Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (80 page)

The
end of the sentence, as far as I can tell, would have been something to the
effect of, “she’s going to be alive when we get there.”

I
bend down and pick up her shirt from the floor.

Handing
it to her, I say, “Yeah, let’s go see your mom.”

Chapter Seventeen

Bring Your Daughter to
the Cancer Ward Day

Jessica

The
closer we get to the hospital, the less confident I am in my suggestion to have
Eric meet my mother. He’s a perfectly nice guy. Why would I want to throw him
into the lion’s den?

When
we come around the corner and the hospital comes into view, I’m ready to just
turn around. Apparently sensing my growing unease, Eric puts his hand on mine.

“How
do I introduce you?” I ask.

“What
do you mean?” Eric responds.

“Well,”
I start, “I can’t really call you my employee, and I don’t think the nature of
our relationship would make than an accurate explanation anyway. I could call
you my friend, which is true, but it doesn’t seem to quite capture things. At
the same time, we’ve never really had the boyfriend/girlfriend talk either, so
when we walk into the room and I say, ‘Hey Mom, this is Eric,’ what do you
think comes after that?”

“I
don’t know,” he says. “I guess we’ve never really defined the relationship,
have we?”

“No,
we have not,” I answer. “Thoughts?”

“Well,
I certainly wouldn’t
mind
being your
boyfriend,” he says, “if that’s at or around where you are.”

He
grabs my hand and rubs my knuckles with his thumb.

“You
and your honeyed words…” I titter as we pull into the parking lot.

“I
don’t think it really matters,” he says. “I think it’d be enough if you just
said, ‘Hey Mom, this is Eric.’ Why overthink it?”

“Well,
maybe I’d like to know for my own reasons,” I slip.

This
is about the worst time possible to define the relationship, but I do like to
be prepared whenever I know I’m going to have any kind of interaction with my
mother.

“I’m
assuming something along the lines of ‘the sexy guy that gives you mind-blowing
orgasms’ wouldn’t work, huh?” he asks and, if nothing else, at least I’m
laughing as I pull into the parking spot and turn off the car.

We
just sit here for a minute, though.

“Everything
okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,”
I tell him. “Not really. I don’t know. Usually, I’m nervous to be around my mom
because of the way she is—you know, as far as her personality. Now, I’m still
worried about that, but I haven’t seen her since the surgery, either. Kristin
says that she’s recovering pretty well and everything, but she can’t really
move that much right now. They removed not only the tumors, but a fair amount
of cartilage as well. I guess I’m just hoping that you’ll somehow come up with
a reason for us not to go in there right now.”

“If
you don’t want to go in there, we don’t have to, or if you’d rather go in there
alone, I can walk you to the room or I can wait here. It really comes down to
what you want to do,” he says. “I’m not here to force anything.”

My
hands are still on the steering wheel, and I’m looking down at the empty
ignition, wondering if it actually would be better to just put the key back in
and drive off into wherever.

“Let’s
go,” I tell him.

The
key, at least as far as I’m telling myself right now, is not to think about it,
to just keep walking until we’re in the room. Once we’re there, it’s not like
we’ll really be able to leave anyway.

I
pull my phone out of my pocket and quickly dial my dad’s cellphone.

“Hey
sweetheart,” my dad says, “I was just thinking about you.”

“Hey
Dad,” I answer, “I’m at the hospital. Are you here?”

“No,
sweetheart, I ran back home to get a shower and take a nap, but I’ll be back
there in about an hour if you want to stick around,” he says.

“Is
Kristin here?” I ask. “Do you know?”

“She
was when I left,” he says, “but I don’t know if she’s still there.”

“All
right,” I tell him. “We may or may not be here when you get back.”

“Who’s
we?” he asks.

“You
remember Eric?” I ask, still not quite ready to define the relationship.

“Oh,
that young man who brought you to the hospital last week?” he asks. “Yeah, I
remember him. He’s there with you?”

“Yeah,”
I answer.

“Would
you mind if I speak with him for a moment?” my dad asks.

I
don’t stop walking, but my pace slows enough that Eric turns to see what’s
going on.

“Why?”
I ask my father.

“I’d
just like to say hello and tell him thank you for being such a comfort to you.
I can tell that he cares about you,” my dad says.

“How
can you tell that?” I ask.

“It’s
just the way he looked at you when he came with you the last time,” my dad
answers. “And how nervous he was when he was talking to your sister and me.”

“That’s
quite the sixth sense you’ve got there, Dad,” I snort.

“I
promise I won’t embarrass you,” he says.

I
pull the phone away from my ear and tell Eric, “Hey, um, my dad wants to talk
to you.”

“He
does?” Eric asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah,”
I answer. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s the nice one.”

“All
right,” Eric says cautiously and reaches his hand out.

I
give him the phone and he says, “Hi, Mr. Davis, this is Eric.”

While
my dad
is
the nice one, he’s always
been a little protective of me and Kristin. I’m just hoping he’s not giving
that clichéd “You break my daughter’s heart and I’ll break your neck” line.

So
far, I’m not seeing any signs of terror on Eric’s face, so I’m hoping for the
best.

Eric’s
talking quietly for most of the brief conversation, but finally he turns back
toward me, saying, “Sure thing,” and “Yeah, I will. It’s nice talking to you,
too, sir. Here’s Jessica.”

He
hands the phone back to me. Before I put it back to my ear, I have to ask:
“Sir?”

“It’s
the respectful thing to say,” he explains.

I
shake my head and put the phone back to my ear. “Hey, Dad what’s up?”

“I’m
going to go ahead and stay here,” my dad says. “You’re coming home after you
visit with your mother, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,”
I tell him. “I’m thinking of—”

“Great,”
my dad interrupts. “Well, just give me a call when you’re leaving and I’ll make
sure I’m decent for when you get here. Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

“All
right Dad,” I smile. Wouldn’t
that
be
the twig and berries on top of the uncomfortable sundae that is this little
field trip? “I’ll see you when we get there.”

“I
love you,” he says.

“I
love you, too,” I answer and hang up.

“Shall
we?” Eric asks and we make our way to the elevator.

When
the doors are closed, I ask him, “So, what’d you two talk about?”

“Nothing
much,” Eric answers, watching the number above the door switch from one to two.

It’s
like he’s hiding something, but I have no idea what it could be.

“Nothing
much?” I ask.

“Yeah,”
he says. “He just wanted to say thanks for me coming with you. That’s all.”

“Okay,”
I answer.

The
door opens and I grab Eric’s hand as we turn down the hallway toward my mom’s
room. There are no loud expressions of disappointment or sarcastic remarks
coming from the room so either Kristin’s gone or my mom’s asleep.

Right
now, I’m hoping for the latter.

We
come around the corner into the room and my mom’s lying back in bed, watching
television.

“Oh,
hi dear,” she says when she sees me.

I
walk over and give her a hug, saying, “Hey Mom. How are you feeling?”

“I
feel great!” she exclaims. “I can’t move too much, but whatever the doctors
gave me for pain—you know, there are people that take this stuff just for fun?
I used to think they were crazy and I certainly wouldn’t do it myself, but not
everyone’s cut out for that kind of thing.”

Maybe
drugged up is almost as good as asleep. At least she’s in a good mood.

“Who’s
this, then?” she asks.

“This
is Eric,” I answer.

Eric
moves forward to shake my mom’s hand, either not knowing or forgetting that she
can’t really move to reciprocate. My mom, on the other hand hasn’t taken her
eyes off of me.

“No,”
she says, “I mean
who
is he?”

I
was really hoping I could get away with the brief introduction and not have to
settle on an answer for the question, but here we are.

“He
did some work for the store a while back,” I tell her. “He’s the one who headed
the crew that did the remodel.”

“So
he’s an employee?” my mom asks.

“No,”
I tell her. “He’s helped a bit after the remodel and all that, but I wouldn’t
say that he’s an employee.”

“So
who is he?” she asks, but just as quickly moves on, saying, “You know, there
are spiders in this world that flick their hair at you when you invade their
space?”

“I
didn’t know that,” I answer, smiling.

“Does
Eric?” she asks and leans her head forward a bit, whispering, “Who is he
again?”

“I
did, actually,” Eric tells her. “We used to have a Chilean rose tarantula when
I was a kid. That thing would urticate every time we’d go to feed it. It was a
pretty foul-tempered thing.”

“Oh,
how nice,” my mom says, looking at him ever so briefly. She looks back at me,
saying, “You know, I think the nurses are after my sugar free gum.”

She
gives an exaggerated nod of her head, and I’m trying not to laugh.

This
is actually about the best case scenario. Not only is she being semi-polite to
Eric and me, but she’s got some color back in her face. She’s already looking
healthier.

“Eric,”
my mom says, “I’m wondering if I could impose upon you for a favor.”

“Sure
thing,” he answers. “What can I do for you?”

“I
keep asking the nurses to bring me a diet cherry cola, but they always seem to
come back with a diet cola, no cherry, or a cherry cola, no diet. Last night,
one of them came back with a diet cherry soda that wasn’t even a cola. I was
wondering if you might have the sense enough to bring me the right thing for
the first time since I’ve been in this hospital,” she requests.

“Not
a problem,” he says. “Did you want a can or a bottle?”

“It
doesn’t matter, dear,” she answers. “Thank you.”

He
walks out of the room and I sit next to my mother’s bed.

“You’re
sleeping together, aren’t you?” my mom asks.

I’m
a teenager again, coming home in the passenger’s seat of my then-boyfriend’s
Camaro, asking him to just keep driving for a little while longer.

“Why
would you say that?” I ask.

“Well,
for one thing,” my mom says, “he’s g-r-e-g-o-n-s-e-u-s, gorgeous.”

“You
do know that’s not how you spell gorgeous, right?” I ask with a chortle.

“What
did I spell?” she asks.

“I
don’t know,” I answer. “Something like
gregonseus
.”

“Well,
that’s
not a word, sweetheart,” my
mom says. “You really should have paid more attention in school.”

I’m
hoping that we’re past her question and onto something else, but that’s a hope
that never seems to see fruition.

“You
are, aren’t you?” she asks.

“I’m
what?” I ask, just going for that last-ditch possibility that there’s still
time for me to avoid this conversation.

“You’re
having sex with him,” she says. “I may be your mother, but I was a young woman
once. I know the signs.”

“What
are the signs?” I ask.

“I
know what you’re doing,” she says. “Answer the question.”

“Mom,
I think it’s just the drugs talking,” I answer.

“So
you’re not having a relationship with him?” she asks.

“I
wouldn’t say that,” I answer.

“What
would
you say?” she asks. “Remember,
if you don’t tell me, I’m just as happy watching my nature program.”

She
lifts a finger toward the television which is on some ultra-violent prison
show.

“Mom,
what are they giving you for the pain?” I ask, smirking.

“You
can’t have any, dear,” she answers. “You know, if I was your age, I wouldn’t
waste a minute with that man.”