Apples & Oranges (The This & That Series) (9 page)

             
His face was starting to turn red. “She’s
not
my girlfriend.”

             
The office door swung open and the matriarch of Triple D’s appeared in the doorway. “Demetrious Marcos Antonopolous. Are you abusing this young lady?”

             
“Abusing? Really?” Demo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “No, Yiaya.”

             
She leaned over so she could see me around Demo’s shoulder. “Hello there, Marisol. How are you?”
              I waved at Yiayia, and my heart tugged. There was something about that old broad that made me want to put on fuzzy PJs and sit down with some cocoa to listen to her stories. “Hi, Yiayia. I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

             
“Just great, dear.” She smiled, her wrinkly face scrunching up. “Is my grandson giving you a hard time?”

I looked up at Demo, who’d fixed his gaze on something across the shop. By the tense look on his face, he might’ve gone away to his “happy place
,” and it only irritated me more. I wanted to cuss him out. I wanted to bring my knee up to collide it with his man parts with a satisfying whack. I wanted to leave Triple D’s in a blaze of melodramatic glory, then ride off in Candace’s minivan…

Oh, crap.
Candace was still waiting for me.

“No, he and I were just talking,” I told
Yiayia. “But I have to run now. My friend is waiting, and I have to get back to work.”

“Back to the cupcakes?” Demo
asked, his voice low enough that his grandmother couldn’t hear.

             
“Shut up, grease monkey,” I whispered, my voice shaking.

             
Demo shook his head. “I was just gonna say we like cupcakes around here. In case you made extra.”

             
I whipped my hand up, poking him in the chest again. “You think I’m going to bring you treats when you’re acting like such a jerk?”

             
Yiayia appeared between us. Man, she moved fast for an old lady. “You know what you both need?” Both Demo and I looked down at her, perplexed. “A date,” she said proudly.

             
“Good luck with that, Yiayia,” Trey called from across the garage. “They can’t stand each other.

             
“Can it, kid,” Demo groaned.

             
Yiayia threw her head of white hair back and cackled. “That’s what they think.”

             
I shook my head. “Actually, he’s right. We can’t even talk for five minutes without arguing, and—”

             
She took hold of both of our chins at the same time. Her grip was alarming for a woman almost a hundred years old. “When I met my husband, he told me I was the last woman on earth he’d ever take to the altar.” Yiayia’s gaze landed on her grandson’s face. “We were married eleven weeks later.”

             
Demo and I stepped back from each other in unison. “Don’t think it’s gonna happen,” he announced at the same time I said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

             
Her eyes, which were the same shade of dark chocolate as Demo’s, bored into mine with the intensity of a newly refurbished engine. “You’ll mark my words, Marisol. He’ll ask. I promise you that.”

             
Digging in my pockets, I produced my keys. “Hey, Trey!”

             
“Huh?” He poked his head around the far end of the Volkswagen.

             
I looked at Demo, whose lips twitched in return. Tossing the keys at the lanky teenager, I headed for the doors. “Call me when the Beemer’s ready.”

Chapter Nine

              Maybe it was the fact that I was on my second glass of pinot, or maybe it was just that I was home alone on a Friday night… but I was in a weird mood.

             
Now, I didn’t want to brag at all, but I almost never went into a weekend without a date. For years, I attributed that to how lovely and desirable I was. But what really drove me to go out with someone—anyone—every weekend without fail, was really… my father.

             
He’d only called five times in the three years since peeling out of the driveway. When he finally asked my mom to let me fly to Florida for a week to see him, I’d built up the visit in my head, expecting trips to the beach, evenings watching the circus, and maybe even a ride in a hot air balloon. He’d never done anything like that with me before, but I’d heard all sorts of exciting stories from friends with divorced parents and fully expected my own father to pull out the stops trying to buy my affections.

             
But I was wrong.

             
The first five days were spent with Penelope, the sixty-year-old woman he’d hired to clean his house. My dad left for work before I rolled out of bed in the morning, then returned late in the night, half drunk from the client dinners he hosted in the evenings. I’d spent most of my visit paddling around in the pool while Penelope drank coffee in a lawn chair.

             
“Well, well, well. Look at my pececito.”

             
I gasped, and paddled to the side where my dad was waiting with his briefcase. It was only two in the afternoon, and he was home already. He’d come home to spend time with me! I was ecstatic, kicking like a fool to reach the tiles.

             
“Ack!” Penelope cried, shielding herself from the drops of water. “Not so hard, not so hard, Marisol.”

             
“Mom put me in swimming classes four days a week,” I told my dad, pool water running in rivulets down my face. “My instructor says I’m her second best student. I
am
your
pescado
, Dad. I’m ten times better than a fish. I can hold my breath for thirty seven seconds.”

             
“Impressive, kiddo.” He looked at his watch and winced. “Ouch. Gotta run, baby. Tell Penelope to take you to Ernest’s for dinner. They make great burgers.”

             
Scowling, I drifted away from the wall a few inches. Mom didn’t even allow me to eat burgers. He’d have known that, had he stuck around. “Are you coming?” I asked.

             
“Sorry, no can do.” He shook his head, and ran a hand through his brown hair. I’d gotten my thick locks from him, and it was starting to thin on top. At that moment, I was glad. He deserved to go bald. “I’ve got a date tonight, kiddo.”

             
“A date?” I treaded water. “Can I go, too?”

             
My dad laughed. “On my date?”

             
“Yeah. I’ll be good. I won’t talk, or anything.”

             
He started to walk towards the house. “Forget it. It’s Friday night, Marisol.”

             
“But I haven’t seen you all week, and I fly home on Sunday!” I whined.

             
“You just saw me.” He kept walking. “Come on. Don’t be a child about this.”

             
Anger flushed my skin, despite the cool water. “I’m not a child. I’m almost a teenager.”

             
He looked at me over his shoulder. “Then act like it, Marisol.”

             
“I’m bored.” I scowled at him, paddling in place. I wanted to go home, but my mom would be mad if I showed up out of nowhere two days early. “Not like you care.”

             
My dad looked up at the sky and groaned. “This was a mistake.”

             
My blood boiled, and I swam to the side of the pool. “This visit? Or me?”
              “Don’t be so dramatic.” Dad frowned from behind his sunglasses. I could tell by the wrinkle between his eyebrows. I hadn’t ever seen him without a pair of Oakley’s. “I flew you here, didn’t I?”

             
Penelope put her coffee cup down and smiled sadly at me. “Why don’t we go inside and pick out a movie, Marisol?”

             
“No, thank you.” I pulled myself out of the pool, and stomped over to where dad was standing. He jumped away from the water dripping off of me. “I want to hang out with you, Dad. Just one night, that’s all.”

             
He grimaced. “It’s the
weekend
, Marisol.” Dad over-exaggerated his syllables like he thought I didn’t understand the concept of a weekend. Believe me, my mom had made the importance of a Friday or Saturday night very clear. “I can’t just cancel. Look at you. You’re practically grown up now. You shouldn’t be playing in a pool all day.”

             
“Shut up.” I pouted, suddenly feeling self conscious in my bathing suit. I was starting to get a womanly figure, and some of my friends had even started their periods. I waited for my dad to scold me for telling him to shut up, but he just looked out at the sand and blue water beyond the edge of his patio and sighed.

             
“I’m gonna give you a little piece of advice, Marisol.” He put his hands on his hips and strolled towards the beach. I followed, leaving wet footprints as I walked. His steps stopped just short of the sand. “The people who count in this world—the people who stand out—are the ones who are out there. Being seen in the hottest restaurants, and the best clubs. Showing up with the hottest woman…” He glanced at me. “…or man as your date.”

             
A warm wind swayed the palm trees over our heads, and I waited for Dad to say he was bringing me out on his date. So I could be “seen,”too.

             
“Never let a weekend go by without a date, Marisol.” He pointed his finger like this was the best advice he’d ever bestow upon me. “Always be seen. Always be on the go. Always have something to do on your weekends… and nobody will forget about you.” Patting my head, Dad walked past me, and ducked into the house without another word.

             
My shoulders dropped. He was leaving me again.

             
Penelope put a towel around my shoulders. “Come on. Let’s dry off and go to Ernest’s.”

             
Wriggling out of her grip, I threw the towel on the wet patio tiles. I didn’t want to spend another night eating with my dad’s housekeeper. I wanted to go home. Sure, my mom would be mad that I’d come home early and interrupted her time with her boyfriend, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t ever going to be forgotten by my dad again.

              Cocinero’s horrendous yowling interrupted my thoughts, chasing away memories of my father like a fog, and I looked around at my still-empty house. I guess I’d given up on trying to ensure I wasn’t forgotten by anyone. It was too much effort. Who wanted to spend their time on meaningless date after date, when there were twelve hundred thread count sheets and a pissy Siamese cat waiting at home?

             
Throwing back my head and downing the rest of my pinot, I turned off the lights in my kitchen and headed for the stairs. I was pretty sure I’d recorded
Avatar
the other night. That would be a good way to spend my evening… me, the big blue alien dude, and Cocinero.

             
Once again, my thoughts were interrupted by my cat’s yowling and hissing. When I came around the corner into the foyer, he was clawing at the bottom of the front door like there was a chunk of Pacific cod waiting on the other side.

             
“Stop that,” I scolded him, scooping the ball of white fluff off of the floor and cuddling him to my chest. He wiggled out of my grip, landing on the wood floor and resuming his clawing. “Ugh. Come on, Cocinero, I don’t have time for this tonight.”

             
There was a muted thump outside, and the meowing started again.

             
“Who’s here this time of night?” I asked my cat. Peering out a nearby window, I saw nothing but the giant, yellow rhododendron bush I’d had my gardener plant last year. The thing had tripled in size, blocking my entire view of the driveway, just like Candace had warned. Now every time she came over, she pointed to it and rolled her eyes.

As usual, I’d chosen beauty over function. It was the same with my Juicy Couture pencil skirt.
And my Beemer. This was a really embarrassing pattern with me.

I heard the sound of a car door shutting and scooped
Cocinero back up. Straining to see through the mustard yellow blossoms, I came up short. “Who’s out there, sweetie? Do we have company?”

             
Cocinero quieted, and we both stood in the darkness, listening. It was probably my neighbor. She was in her sixties and spent most of her weekend nights square dancing with a club downtown. Usually about two or three times a summer, she brought her fellow square dancers back to her house for late night drinks after a show. I’d never actually seen Agnes bust a move on the dance floor, but word on the street said she wasn’t half bad, and I was all for anything that kept a widowed sixty year old woman out having fun until eleven at night.

             
I guess it gave me hope for my own golden years. But whatever.

             
“Must be Agnes, Cocinero. She and her friends must be whooping it up after a gig.” I pressed a kiss to his soft head. “Let’s you and me go upstairs and get in bed.”

             
There was another thump, followed by a deep groan. This time it came from just outside the front door.

             
“What the…?” I froze in place. Cocinero meowed lowly, then burrowed deep underneath my arm. “You’re a terrible guard animal.” Tip-toeing down back over to the door, I pressed my ear to the wood. I could hear some scraping, and some indecipherable muttering.

My blood ran cold. What if Greg found out where I lived? It wasn’t difficult. I’d known enough people at that party, he could have asked someone where to find me. What if when he woke up the next morning, instead of feeling stupid for behaving like a belligerent tool, he’d decided he was mad?

My fingers shook as I checked the locks on the door. Each of them were in place, thank God. “Don’t be scared, don’t worry,” I whispered to Cocinero, knowing that I was saying it more for myself. “Everything’s fine. Mommy’s got her gun.”

I glanced at the chair in the corner of the foyer where I usually tossed my purse.
Aw, hell.
Sure enough, I’d taken it up to my bedroom when I went to change my clothes.

I wasn’t even sure how to shoot the damn thing, anyway.
Why, oh why, had I declined the opportunity to go shooting with Candace and Brian last year? I’d scoffed at them, calling them conservative barbarians, but now I was kicking myself. There was another scuffling sound, and I peeked through the window, squinting to see beyond the rhododendrons.

Sure enough, there on my flagstone front walk, was a pair of legs. The feet, clad in dark boots, were kicking furiously to free themselves from the garden hose they were tangled in.

Gasping, I jumped back from the window, and practically threw my cat into a nearby chair. “Call the cops, call the cops, call the cops!” I hissed at myself, scrambling through the darkened first floor to where my phone was…

NOT
plugged in.

“Son of a… what is
wrong
with me!?” I scanned the counters, opening and closing drawers. Sweat pricked my forehead. I’d left the damn iPhone in my purse. Which was... I don’t know where. “I swear upon everything good and holy on this earth, I am going to duct tape it to the side of my fricking head!”

For someone who prided herself on independence, I was
embarrassingly scatterbrained lately.

Cocinero
hissed in the foyer, and I knocked over my empty wine glass. It landed in the sink with a shatter. “Shhhh!” I told myself. For all I knew, Drunk Greg was outside with a chip on his shoulder, and I was practically beckoning him inside. “Home phone. Home phone. Where… is… the… home phone?”

Cocinero
yowled in the foyer, and it was followed by a swift knock on the door. Yelping, I dove for the door and flipped open the control panel on my alarm system. I’d never had to push the panic button before. Well, there was that one time when I’d pushed it because I thought I saw a mouse in my kitchen, but I’d learned very quickly that the panic button was
not
used for those kinds of emergencies.

Although, the fireman who came was quite hot.
But that’s a story for a different time.

Another knock rang out, and my heart leapt into my throat. Gads, was this enough of an emergency to push the button? A potentially drunk and disgruntled guy I’d rejected and subsequently ticked off?