A smirk crosses her face. “I think you just don’t like the idea of an ambitious woman,” she says. “I think you’re so used to your world of testosterone and power tools that the thought of a woman who not only owns her own business, but runs it, is a threat to you.”
“That’s because you don’t know me,” I tell her, shoveling a forkful of food in my mouth. “I actually find your ambition to be one of your most attractive qualities.”
It’s super fucking attractive. I somehow always end up with chicks that don’t have much ambition at all though.
“You find me attractive?” she asks. “Just like a man: the only compliment you people can give is when it has something to do with the idea of screwing the woman you’re giving it to.”
Duh. She must know she’s a goddamned bombshell.
“Now, there’s an unfortunate assortment of words,” I laugh. “No, what I’m saying is that I love people who are driven. It doesn’t matter, man or woman, I think the quality itself is attractive. Trust me, if I was hitting on you, you’d know it.”
“Oh would I?” she asks. “You’re that smooth, are you?”
“Quite the opposite,” I tell her. “I have a particular clumsy charm, but it’s hardly something that I’d call smooth. It’s more like how that kid with the thick glasses and the lisp endears himself to you when he gets his tongue stuck on the flagpole in winter.”
She smiles and, as she realizes that I not only explained, but demonstrated my point, her face goes a little red.
“Well, you do seem like the clumsy type to me,” she says.
“Not with everything,” I tell her and look her in the eyes until her face reddens even more and she looks away.
“Now you’re hitting on me,” she says.
“Yep,” I answer quickly and sit back in my chair. “I told you that you’d know it when it happened.” I take another bite of my omelette and add, “I think it’s great that you’re so driven, so focused. I just think it’s a shame that you don’t trust yourself or your staff enough to have a life outside of work. You should take up a hobby,” I tell her.
“Yeah?” she chortles. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I start, then, just to see how far I can push this without letting her know that I’m the guy in her inbox, I add, “maybe you should take up painting.”
Her eyes narrow a bit and I know what she’s thinking, but I know that I’m safe. The reason I know that is because, based on our interactions, she can’t begin to conceive of me as the guy writing those texts to her. She sees me as the aggravating contractor who screwed one of her biggest contracts.
She’s not wrong, but that’s not the whole story, either.
“Why painting?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “If painting’s not your thing, why not try music or antiquing? I hear philately’s pretty fun, though I can’t imagine why. Hell, start smoking pot. From what I hear, homemade bong crafting is quite the art.”
She laughs her first sincere laugh, I think, since I met her and it’s disarming to see even this small a glimpse of a softer side to her.
“Maybe you’re right,” she says and finally relaxes enough take a bite of something.
“I usually am,” I smile.
“You’re kind of arrogant, you know that?” she asks, but at least she’s smiling at me.
Chapter Nine
Learning to Breathe
Jessica
“Mom, it’s not that simple,” I groan.
“I’d say it’s simple enough,” she says over her blueberry pie. “You’ve managed to make some money, and I bet if you sold that store and the merchandise that came with it, you’d have a nice little nest egg.”
“I’m not selling the store,” I tell her.
“Why not, dear?” she asks. “Are you having money trouble? Harold, grab my pocketbook, will you?”
“I’m fine on money,” I tell her. “But I’m not just doing what I’m doing to get enough money to get me by until I die. I actually believe in what I’m doing.”
“Oh,” she says, “I didn’t know you viewed selling clothes as some sort of personal crusade.”
I rub my temples. “Women’s clothing stores usually fit into two categories,” I start, “either they’re geared toward bigger women or they’re geared toward smaller women. My store is a place where any woman can come in, find something that not only looks good, but makes her feel good, and—”
“Target has clothes for big and small women,” my mom says.
“That’s different,” I tell her. “They’re not just a clothing store. They can afford to expand their clientele a little bit. There are more crossovers like mine than there used to be, but we’re still in the distant minority. A lot of the places that do offer more sizes tend to stop with single or double XL or the plus sizes they do have are just terrible. I’m not just selling clothes. What I’m trying to do is to tell women, big or small, tall or short, rich or poor, that they’re already beautiful, that they’re already good enough to feel good about themselves.”
“Oh, surely you can’t think that every woman is already good enough,” my mom says, and I’m starting to wish that I didn’t bother coming over to visit tonight.
“What did the doctor say?” I ask in order to avoid yelling at my mother all the things I’ve wanted to yell at her since I was a teenager.
“Oh, doctors don’t know anything,” she says.
“He said that they’re going to go in and remove the tumor,” my dad says. “There shouldn’t be any need for amputation.”
“That’s good,” I say. “When are they going to do that?”
My mom shrugs, but my dad answers, “They’ve scheduled surgery for next Tuesday.”
“They said it’s not progressed to the point where they need to get right in there and take care of it right this minute, can you believe that?” my mom asks.
“That’s good, though,” I tell her. “It sounds like they’re confident.”
“Oh, all doctors are confident,” my mom says. “So, when are you moving back home?”
“About that,” I start. “I really don’t think it’s going to be in anyone’s best interest for me to just move home. I’d have a huge commute every day, and I wouldn’t want you and Dad to think that this isn’t your house anymore. Why don’t you just let me pay the—”
“It’s not about the money,” my mom interrupts.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought you were getting behind on mortgage payments.”
“We just think that the city’s not the right place for you,” she says. “You’ve always been such an innocent child,” read that as ignorant, “and I don’t think you’re ready for that kind of world.”
“Mom, I’ve lived in the city for years now. I think I’m good to go,” I answer.
“It’s not just about that,” my mom adds. “How are you ever going to find a good husband in that unrepentant Sodom?”
“New York really isn’t all that bad,” I tell her. “Besides, I hardly think my situation would be improved by moving back to a place where someone new moving to town is a community event. I’d worry about inbreeding.”
“Now, Jessica…” my dad starts. It’s a sentence that he’s never finished.
“I know you’re having fun with your little rebellion or whatever this is, but it’s time to come home where we can take care of you.”
My phone beeps.
“What was that?” my mom asks.
“I just got a message,” I tell her. “Can you give me a minute? I just want to make sure it’s not something to do with the store.”
As I get up from the table, my mom leans toward my dad and, loudly enough that she’s sure I hear it, she says, “I bet it’s one of those gigolos from the city.”
The bright side about having such a backward, judgmental mother is that she’s often the source of some really great comedy, though she apparently has no idea why I’m laughing.
I walk out the back and sit on the porch swing as I check the message.
It reads, “Haven’t talked to you today. How’s it going?”
I write back, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear from you. I’m here with my mom, and it is just horrendous.”