Come As You Are Page 19

  She juts her hip out to the side, tapping the toe of her red cowboy boot. “That’s totally the way it is,” she whispers and nods at the car. “It’s that way for me too. Carlos owns his own business.” She scans the block then whispers, “A dispensary. Want to meet him? He loves to shower me with gifts.” She flashes a silver bracelet with a turquoise stone in it. “He picked this up for me at the casino.”

  She turns toward the car and taps the door. “Carlos, show your pretty face to my daughter.”

  With one hand on the wheel, her new beau leans his head toward the passenger side, flashing a huge grin as he drums his fingers on the dashboard in time to pop music blasting from the radio. He’s probably twenty-eight.

  “Hi, Carlos,” I say flatly.

  “Hey, Sabrina, good to finally meet you. You want to hang out with us today?”

  “I have a business meeting. But thanks.” I turn to my mother. “I have to go. I have an appointment in midtown in thirty minutes, and I need to dry my hair.”

  “Let us drive you. We can totally help you, and we can chat and catch up.”

  “No,” I say faster than I’ve ever answered any question. “I don’t have time to talk right now.”

  “How do you not have time for your momma?”

  I want to ignore her. I want to play it cool. But this time I can’t. The ancient hurt wells up. The frustration that’s never far away when it comes to her spills over. “Me? How do I not have time? How did you not have time for us? You left us, Maureen. You left your thirteen-year-old son. You didn’t make any time for him.”

  She laughs, dismissing me with a wave. “You were so much better at taking care of Kevin than I was. I never understood that boy. It was all for the best that you wound up looking out for him. Don’t you think so?”

  Red billows from my eyes. Fumes roll off my body. How can she do this? That’s not how mothering works, handing off a kid you don’t understand to your other kid. That’s not how family works. “Looking out for him? I raised him, Maureen. You left.”

  “And it was the right choice.”

  The temperature in me rises. “It was only for the best because I love him unconditionally. Because I treated him better, not because it was an acceptable thing to—”

  I cut myself off. My pulse speeds too dangerously for this conversation to continue. Why bother arguing with her? It won’t change the past, and it won’t alter the future. I absolutely know why my mother left us. Because she wanted to. Because she chose to.

  I can make a choice too.

  I don’t have to give her an audience. I don’t have to answer her questions. “I’m leaving, Maureen.”

  “Fine, fine. Be that way. But since you got yourself a rich, hot thing, can you help your momma out with some greenbacks?” She brushes her thumb and forefinger together. “I just need five thousand dollars for this new venture that Carlos and I want to start. Not too much, right? Surely, you can spare that.”

  I stare at her incredulously.

  This is who she is.

  This is how she acts.

  It shouldn’t surprise me. But it still does. Maybe it always will. But my answer will always be the same.

  “No.”

  “No?” She’s equally incredulous. “How can you say no?”

  I scoff. “I don’t have money for you, and I certainly don’t have Flynn’s money for you. I barely have my own. I have a business meeting to go to, and I am leaving. Drive safely.”

  I head inside, slamming the door behind me, my breath coming hard and fast and angry. Latent fury runs through my veins and threatens to overtake me.

  But I don’t have the time for rage.

  I have life to deal with.

  I must refuse to let her bother me.

  I tell myself to let her go, and I picture her and her boyfriend cruising along the interstate, blasting past the speed limit, getting the hell out of New York and away from me.

  I bid them a silent farewell.

  She is who she is, and every day I make the choice not to be my mother’s daughter.

  I dry my hair, run to the subway, and soon I’m back at the building in midtown, heading inside. I do a double take when I reach the nineteenth floor.

  The frames of old editions on the walls have been removed. The receptionist is gone. Most of the desks are dismantled.

  Bob Galloway strides in my direction. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in days.

  31

  Flynn

  * * *

  I toss the towel into the hamper of the gym locker, grab my wallet, and slide my glasses back on. When I turn to leave, I nearly bump chests with Dale, the locker room attendant.

  He flashes a toothy grin. “Hey, Flynn. I’ve been thinking about what you said, and here’s my idea.”

  He wastes no time, and I do respect that. “Hit me.”

  Spreading his hands out wide, he makes the universal sign for I’m-about-to-give-an-elevator-pitch. “Picture this. Instead of How’m I Doing rating my own sexual performance, what if it’s used to rate your partner’s?”

  I blink, rubbing my ear. That can’t possibly be how he’s decided to pivot on his idea. “That’s your plan?”

  He nods proudly. “You’d use the app to write up the person you just got busy with. Like a sexual Yelp.”

  I part my lips to speak, but I’m not sure words exist to describe how awful that would be.

  Dale misinterprets my silence. “Brilliant, right? You could share information about someone. Rate them like an Uber driver. Let the next person know what they’re getting into.”

  “No pun intended,” I say drily, recovering speech.

  “Right. No pun.”

  That’s the problem.

  An expectant look in his eyes, he waits for my blessing. I scratch my head, trying to figure out exactly how to combine the words in the right order to tell him never do this, when he holds up a finger and says, “Or, my other idea is something to do with pizza. Because I like pizza, and everybody likes pizza, and maybe I should make an app where you rate your favorite pizza places and share ideas for great and unexpected toppings and combos.”

  My smile spreads of its own accord, and I clap his shoulder. “Go in that direction. Pizza is awesome. Pizza is good.”

  I leave the gym and head to my office. In the lobby, Claude raises his face and waves. “Mr. Parker, did I ever tell you about my cousin?”

  I stifle a groan but slap on a smile. “The one who wants to play professional miniature golf?”

  Claude chuckles and shakes his head. “Not him. I told him he needed to figure that out on his own. No one was going to ‘GoFund’ him and his dumbass idea,” he says, sketching air quotes, and I’m glad Claude set him on the right path. “This is my other cousin. Gracie. She’s eleven and goes to school in the Bronx, and they’re trying to take a trip to the planetarium next week. You know that one where Neil deGrasse Tyson does his thing?”

  “He’s the man. I love that guy.”

  “They’re trying to go there. Isn’t that cool?” He’s beaming, and I don’t even wait for him to ask for the money.

  “You need me to fund it? I’ll do it.”

  “What?” He jerks back, clearly flummoxed.

  “Oh, I thought you were asking.”

  “No, but I’m sure they do need some help. I was just telling you about it ’cause I knew you liked him. I like that dude as well. I like to watch him on TV.”

  “Claude, let me take care of it. It would be a pleasure.”

  As I make the offer officially, an idea blasts into my brain. Unexpected, but completely awesome. Because that’s what ideas do. They pop out of nowhere. I’m eager as hell to head upstairs and work out the details.

  “Really? That’d be amazing. Gracie will be excited, and so will her class. You’re the man.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Anything that exposes young kids to science is a good thing.”

  As I make my way toward the elevator with a renewed sense of pur
pose, ready to tackle my plan, another voice calls my name. It’s a little gravelly, like it was roughened over the years by too many cigarettes.

  When I turn, I see a woman with flaming red hair and too many bracelets. “Yoo-hoo! Sabrina told me to come see you.”

  32

  Sabrina

  * * *

  Even though his face is bedraggled, the suit Bob Galloway wears looks like it cost a mint. The stitching aligns so elegantly across his shoulders that it must have been custom-made.

  “Sabrina,” he says, extending his hand and shaking mine. “Thanks for coming by. I need to give you a kill fee.”

  I flinch then swallow hard. “A kill fee?” I ask, in case there’s a chance I heard him wrong.

  “It was a brilliant piece. One of the best stories I’ve read in years.” He gestures to the disheveled offices, sighing heavily. “But the publication is shutting down.”

  Swaying, I brace myself against the wall. It’s as if the ground has fallen out from under me. “You’re shutting down?” I ask, because this makes zero sense.

  “Like many other print publications, we don’t have enough ad dollars to survive.”

  “But you had all those fat magazines full of ad pages.”

  “Those were from last year.”

  “What about the website?” I ask, grasping for the bow of a sinking boat.

  “We didn’t move quickly enough to establish a presence, so others have beaten us there.” He clears his throat, looking around sheepishly at the emptying offices. “And we might have overspent in a few areas.”

  In an instant, everything snaps into view. I see where the money went. It went to parties, to his suits, to these opulent offices they didn’t need. It went to paying exorbitant fees for articles.

  “The story isn’t going to run anywhere?” I choke out.

  “That’s why I wanted to call you in today.”

  “You could have emailed me,” I point out gently.

  Genteel till the end, he removes his wallet from his back pocket. “No. I couldn’t. I’m paying you the kill fee from my own pocket.”

  Snapping open his billfold, he fishes out two crisp hundred-dollar bills, less than 5 percent of the finished fee, and hands them to me. “The piece was amazing. Brilliant. Fair. Thoughtful. Entertaining. Beautifully written. Everything I could want,” he says, and I beam, a ray of sunshine peeking through a cloudy sky. “I’m sorry we won’t have a home for it. But it’s yours to do what you want with. You could publish it on your own website. Maybe turn it into a book,” he suggests, and both ideas border on outlandish.

  One, I don’t publish articles on my website, since I don’t have one. Two, it’s not a book.

  Still, I did the work, so I take the money and thank him. “What are you going to do, sir?”

  He shrugs happily. “I’m retiring. Sometimes you just have to get out of the business.”

  I leave in a daze, my feet heavy, my heart leaden once more. I feel useless again. Used.

  And confused.

  Stepping into the elevator, it’s as if everything I knew about my business has been turned inside out. Bob Galloway was the exemplar of journalism. He was the man I admired. But even he couldn’t keep his ship afloat during trying times.

  The elevator chugs downward as my insides churn. I didn’t expect to leave today with my original fee and a pending byline. I always knew I’d be leaving empty-handed.

  But the part I’m struggling with is that I was fighting for a chance that was never going to materialize. The job here was smoke and mirrors. My actions were meaningless. I didn’t even need to confess my sins, since they had no bearing on the story after all.

  When I reach the lobby, I take a deep breath and try to make sense of what to do next.

  This is a twist I didn’t see coming, and even though I’m two hundred dollars richer, I’m walking out the door with more questions.

  Where should I go next? What should I do? What sort of work should I pursue?

  I’m tempted to head to the nearest coffee shop and fire off clip after clip to other editors. But before I do that, I reflect on last night.

  On Flynn’s words outside Gramercy Park.

  Let me be there for you.

  Out on the street, I stare up at the looming skyscraper, the plucky heroine with the new job opportunity no more.

  But as I furrow my brow, the wheels start turning. The dots connect. And I can see a way through.

  I can see a whole new path.

  Maybe the story was never pointless. Maybe the story was always meant to be my way to Flynn.

  It’s a strange way for me to look at things. I’ve always been a practical woman. I’ve always been work-focused, seen things in the context of responsibility.

  And yet, even if it was all for nothing, I believe what I went through was all for everything.

  I believe it with my whole heart.

  This job was never my future.

  Because my future includes Flynn.

  And maybe, just maybe, there’s something else that I can do. I don’t have to figure it out alone.

  Yes, I have Courtney. Yes, I have Kevin, but now I have someone who is supposed to be by my side as I navigate what’s next. I do something that feels crazy, but completely right.

  I call my boyfriend to see if he has a few minutes to chat.

  33

  Flynn

  * * *

  I shoot her a skeptical stare. “Sabrina told you to come here?”

  “My daughter sure did,” her mom says, striding up to me and tapping her long red fingernails against my chest. “She said you could help me out.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “Did she now?”

  Her mom shimmies her shoulders back and forth. “Yes, she did. She said you were so generous, and she knew you’d be willing to help the mom of the girl you love.”

  “Is that so?” I arch a brow.

  Her mother smiles—a big fat grin. “She did.”

  “And what is it that you need, Ms.—” I stop, since I don’t know if they have the same last name or not.

  “Ms. Maureen Lancaster.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  A voice cuts in. “Everything okay, Mr. Parker?”

  I nod to Claude. “I’m all good.” I turn back to Sabrina’s mom. “You’re saying Sabrina told you to come see me today?”

  “She sure did. I saw you two kissing like lovebirds on the street, since I was coming to town to visit her. And after my sweet girl and I caught up once you left, she said you’d be so willing to help me out. That all I’d need to do was come see you and give you the details.”

  I rub a hand over my jaw. This is a brand-new pitch for me. A proposal I never could have expected. “She did?”

  Maureen nods, chewing gum and smiling as if it’s the last thing she plans to do today. “She told me where you worked, and how generous you are, and how you always like to help her family.”

  “I do love to help her,” I say, studying Maureen’s face, trying to see any signs of love for her daughter, for her son.

  “And since you’re some kind of billionaire, she said it would be easy-peasy for you to give me ten thousand dollars for a new business I’m trying to start. Since that’s what you do, right? You start businesses?”

  “Is that what Sabrina told you?”

  “Of course, and I read all about you on the internet.”

  “Then you’d know I’m not a billionaire.”

  She laughs lightly. “Billionaire, multimillionaire. What’s the difference?”

  “A comma. A very important comma.”

  She parks a hand on her hip and juts it out to her side in what is likely supposed to be a sexy stance. “What do you say to helping the woman who gave life to your new lady?”

  A hundred thoughts run through my head. Someday, I’m going to write them down and pen a book—All the Wild Pitches.

  And this pitch would take the top spot. Win the gold medal. The Academy Awar
d.

  It would win it since there was once a time when I might have believed this woman. A few months ago, maybe even a few weeks ago. Not because she’s believable, but because I trusted no one. I’d been burned by women. My old habits would have died hard in this lobby, and I’d have suspected Sabrina was up to no good.

  But I’m not that guy anymore.

  I know who to trust. I know who to believe.

  “Ms. Lancaster, you want to know what I say to your offer?”

  “I sure do,” she says, giving a coy little twirl of her hair.

  I straighten my shoulders. Draw a deep breath. Speak the truth. “I would say that you have an amazing daughter and an incredible son. Maybe you ought to focus a little bit more on them.” I take a beat, hoping to give weight to my last words. “Because she’s amazing in spite of you, not because of you. Have a great day.”

  I walk away, letting Claude know he can see her out. That’ll make him happy, since he’ll be doing his job.

  I need to do mine too. The job of being a great boyfriend.

  Once I’m upstairs in the office, I make phone calls. I pull strings. I call in favors.

  “Can we get that done by the end of the day?”

  The woman on the other end hems and haws. “That’s going to be hard.”

  “I’d really appreciate whatever you can do to rush this.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I don’t want to wait to give this to Sabrina. I want to give it to her tonight.

  When I hang up, my phone rings, her name flashing on the screen. I answer immediately, and she asks if I have time to meet her.

  “Absolutely.”

  34

  Sabrina

  * * *

  I can’t help but grin when I see Flynn at the coffee shop by his office.

  Here he is looking business handsome in dark jeans and a simple white-and-green-striped button-down that doesn’t look like it costs a million bucks. It looks like it costs maybe sixty or seventy dollars and I kind of love that he doesn’t have to flaunt anything except his big brain. I do like that part of him.