Apples & Oranges (The This & That Series) (4 page)

Lexie and I dissolved into giggles.

“Wait, wait, wait.” I shook my head. “You guys are going off on tangents, and I have a point to all this.”

“Well, get to it!” Laughed Lexie. “You lost me way back at the Tasmanian devil tattoo.”

I took a deep breath, then released it slowly. “I don’t like being a snob like my mother.”

“Good,” they both said in unison.

“And I don’t like being rejected.” I blew my hair back again. “So maybe I just need to get this Demo character off my chest. You know, scratch an itch and all that.”

“You mean you
do
want to go out with him?” Lexie pointed a finger at Candace. “I told you.”

“Fine.” Candace reached into her pocket, and produced a dollar bill. When she saw me gaping at her, she added, “I just didn’t think you’d admit it.”

“I’m gonna take it a step farther. I think Mar wants more than just to slum it,” Lexie announced decidedly, pushing her glasses up. “I think she wants domesticity. The house, the husband, the minivan, the two-point-five kids and a golden retriever.”

“Don’t get carried away,” I interrupted.

“Can it, Vargas.” Candace nodded at Lexie. My two friends were conspiring against me, as usual. It was like this when they tried to convince me to stop tanning, too. “All this time with baby Ian, and she’s decided that procreation isn’t as vulgar as she originally thought.”

Lexie
snapped her fingers. “So she
is
going soft.”

“I never thought this day would come.” Candace waved her hands in front of her face, as if she were trying to avoid tears. “Our girl’s all grown up.”

My cheeks heated, so I hid behind a veil of my hair. They were right. Or
partially right
. After watching their husbands hold their chairs for them, and listening to the tinkling sound of their kids laughing when they made goofy faces and offered peanut butter and jelly sandwiches without the crust… I was starting to think I was missing out on something.

Before
Lexie and Fletcher unified their family, I was a serial dater. And until recently I saw no reason to change that. But nowadays I was surrounded by happy couples and happy families, and everywhere I looked everyone was happy, happy, happy. It was sickening. But I kind of wanted it, too.

And it wasn’t like I was going to find it with Demo-the-mechanic. Oh, no. He was nothing more than what I called him: an itch that needed to be scratched. But secretly, deep down under my coiffed exterior, I longed for someone to curl up with while wearing sweats and eating peanut butter straight out of the jar. I just wasn’t ready to admit it to the world.
Or my best friends.

“You’re looking pretty contemplative, Mar.” Candace stopped what she was doing and watched me closely. “Seriously. Are you thinking about asking Demo out?

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

A distraction. That’s what I needed.
Something to take my mind off my twisted perspective on marriage and relationships. Something to take my mind off the overjoyed lovebirds that were my adoptive family. And seducing the hot guy who rejected me was just the ticket. An ego boost would make me feel better. Normal.

“You’re contemplating actually dating the Tasmanian devil tattoo guy?”
Lexie’s eyes widened. “Like, for more than a week?”
              Candace elbowed her. “Be nice.”

“Okay, a month?”
she corrected.

“Whatever.” I wrinkled my nose at my friends. “Having babies
is
gross. And I’m not dating the mechanic because I’ve got some sort of domestic fever. I’m dating the mechanic because he’s hot. And
nobody
rejects me. Nobody.”

They exchanged a glance.

“There’s the Marisol we know and love,” Candace said wryly.

Lexie
sighed. “I had such high hopes. I would have made a poppy seed cake with buttercream frosting for the reception.”

My stomach growled. She did know my favorites. I pushed myself back from the table. “Oh, give it up. Both of you.”

Pressing the feelings of loneliness and inadequacy that had been following me around like smog for the past few weeks—okay, the past few
months
—deep in the back recesses of my mind, I gestured at the playpen. “Lex, take your baby home and get your freak on with the good doctor.”

“Wait, I still need to get this fresh pea mixture into the pastry shells.” She looked longingly at the playpen. “Fletcher’s been on call, so we haven’t seen each other in days. I miss him.”

Jealousy tugged at my heart, but I covered it up with an exaggerated eye roll. “Ugh. Please. I can finish this. Just go. And you.” I pointed to Candace. “You don’t even work here. Enough with the helping us out for free. Go home and mug on your hubby, and I’ll cut you a check for your time tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

I nodded. “Of course. Now get out of here, would you? Your happy marriage and family talk is giving me a stomachache. Besides, as soon as you leave, I’m opening up a bottle of that merlot we have for tomorrow’s event.”

Lexie
narrowed her eyes at me. “Ha ha. Real funny.” It was common knowledge that she’d gotten pregnant after indulging in a bottle of merlot all alone. “How will you get home?”

Candace dropped her car keys onto the table. “Take my car.
Lexie can drop me off, then I’ll pick it back up in the morning.”

“Thanks,” I said with a wave. “You guys are the best.”

“We know,” Lexie said as they made their way towards the door.

I watched as they packed up their things and left into the setting sun, back to their homes full of noise and chaos. When I finally meandered my way home, I would be met by a
bitchy male Siamese cate and leftover Thai takeout in the fridge. No noise. No mess. Just the quiet stillness of a single woman’s home filled with furniture that matched and coordinated more than it actually provided comfort. Nobody would be there to welcome me. Nobody would care whether I showed up or not, except Cocinero, who would eventually get tired of licking his own balls and want some tuna.

Grabbing a rubber spatula, I sat down at the table and started tu
rning the pea mixture again. Grunting at myself for being so pathetic, I caught a glimpse of myself in a nearby stainless steel bowl. My hair was frizzed into a halo around my face, and most of my makeup had gathered underneath my lower lashes in some sort of Emo look I was entirely too old for. I looked like hell.

“You’d better get yourself together,” I said to my reflection. “Especially if you’re going to seduce Demo-the-mechanic tomorrow.”

Chapter Four

             
Sure enough, my cat was itching for some serious food when I got home. Sadly, when I’d gotten him as a kitten ten months earlier, I’d started the habit of holding Cocinero on my lap while he ate. Now it was almost a year later, and he refused to consume a morsel of food without my cuddling and adoring him as he chewed.

             
Nobody knew how spoiled Cocinero really was.
Nobody
. I would’ve died had Lexie or Candace found out that I catered to my pet this way. They already made fun of me for buying the damn thing after Fletcher and I broke up. (I’d spent much of my time with Fletcher complaining about how annoying his giant moose-dog-hybrid was.) I could practically hear them explaining that Cocinero was an amalgam of all the babies I wanted.

Screw Candace and the
one
psychology class she’d taken—she was always making assumptions like that. When I bought Eats & Treats with Lexie, Candace said I was trying to put down roots because I’d never had roots with my parents. When I started spending Christmas mornings with she and Brian and the kids, she’d decided that I was doing it to make up for the lack of holiday memories from my childhood.

Well… maybe she had a point.
A little one.

             
“Slow down,” I said to the white puffball in my lap, my voice high and squeaky. “You’ll get the hiccups.”

             
Cocinero looked up at me with his shiny black eyes and blinked.

             
“Yeah, yeah,” I replied. “I love you, too.”

             
There was a time, way before I moved to the inland northwest to escape the madness that was living in the same city as Annalise, when I’d owned a cat name Freedom. She’d been my treasured pet until I went to college, which is when my mother’s pool boy accidentally knocked her into the pool, where she drowned. But that was beside the point.

             
Freedom was a gift from my father, given to me on the day he left us. I was seven years old, and I still remembered every detail of the experience. My therapist once told me that I remembered everything about that day because it was a traumatic experience, but I like to say it was because I was gifted with a photographic memory. Frankly, it’s the therapist who’s right, though I’ve never admitted that to anyone.

              “Marisol, come inside. Now,” my nanny, Hanna, scolded me from the front porch. She, too, was mad at my dad. Not just because he’d loaded up his Jaguar convertible with suitcases without offering me so much as an explanation, but because in leaving my mother, he was also leaving
her
, and she’d had big plans on being the new Mrs. Vargas.

Too bad for Hanna.
My father had bigger plans. And those plans didn’t include his self-obsessed wife, the nanny he’d been boinking for a year, or his daughter.

“No!” I bellowed—I was a screamer, a trait nobody who knew me enjoyed—running down the stairs to the circle drive in front of our palatial house. My father was just starting the engine on his dark green car. “Daddy, wait!”

He either didn’t hear over the sound of purring motor, or he was ignoring me He slid his aviator sunglasses onto his tanned face with the casual ease of a man leaving to play golf with his buddies. Except that he was abandoning his family for a life of less responsibility and more excitement in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

             
The car started to roll forward, and I pawed at the shiny green metal with my hands. “No! Daddy, no!” I cried, stumbling in my bare feet. The cement was hot in the southern California sun, and it burned my soles. “Wait!”

             
He hit the brakes, and the jaguar screeched to a halt. “Marisol? What the hell are you doing?”

             
“We haven’t played with the kitty yet.” I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, and limped to the driver’s side. “You said we’d play with her. You promised.”

             
My father took his sunglasses off and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “No. I said you could play with her. You, Marisol. I’ve got to go”

             
He’d not yet said so, but I knew he was leaving for good. “Take me with you,” I begged. “I’ll bring the kitty, and we can all go on vacation.”

             
“I’m not going on vacation.” His mouth pulled into a line. “And you’re not coming with me.”

             
Tears rolled down my face, and my nose was running. But I didn’t care. “Why not?”

             
“Because your place is here with your mother.” He glanced in the rear view mirror. “She needs you. She’s sad.”

             
My mother wasn’t home. She’d gone to a spa for the weekend with her friend, and I’d heard her telling Hanna she’d never been happier. “She’s not sad, Daddy. But she’ll be mad when she comes home and finds out you left.”

             
Even at seven years old, I’d been acutely aware that my mother had better things to do than raise a child. Especially one who’d given her stretch marks that had to be surgically corrected. That’s why Hanna was there to take care of me.

             
“Come back inside,” I pleaded, tugging on the door handle. It was locked. “We can play with the kitty, and then you and Hanna can go swimming in the hot tub again. I’ll be a good girl, and go watch TV.”

             
My dad winced. “I don’t want to swim with Hanna anymore.”

             
I looked over my shoulder at my nanny, who was glowering at him with her arms folded across her chest. “Then you can give her the day off, Daddy. Come back inside. We still need to name the kitty. I vote Puffy. Or Sparkles. What do you want to call her?”

             
He laughed, and for a millisecond, I thought things were looking up.

             
“Freedom.” He slid the glasses back onto his face. “I want to call her Freedom.”

             
“That’s a silly name, Daddy.” I smiled, even though I could feel something bad looming. “Can you come inside now? P-please?”

             
He shook his head. “No, baby. Not this time.”

             
“Can I go with you?” My voice got higher. “I can pack super fast.”

             
“They don’t let kids come to Fort Lauderdale, Marisol.” His voice was low, resigned. And I knew his mind was made up. “It’s a grown up city.”

             
I thought about what it would be like when Mom got home, and it was just her and me in the giant house. She was going to be annoyed with me, so much more so than she already was. The only time we were ever together was when we had company over and I needed to come down in a pretty dress for everyone to see. At least when my dad was around, he noticed me. Sure, most of the time, it was to tell me not to leave my toys around, or that I needed to be quiet because I was giving him a splitting headache. But being noticed and getting hollered at was way better than being ignored all the time.

“I don’t want to be alone.” It was all I could think of to say. “If you leave, nobody will talk to me.”

              “Go let Hanna take care of you. She’ll make you some chocolate milk.” Dad threw a glance in his rearview mirror. “I gave her a big, fat bonus check, so she’s not going anywhere.”

             
“Daddy, I—”

             
“I gotta go, Marisol.” He put the jaguar in gear. “Back away from the car.”

             
“Please don’t go.” I wept, snot creeping out of my nose. “Please don’t leave me.”

             
He grimaced at me. “Pull yourself together. You’re face is a mess.”

             
“I love you, Daddy.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt embarrassed. We didn’t talk like that in our family. Mushiness like that only existed on television shows like the one mom used to be on. Squaring my shoulders, I said it again. “I said, I love you, Daddy.”

             
He sighed. It was a long, drawn-out, irritated sigh that was almost drowned out by the purring car engine. I waited for him to say it back. For my dad to tell me that he loved me too, and that he would send for me as soon as he got settled in Florida. Maybe even a kiss or a hug, to top things off.

             
But alas…Carlos Vargas didn’t
do
emotion.

             
“Go tell Hanna to wipe your face, Marisol. Nobody wants to look at an ugly little girl with snot on her face.”

             
And with that, he peeled away from me, spitting a hot burst of exhaust out of the tailpipe, and leaving me standing in the sun alone.

             
I stood there crying for what felt like forever. Hanna didn’t come to get me, or to wipe my face or make me chocolate milk like my dad had promised. I stood there until my mother’s car rolled into the driveway, and she emerged looking refreshed and shiny from her time at the spa. She’d taken me by the hand and walked me into the house, through the living room, and into the oversized kitchen, where I’d promptly been passed off on Imogene, the cook.  Hanna gave her notice later that night, and I’d gotten a new nanny, Sara, the next day.

             
Freedom and I spent all of our time together after that, clear until I ran off to college in Washington state, where I’d not been allowed pets in University housing. By that time, Freedom was arthritic and barely mobile, which is why she’d drowned when she’d been pushed into the pool water with the end of a ladder.

             
I’d cried for days.

             
It was only the second time since my dad left.

              Cocinero took his last bite of food, then wriggled out of my arms, jerking me out of my thoughts. My eyes were blurry as I followed him to the French doors that led out into the backyard. I hated thinking about my dad. Every time I did, I wound up like this. Weepy, morose, and utterly pathetic.

             
“Let’s go potty,” I told the cat as he sat, bored, next to the glass paned door.

             
As soon as the door was cracked, Cocinero squeezed through and sauntered off into the darkness. My backyard, like the rest of my house, had been decorated to perfection. The patio furniture was covered in a black and white damask print that coordinated perfectly with the white rocks in the fire pit. The pergola above my head was painted a crisp white, then threaded with gauzy black fabric that swayed perfectly in the wind. I’d paid over fifty dollars a yard for the stuff, which was kind of stupid considering the window of warm-weather opportunities to utilize this outdoor oasis was especially small in this part of Washington. But I’d had to have the best.

If I’d learned nothing else from my mother over the years, I’d manage to cling to that little nugget. Which was why my house was adorned with white leather couches, Waterford crystal sculptures, silk wallpaper, and shaggy cashmere rugs that were so un-kid-friendly, Candace had to make her
three kids wait in the car when she came over.

Sure, I lived alone. And sure, sometimes being alone with my thoughts made me feel so isolated, I could climb the walls. But doggone it… my house looked like a picture out of Interior Decorators Monthly.
And that there was a fact.

Cocinero
bounced around the river rocks that bordered my lawn, undoubtedly taking his time to find the proper place for taking a crap, when my home phone rang inside the house.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten o’clock. Nobody called me this late, except for the occasional booty call. But I wasn’t currently involved with anyone, a fact that irritated me almost as much as the fact that my
cat insisted on taking a hour to take a dump every night. A booty call sounded nice right about now.

“Probably
Lexie,” I murmured to myself, slapping across the hardwood floors with my bare feet—which were still repulsive on the bottom from my little adventure earlier. She was probably up feeding the baby, and fretting about the quiches. She was infamous for adding an ingredient at the last minute that transformed dishes from good to great, and unfortunately that inspiration only seemed to happen long after we’d stopped cooking for the night.

I plucked up receiver, and answered without looking at the number. “
Lexie, this is the worst booty call I’ve ever gotten. You know I haven’t swung that way since that one kegger in college.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Lex?” Pulling the phone away from my ear, I looked at the tiny screen. “Oh, um. Sorry. Who is this?”

“Is this Marisol Vargas?” The deep, gravelly voice on the other end sent a whirl of excitement shooting up my spine.

Demo-the-mechanic. I’d left him my home number back at the shop, since my iPhone was still missing. Note to self: replace cell tomorrow. Well, well. Maybe it was a booty call after all.