Page 10 of For Pleasure Or Worse

"God, I hope so."

The bell on the front door jingled and the sunlight from outside brandished a sliver on the floor as a woman walked in and formed a line behind me. That was it, that was my verbal vomit attempt at convincing this woman to give me a chance. I alluded to marrying her and then told her I was a bedwetter. To save the shred of my dignity that was still left, I stood up straight and took a step back, gesturing with an arm for the woman behind me to take my place with Natalia.

"Think about it," I said. "And if you ever decide to call me, I'd love to take you on that date."

She glanced toward the floor, my guess at the garbage can and the neon Post-it note with my number scribbled on it. "I’ll think about it.”

I nodded. With that, I turned on my heels, shouldering outside into the daylight and the busy parking lot. Our installation was over; there was no reason for me to ever walk through those doors again unless I decided to open a new bank account as an excuse to show up looking for her weekly. The fact that thought even crossed my mind was alarming, and I pushed a shaky hand through the front of my hair, slicking it back.

The thing about me was that Ididget nervous. I overthought everything, but I was damn good at keeping a cap on it. For the first time in my life, that wavered. All I could think about was how badly I’d just fucked up, how she’d laugh about it to her girlfriends, how she was probably already in a relationship, or had a roster of men at her disposal. My anxiety had me glued to the sidewalk, knees locking into place as I contemplated turning back to ask her to forget it ever happened for the sake of us both.

Frankie was sitting in the driver's seat of the truck across the parking lot watching me with an eyebrow lifted. You know what, I would just blame him. It was his bright idea to go talk to her. I was always going to let her make the decision, leave my number, hope for the best. Now it was all fucked.

I took two aggressive steps in his direction, about to point a finger before my cellphone started ringing in my pocket. I put it to my ear without a second thought. "Hello?"

"I thought about it.” Her voice was slightly higher pitched, filtered through the receiver, but I knew it all the same. I twisted back toward the bank, looking through the window at the girl there with the phone to her ear, a coiled wire strung down to herdesk. “And I’m not busy Friday night.” I watched her lips move, confirming she was indeed saying what I was hearing.

"No? Okay. Me either."

"Okay," she said softly, trailed by a hum of a laugh.

chapter four

Natalia

Mateo offeredFrankie’s old room to his parents. His best friend and ex-roommate hadn’t owned much, or taken much, of anything when he left for Colorado to pursuemybest friend and ex-roommate. The spare bedroom was fully furnished, emptied, and relatively clean. Minus the bedsheets I ripped off and replaced with new ones and the bedside drawer that had an impressive pack of condoms in there, half-empty.

I would have left them, but something told me the Durans weren’t too worried about conception at their age, and Mateo might have a heart attack if he heard his parents boning across the hall. He should know better than anyone else that kinkiness is hereditary. His dad probably liked nipple stimulation just as much as he did.

Anna was awake bright and early in the morning, milling around the kitchen again like it was a pastime, familiarizing herself. The cabinets, pots and pans, the silverware drawer, the coffee mugs, the dishwashing detergent under the sink. Then she found a bottle of antibacterial spray and paper towels and spent a good fifteen minutes wiping down every flat surface in the room, removing the stains from our stainless-steel fridge, scrubbing the stovetop with a sponge that needed immediatereplacement after she was done with it. I couldn’t tell if she was passive aggressively showing me how to sanitize or genuinely happy to help.

My mom had never picked up a rag to clean something in the entire twenty-six years I’d been alive. We had people for that. Our family kitchen was surgical-core. Everything was white and silver, shiny, sterile, untouched. The chandeliers never got dusty, the floors never needed a mop, the food was always meticulously stocked with choices that were organic, free-range, or encouraged proper gut health like Jamie Lee Curtis was hiding in the fucking fridge waiting to jump out and sell it to me.

My sisters and I weren’t allowed to have any of those sugary cereals or sodas when we were kids. No artificial coloring—especiallynot red dye—no enriched flour, no corn syrup, nothing that looked like it was made to taste good or bring happiness. Our meals were portioned, we had set times we ate them, and there was a little bell at the top of the pantry door that alerted everyone if we ever dared try to open it without supervision.

So naturally, whenever I could get my hands on something I wasbarredfrom having, I did. Sneaking juice boxes on playdates, chips and cupcakes with all that extra grocery store frosting at birthday parties, Bomb Pops at the beach on the Fourth of July.

As I got older, that harmless rebellion extended into everything else. Whatever was a hard no became awatch me. I wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend, period. Never mind a boyfriend who came over and hung out watching movies and eating popcorn together on the couch. So the shaded stairwells of the private school I went to became the ideal spot to go to second base with a guy. I couldn’t wear makeup, so every dollar of allowance I got went to drugstore lipsticks and colorful eyeliner, sparkly eyeshadow, and way too bright blush I put on inthe bathroom before homeroom. I stole all the clear alcohol out of the bar cabinets and drank it out of plastic water bottles, told Mom and Dad I was sleeping at a friend's house when I was most definitely in a basement I shouldn’t have been near FAU, and—I smoked weed. I smoked it and I enjoyed it, and I found creative ways to keep it in my bedroom at home that included Altoids containers and dryer sheets.

What was most ironic about the strict rules in our house was that my parents never paid enough attention to enforce them. Dad was always at the hospital or on call, and Mom was always shut away in her office, or on a business trip, or out to lunch with a client. They were one way on paper and the exact opposite in practice. By the time I was a senior in high school I saw my parents so little I think I was practically begging for their attention with the things I did. I wanted to get in trouble. I wanted to be yelled at and told to go to my room. I wanted them tonoticetheir youngest daughter while Cami was being accepted into medical school and Bella was making waves at Yale and Mia was just finishing her third straight semester at college with a perfect GPA. I was the last Russo girl still living at home and it felt like, for my parents, the nest was already empty.

When it came time, I filled out one college application across the country at Colorado State, and my life was entirely my own once that acceptance letter came in the mail. My last act of defiance got me put on my parents’ permanent shit list, accosted with the burden of my own student loans, and the satisfaction of reminding my mother every time I saw her that I was taking full advantage of the natural, holistic, and beneficial qualities of marijuana, just like she’d want me to.

I met Ophelia at Colorado State and learned that platonic soulmates were real, and sometimes they came in the form of squirrely and meticulous education majors with too much time and too many highlighters on their hands. If there was anyonein the world that could rationalize the fact that I’d invited my mother-in-law to watch me try on wedding gowns after meeting her once, it was Phee.

Anna and I breezed down the road in my bright yellow Wrangler with the top down. A perfectly sunny, cloudless day to compliment it, our hair whipping in the wind. One of my very favorite things to do, but taking one short glance over to the passenger seat, I couldn’t tell if Mateo’s mother was having so much fun her face was paralyzed with it, or if there was a bug that had flown down her throat and she was afraid to swallow.

“I’m so glad you and David decided to stay with us,” I said, turning down the radio.

“What?” she shouted.

“I said I’m so glad that you and Mr. Duran are staying with us!”

The thrum of the engine wasn’t doing me any favors. Anna’s bob was shoulder length and coarse and there was a strand of it stuck to her periwinkle pink lipstick that I longed to reach out and pick free. She clung to her pocketbook sitting in her lap like a second seatbelt. Note to self: Driving with the top down was an acquired taste, one that might have gone better with a ponytail or a hat.

“Me too, sweetie,” she eventually answered.

“Angelo should try to come down for a visit soon, get the whole family together at least once before the wedding,” I suggested.

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