Dating For Decades (13 page)

“Sorry. Again.”

Who is this guy? The Lucas I left the bar with was much more forward and confident. He wouldn’t apologize and he’d be downright cocky about his sexual encounters. “I do remember. And yes, it was pretty damned amazing.”

I can’t remember the last time I had sex like that. And multiple times. Lucas is built in all the right places and is gentle and patient. No. No. No! He’s my co-worker, and this can’t happen again. I’m a sex addict, aren’t I? My mom was addicted to drugs and got HIV and … oh no. “We used a condom, right?”

“Of course. I’m young, but I’m
not
stupid.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t want to end up like my mother. Ugh, my mother. I can’t believe I’m sitting here in this gorgeous man’s bed, and I’m thinking about my shitty excuse of a mother. This is probably something she would do. I lay my head back on the pillow, gripping my coffee so it doesn’t spill again. I haven’t thought about her and that letter in quite awhile. Maybe I
should
face her. I can yell at her and tell her all the horrible ways she made me feel. It may be therapeutic.
 

“Are you okay, Cassie? You haven’t said anything in a few minutes.” Lucas sits down next to me on the bed.

“I’m fine.” I sit back up and shake off the thoughts of my mother that are invading my brain at such an inopportune time. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven-thirty.”

“Seven-thirty! I need to be to work before eight to let Keith in.” I hand him my mug. “There’s not enough time to go home and change.” My eyes dart around the room. “Where the hell are the rest of my clothes?” At least I’m in underwear and a bra right now. I lift the sheets enough to confirm I’m in my cotton white panties. And not the bikini cut. The high cut. The grandma cut. Of course.

Lucas points out the bedroom door. “In the kitchen. On the table. Where it all started.”

Oh, yes. I told him I always dreamed of someone tossing the items off a table and screwing me on it. And he did just that. And then again on the couch, and then we made gentle love in the bedroom. Man, he could have gone all night, but by the time 1:00 AM rolled around , this old lady needed some sleep.
 

I hop out of bed paying no mind to my ratty underwear giving my butt plenty of coverage. My blouse is on the counter, my skirt on the back of the kitchen chair, my shoes … aha! Placed ever so nicely on the stove. I slide the heels on and realize I don’t have my car. It’s still at the office.
 

“Do you need a ride?”

“Are you kidding me? We can’t show up there together. I’ll take the bus. It’s not that far.” What do I do here? A kiss goodbye? No. This isn’t a relationship. We’re not a thing. One time. This won’t happen again. “Okay. Bye.” My hand struggles to wave, and finally, one escapes.

The bus ride seems to take forever, and I swear everyone aboard is eyeing me up and down in my walk of shame. I tug my skirt closer to my knees, a patch of dirtiness dusting my body. I could practically be Lucas’ mother. His
mother.
Every person within judgment range knows this, I’m certain. I’ve made a horrible, disgusting, satisfying mistake. Gosh, I needed to get laid in the worst way, but I should’ve known better. I’m the adult here.

I rush off the bus as soon as it arrives a block from my building. I didn’t realize how quickly I can run in heels. I catch myself from falling outside the office when I misjudge the level of the sidewalk. I swing open the door and race to the elevator.
 

I catch my breath during the ride up to my floor, thankful I’m the only one in the elevator. The bell dings and the door opens. The gap is barely large enough for me to fit, but I sneak through and bump into Terrence.

“Oh, Terrence, I’m so sorry.” My purse falls onto the floor and I quickly reach down and grab it.

“Why are you in such a rush?”

“I woke up a little bit late this morning and the contractor is supposed to be here by eight.” I point toward my office.

Terrence thumbs in my office’s direction. “Keith? He’s already here. He’s been here for a half hour. I like that guy. He seems like a good worker.”

Is he already here? I told him not to arrive until eight. How early did he arrive? “I’m sorry he got here so early. I hope you weren’t disturbed.”

“Not at all. He was outside the building and we walked in together. He’s an interesting guy, has a lot to say.“

You’ve got that right
, I think to myself. I hope he didn’t say too much and mention the group to my boss. That’s a part of my life I try to keep separate from here. It’s not that I’m embarrassed. I mean, I founded the group, but my love life is no concern to my boss.
 

“Cassie, if I’m not mistaken, those are the same clothes you wore yesterday aren’t they?”

Crap. Not like he has any way of knowing I spent the night with his nephew, but this is completely unprofessional. Is this outfit that out there that he would even notice? Men don’t notice those things. It’s not in their DNA to pinpoint a change in hairstyle, a new outfit, or that their significant other is even speaking to them. Selective eyesight
and
hearing. “This old skirt and blouse? No. It’s new. Well not new, because I’ve had them for a while. By new I mean that I didn’t wear it yesterday. I wore something else yesterday, and I’m wearing something different today. In that respect, it’s new.”
Stop rambling, Cassie
.
You’re making it worse.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Whatever you say. I should get back to work.”

I sigh in relief when he walks away. That was a close one. I practically race to my office and Keith is seated at my desk, hovering over the server room plans.

“You’re early.”

“You’re late.”

“Touché.” I hang my purse on my coat hanger. “But, if you’re planning on arriving before eight in the future, please call or text me.”

“That sounds a great idea. Why didn’t I think of that? Wait!” He snaps his fingers. “You never gave me your contact information. You have mine, but I don’t have yours. And isn’t that the same outfit you were wearing yesterday?”

The one day I wear the same outfit as the previous, every man suddenly develops a photographic memory. “No.”

He eyes me up and down. “I’m pretty sure that’s the same outfit. I guess drinks went a little bit better than expected?”

“Excuse me? That’s none of your business. Drinks were fine, for your information. We met, drank, and went to our respective houses. Now I’m here today in a brand-new outfit.”

He smiles smugly at me, and while I hope I fooled him, I’m not so sure.

“Knock, knock.” Lucas raps his hand on the door and invites himself in. He sure got her quick. When I left he was still in his boxers. “I wanted to check in and make sure everything is on schedule.”

Sure.
That’s
what he wanted. It’s getting to be a big, old party in my office. “Everything is perfect. Thank you.”

“Sounds great. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” He’s staring straight at me. I don’t know if he could make this more obvious than he already is. For a young man who seems so grown-up, he really isn’t well-versed on being discreet.

Keith stands up from my desk and knocks on the table. “For some more than others.” He breezes past me and hangs in the doorway for a moment. “We’ll check in later.”

He leaves the room, leaving me with an awkwardly happy Lucas and my realization that Lucas may be expecting a little bit more than only one night.

Chapter

Sixteen

Fine. I’ll take everyone’s advice and take the night off. September has been welcomed with deadlines. The class is going well, and I’m even warming up to Keith in the group, but despite my yoga once a week, I’m feeling a little burned out. Admitting such a thing is a big step for me, but I refuse to confess this to anyone but myself. One evening off from work email and anything surrounding the office may do me some good.
 

The perfect evening for me is soft music playing in the background, a glass of wine, and my laptop. I have enough self-control to play around on the computer without finding work as a distraction. I think since I’m teaching a class centered around Facebook, maybe it’s time I make a visit to the website myself.
 

I don’t even remember my password since it’s been so long since I’ve been on the site. I click the
Forgot Password
link and work through the steps to select a new one. I love creating new ones and do so every month for all of my logins. Most people are intimidated by the rules: a capital, special character, punctuation, and a mix of letters and numbers. I enjoy the challenge.
 

Once my password is reset, the screen welcomes me back after my long hiatus. The big empty box asks for a status update, but no one cares what I’ve been up to. I leave it blank. How many friends do I even have on here? I glance over at my “Friends” box and see a lonely seven.
Seven
. That’s probably pretty accurate, anyway. A red bubble appears on top of the Friend Request icon. Seventy-six friend requests. Next to it I’m alerted to 459 notifications. I can’t stand seeing these unanswered so I click on the button and select Clear All. Most are game notifications from Sasha, anyway. I’m not wasting my time going through all of this.

I select the friend requests, and most of them are people I’ve worked with in the past or people I went to high school with. I don’t know why I would want to be friends with any of them. I wasn’t the most popular kid in my class, but I wasn’t an outcast either. I had a decent number of friends, but I was so different in high school and college, that Shannon is the only one I want to remain close with. I choose to ignore most of them, only approving a few. Then I see it.
 

Claire Noble wants to be friends with me. My mother. On Facebook. Requesting to be friends with me.

How am I supposed to react to this? As if the letter wasn’t enough, she’s now stalking me on here. I can’t see when she sent the request. I wonder if it was before or after she sent the letter. I can’t accept it. There’s no way. That doesn’t mean I’m not curious.

I click on her profile picture, which is a photo of a lotus. It takes me to her page, her cover photo an array of flowers. I’m surprised it’s not a field of marijuana. I know she said she’s clean, but I’m not so sure I believe her.

The first thing I click on is her photos. I need to see what she looks like now. It’s been such a long time. The last time I saw her, she was withering away, very underweight with bloodshot eyes and thin hair.

Not anymore.

I’m a little shocked, and confused, to see photos of a beaming, healthy woman. Her hair is fuller now, though completely gray. Her eyes still appear tired, and she has wrinkles. But what else should I expect from a woman almost sixty years old? Many of the pictures are taken at different landmarks. It looks as though she’s been to Las Vegas, Washington DC, New York, and even Italy! Where on earth did she get the money for any of this? Is she
selling
drugs now? Has she gone from taking them to thinking she’s clean because she’s only selling them? My mother, the Drug Lord.

I continue scrolling and stop at a photo of her standing with a gentleman who looks to be about her age with his arm around her. She’s holding a bouquet of flowers. Did my mom get married? When? Why? She didn’t believe in marriage much like I don’t. We never even had a home. We stayed with whatever boyfriend she had at the time. Now she’s married? Is she now some sort of a June Cleaver? That’s an interesting combo — fifties housewife
and
a drug dealer.

I slam my laptop closed, the pictures making me feel sick to my stomach. But I have to see more. I open it back up and click off of the pictures and onto her friend list. I don’t recognize any of the names, but there are quite a few. Over one hundred, in fact. I notice a button that says mutual and there’s a one next to it. Who on earth would we be mutual friends with? I click the button.

My cousin, Sasha.

How long have they been friends on here? Why hasn’t Sasha said anything to me about it? My mom said she used my cousin’s return address, but could it be she actually lives with her? No. She’s married now. But why isn’t her last name changed? I can’t even process this. I need to talk to Sasha about this.

•••••••

I enter into a dewy morning mist of freesia, lilies, and peonies. As much as I love my job, I’m a little jealous Sasha gets to spend her days surrounded by these amazing aromas and wonderful displays. The shop isn’t busy this morning, and she’s at her counter cutting stems and creating arrangements. I ran to the office and let Keith in and then headed right back out to Sasha’s Scents & Stems. I slept on it last night, as much as I could anyway, and I kept coming to the same conclusion. I need answers.

“That arrangement is gorgeous,” I compliment her on the vase full of hydrangeas, irises and moss green carnations. If I ever took the plunge, I think I would want something like that. Simple, contrasting, and blended nicely all at once. Sasha sure does amazing work.
 

“Cassie!” She sets her cutter down and meets me on the other side of the counter, embracing me. “How are you? It’s so nice to see you!”

I return the hug, a light one with not a lot of emotion. I’m not sure how I feel about her right now. I’m partly mad she hid my mother from me, but I’m a little relieved at the same time. Besides, I have no idea how long she’s known my mom has been around, so I may be jumping to conclusions. I don’t want to pass any judgment until I have a few answers. “How’s married life treating you?” That’s what people normally ask, right?

“I love it! Garrett and I had such a marvelous time on the honeymoon, and I think we’re ready to get to work on babies!” She jumps up and down, but I can’t return the sentiment.

“Already?” She’s so young. They’ve barely lived life and they want to add tiny human beings to the mix? Don’t people usually give it at least through a full year of marriage before taking on such responsibility?
 

“Well, I can’t very well wait until I’m in my thirties. I have a biological clock and it’s certainly ticking!”