Page 26 of Stuck-Up Big Shot
“Haveyou thought about writing a letter toAsk Idato get her opinion on what you should do?”
I look up from the boxes of clothing that I’m sorting through to find Lucy standing in the doorway, her hand at her crooked hip, pinning me with a pointed look as she snacks on a carrot. We’ve been recounting the strange encounters I’ve had recently with Miles, all the bizarre behaviors he’s exhibited, and how I finally told him about Mel last night right before he kissed me.
“Ask Ida?” I ask, giving her a quizzical glance as I continue to unfold a pile of new blouses from the storeroom. “You mean the advice column in the paper where she doles out advice to readers about their crazy life problems?”
Lucy smiles and gives a rapid nod. “Si. I read it all the time and Idaalways gives practical and realistic suggestions, and they usually make me laugh. She’s hilarious and tells it like it is. I’ve wanted to write in several times on how to handle my surly teenager.”
I laugh as Lucy rolls her eyes in exasperation over her daughter, Maria.
Returning my attention to the remaining bags of clothing in the box, I consider her suggestion about writing to the advice columnist about my troubles with Miles.
“I don’t know. . . I’d worry I’d be identified. That would make matters even worse between Miles and me.”
I chew on my lip, sitting back on my heels to consider the possibility of writing my tale of woe to a newspaper columnist to share all my embarrassing moments with Miles. What would I even include in that letter? Would I share everything about our past and history, adding that he’s now kissed me twice and each time he’s been drunk as a skunk? It makes me sound pathetic and lame.
Lucy kneels down next to me, picking up the box cutter and slicing open another box, this one filled with leather purses and other accessories. Each one of these items will have to be inventoried, by yours truly. I’ll iron any wrinkly fabrics before merchandising them out on the shop floor. It’s definitely not one of my favorite tasks, but at least I get paid for doing the mind-numbing work. The only problem is it leaves me a ton of time to think about Miles.
“No, you could remain anonymous and change names and the story up a little. Why don’t you tell me about the trouble with this neighbor of yours? Maybe I can help you.”
My shoulders sag with all the emotion and anxiety I’ve felt the last two days since the night Miles kissed me.
“Lucy, you have no idea. Everything about this situation makes me feel like a fool. Like a puppy dog chasing after him, desperate for his attention. The only time he’s ever paid me any attention is when he’s been wasted. The first time was seven years ago, the day of Melodie’s funeral. And the other night, it was actually Mel’s birthday.”
I cover my face with my hands to hide my shame. Just hearing the story alone makes me sound like an idiot. The man doesn’t see me as a potential girlfriend or a woman he wants to date. My presence when he’s been blitzed out of his mind is merely a convenience when he’s desperate.
Lucy makes atskingnoise, clucking her tongue, and reaches over to tug my hands free. My palms drop to the tops of my thighs as I open my eyes to see one of her gentle, motherly smiles etched across her mouth, and I can’t help but return the smile.
“Sutton, I don’t know Miles, but I know the only fool in this scenario is him if he passes you up. You are a beautiful, bright, and genuine young woman who has so much to offer some deserving man. But that is just my opinion. You should definitely write to Ask Ida. She will know what you should do.”
Later that evening, after walking Blackie and heating up some spaghetti and meatballs from a frozen dinner, I pull up theAsk Idawebsite on my laptop. Scrolling through pages of previously answered letters, I chuckle out loud at some outrageously funny stories people have sent in and the hilarious responses from Ida. One is from a reader named Stuck-Up Suit in Manhattan. That one is a kind of sweet love story.
Reading a few more letters to get an idea of what details I should include; I open up the “Contact” page on the website and begin typing.
Dear Ida,
I have a problem. I’m in love with my childhood best friend’s older brother, who also now happens to be my neighbor. It’s a long story, but the problem is that he barely knows I exist, even though he’s kissed me twice in the last seven years. But after each kiss, he’s promptly forgotten me. Literally forgotten. He doesn’t remember our kisses or even who I am to him. And he certainly doesn’t know how I feel about him.
In fact, he’s sort of a big shot financial guy and isn’t at all like the boy I knew. I know he’s grieving over a tremendous loss in his life, and I want more than anything to help him get through it. But I fear it would only hurt me in the long run.
What do I do? Stay away from him or pour my heart out in hopes he’ll remember?
–The Forgotten Fool
I stare at the blinking cursor rereading the letter, doing a quick check for typos or grammatical errors before I send it out into the unknown. With a confidence that I don’t particularly feel, I confirm the note doesn’t offer too many identifying details and press the Send button.
The sound of a door closing down the hallway has me holding my breath and stiffening in my seat. Is that Miles? Where’s he been?
It’s a Sunday evening, and a glance at the clock on the wall shows it’s after ten p.m. I wonder how he’s feeling. Was he hung over? Did he get sick last night after I’d left?
Guilt seizes in my belly, gnawing and chewing at my insides like an angry monster, as the memory of me sneaking out of his apartment to return to my guestroom alone haunts me. What I’d really wanted to do was curl up beside Miles and sleep next to him all night.
Yet I chose not to, out of self-preservation more than anything. I just couldn’t stay in his bed because I’d end up fussing over him to make sure he was okay as his drunken stupor wore off. And then I’d probably lose all my sensibilities and end up having sex with him.
And that would’ve been stupid.
The one thing I know to be true about this strange pull I have with Miles is that when he wants to — when that steely, big shot veneer is lifted — he can be effortlessly charming and so damn sweet.
I remember after he and Melodie’s mom died, and their stepdad took off, their grandmother moved in with them. Miles was around sixteen at the time, in high school, and he immediately took over as the man of the house. He got the job as a lifeguard in the summer and stocked the grocery store shelves during the school year, working hard to provide for his family.
