just make sure the money goes to its intended purpose.”
Macy scoffs. “I always do.”
“OK. Well. Then. I trust you.” No, I don’t. I don’t trust Macy. She cheated on me and lied about me being the father of her child.
But cheaters can change.
I’ve changed.
“Keep me updated on Gabe,” I say.
“I will.”
We say our goodbyes, and then I drop my earbuds on the desk.
Best case, Macy finds a good man and doesn’t need me anymore. Worst case, I end up needing a lawyer.
Either way, I can’t fix it today.
I tap my mouse to wake up my computer.
Back to work.