Three #2
“Nothing,” I shake my head. He doesn’t need to know that his knight in shining armor act, albeit at my father’s behest, is
once again making me feel loved.
There is a cup of coffee, still hot, on the nightstand when I wake up. I look around the room thinking, Jesus. Three nights
in a row at Jerome’s. Maybe it’s time to move a toothbrush here. I rub my eyes, thinking that cleanser might be a good idea,
as well.
Throwing the covers back, I see I’m in a soft old T-shirt of Jerome’s. I have no recollection of getting undressed. Jerome must have undressed me and put me to bed. And I must have had more to drink than I thought I had.
I take the coffee and walk into the kitchen, where Jerome is perched at the counter, eating a bowl of oatmeal with blueberries
and half a spoon of organic brown sugar. I know this because he eats this every weekday, and I know he does this because it’s
exactly what my father eats every morning.
“I made you oatmeal.” He passes a bowl to me. I get up and fetch the bag of sugar from the pantry and the butter from the
fridge.
“That’s so bad for you.” He sighs as I add two more spoonfuls of sugar on the oatmeal, and top it off with a large wedge of
butter that pools into a golden puddle.
“I know. But it’s delicious.” I take a huge bite and grin at him with my mouth full. “Do you have any Tylenol?”
“Bathroom cabinet.” He makes no move to get them for me, so I get up myself to retrieve two, before shaking a third one into
my hand, moving my mouth to the faucet to wash them down.
By the time I get back to the kitchen, Jerome has finished his oatmeal and is sitting on the stool, his arms crossed. My heart
sinks ever so slightly. We have been together seven months, and I know what this arm-crossed stance means: It means we are
about to have a fight, that Jerome disapproves of me, that he thinks I could be doing, or being, better.
“Go on then,” I help myself to coffee and sit back down, facing him.
“Go on, what?”
“Go on, tell me how awful it is that I got drunk last night and that I am letting my father down and letting down ipryy because,
as my father’s daughter, I am one of the faces of the company.”
His jaw sets. “You think this is funny?”
“Not funny, just . . . irritating. I wasn’t there through work. I was there as a friend of Lucy’s and had no idea anyone from ipryy would be there. I was having fun. I didn’t make a fool of myself, I didn’t throw myself into the swimming pool fully clothed or make out with some random dude.”
“I would hope not.”
“Exactly. I didn’t do anything to be ashamed of. I just had fun. Please don’t berate me for acting like every other twenty-nine-year-old
on the planet.”
“But you’re not every other twenty-nine-year-old on the planet. I know you hate hearing me say this, but you’re Missy Cooke,
and as Marty Cooke’s daughter, the world is always watching you. If you want to get drunk when we’re home having dinner, fine,
but at a party where the world is watching, it’s not okay.”
I narrow my eyes. “Do you actually think it’s not okay or are you just parroting my father?”
“Jesus, Missy. Give me some credit.”
I shrug. “What am I supposed to think, given that you got out of bed last night, got dressed, and drove into the Cupertino
Hills to rescue me from a party at his command. For all I know, he told you to say this to me today.”
“Now you’re being childish. He didn’t tell me to say anything.”
“I don’t believe you. I know my father, and I know he would have put you up to it.”
“If you know your father, you know he’s perfectly capable of fighting his own battles.”
“So this is a battle, is it?”
“You’re putting words into my mouth. This is ridiculous. This isn’t something we need to fight about. I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need help. You’re trying to control me.”
“That’s bullshit.” Jerome is getting angry. “And it’s not fair.”
My face is reddening. “You show up at a party you’re not invited to specifically to bring me home, and then give me a pep
talk about not drinking? And you think that’s not controlling?”
“You’re almost thirty, Missy. Don’t you think you’re a little old to be going to parties and getting shit-faced? When are
you going to grow up?”
My flush fades. “You know what, Jerome? Fuck you.” And I leave.
I regret my dramatic exit the minute I’m out the door. Not least because I’m wearing a long T-shirt and nothing else. My feet
are bare, my purse is inside, and I’ve got nothing other than my phone.
I know Jerome thinks I’m going to go back inside. What else could I do, dressed the way I am, but there’s no way I’m going
back. I text Lucy, and sit on the grass until I see her Mini Cooper zip down the road, like a mirage in the desert.
“What the fuck?” She starts to laugh when I open the door. “Let’s go, Shoeless Joe.”
Defiantly, I get in the car and turn back to Jerome’s house, a small thrill when I see him opening the front door, shocked
to see me leaving.
“Fight with Jerome?” Lucy asks as we turn the corner.
“You were right. He is controlling.”
“Duh. You’re only just seeing it now?”
“I’m just so pissed off. He woke up this morning giving me a hard time about drinking.”
“Urgh. I’m sorry. You don’t drink that much.”
“Exactly. He gave me the whole Marty Cooke’s daughter bullshit.”
“As if anyone cares. You’re so low profile, no one even knows who you are.”
“I know. I’m sure my father told him to talk to me.”
“We knew this would happen. He’s your dad’s protégé. I’m not going to say I told you so, but we did kind of know your dad
would probably use him to get to you.”
I sink back in the seat and pull the T-shirt over my knees as I gaze out the window. “Let’s talk about something else,” I
say, and the subject is closed.