Jayson: A New Adult / Coming of Age Romance (18 page)

A
funny thing
about becoming a “grownup” is how much we anticipate getting the title, only to realize it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. To a kid, it’s like a fairytale place where you get to do whatever you want, no bedtime, no rules. You spend most of your teen-hood on the edge of your seat asking, “Are we there yet?” By the time the journey drops you off on Responsibility Boulevard, there are no bells and whistles to signal your arrival. There’s no fanfare, no congratulations, no red carpet, and that acceptance speech you’ve been practicing since you turned seventeen doesn’t even apply anymore. The question changes to, “This is it??”

Then you realize you missed a lot, rushing headlong into the unknown. Funny how it feels like forever, and then one day you blink and realize you made it…only you discover that adulthood isn’t one single phase of your life: it’s a series of milestones, a bunch of bumps in the road that make you a little more mature with each hit. Eventually you learn to slow down and take a step back so you can see the big picture, avoid some hazards.

I remember thinking adulthood would automatically bestow upon me everything I needed to know to face the world. I imagined all kinds of ways in which my life was going to change as a result of this magical gift of savvy, but very little changed when I was still living with my mom, doing what I was told. I colored in the lines and didn’t rock the boat or rebel against authority. It wasn’t until I moved out that my life took this dramatic turn. I wish I could say turning twenty taught me to slow down enough to look out for pitfalls. But, when you’re used to doing everything right, you don’t even imagine things can go really, really wrong.

“
H
ow do I look
?” Jayson asks.

He turns around in a stylish, modern cut black suit that fits close to his muscular form. The pale blue shirt underneath frames a grey and white striped tie, and a purple kerchief peeks from the left breast pocket. He looks amazing. I cover my quiet groan of appreciation, lips softly parted in surprise at the transformation.

To be fair, Jayson Zephyr looks equally delicious to me in a pair of dusty jeans with a tool belt at his hips, although my personal favorite is when he’s wearing nothing at all. But, dressed as he is, he’s unrecognizable as the blue-collar contractor who wouldn’t pass muster in my affluent neck of the woods. Hell, even my elitist mother might approve of the makeover.

“Definitely dinner ready. Do you think someday they’ll okay tights and sweatpants as formal wear?” I muse with a grin, smoothing hands down my dress.

Jayson gives me a slow once over and licks his lips provocatively. I spin around to give him the full three-sixty view as I flash him an inviting wink. “I bet you could push the movement,” he says. “Your sexy tush in tights on the cover of…”

“
Harper’s Bazaar
,” I supply. “With a caption saying, ‘The New Sophisticate.’”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” he chuckles.

Kitten heels carry me to his side before the mirror hanging from my bedroom wall, and I examine my reflection in the emerald green dinner dress with ruched netting at the bust, an empire waistline, and a skirt flowing to mid-thigh. White blond hair pulled up in a sleek topknot, makeup impeccable, modest diamond jewelry in place, I feel like a million bucks. In stark contrast, behind me is an unfurnished bedroom, the rumpled pile of blankets we slept on the night before belying my rich wardrobe. (Incidentally, the rest of said wardrobe is in neat stacks against one wall since I don’t own a dresser yet.)

“Hey there, sexy,” I purr to Jayson, “wanna go home with that hot chick in the mirror? Hope you don’t mind sleeping on the floor since she can’t afford a bed yet.”

“Humph!” Jayson chuckles.

I sigh with humor, “Ah, who would ever guess how depressing my financial picture really looks now that I’m juggling real world expenses? You know, I should’ve stuck with acting. This is the ultimate charade.”

Jayson puts an arm around my waist, and in the mirror we look good as a couple. Shoulder to shoulder, we block out the background mess. He says, “It doesn’t matter what we have or don’t have materially. I’ve never slept in a more comfortable bed than sleeping with you. All I need is the softness of your sexy body with the scent of your silky skin leading to wicked, sweet dreams.” I place a perfectly manicured hand to his chest and tiptoe to kiss his lips in exchange for the flowery compliment that isn’t his usual style.

When his warm mouth moves seductively against mine, it’s easy to believe all is right with the world. A few times in the past few weeks of dating, doubts have gathered like a storm on the horizon seeded by my meddling mother’s voice warning me Jayson is a curveball I can’t handle. I barely made it through the fall semester because of this balancing act, walking the tightrope of what’s expected of me and what I want for myself. Between school and work, squeezing in a relationship nearly depleted me.

Yet, here we are. One semester down. I don’t know what’s to come, but I know I want it with Jayson.

“Let’s just skip the dinner,” I whisper impulsively. Fingers dance down his taut abs to the belt buckle holding up his black slacks and I teasingly run a hand over his crotch. He growls in arousal, easing his hips forward and pushing his hardening manhood deeper into the palm of my hand before easing away. It feels so natural to have a lover, to make love. I can’t believe how fast that happened!

Jayson collects my roaming hands in his and lets out a laugh. “Watch out, now. You know I can’t stop you when you really get going, and we can’t skip the Christmas Eve dinner. I’m sure your mother went to a lot of trouble to get it together. Alright, my little actress, get in character and—.”

Giggling, I grope his butt and give him a friendly, enticing kiss to the side of his neck. “Surely, this is allowed in character….”

“Hey! Gimme some personal space,” he jests. “No verbal mushy stuff either, honey—remember, you said I’m just a friend.” I’d admitted that to him when we woke up this morning. “
Oh, baby, you
—” He launches into a badly sang version of the old school rap song his words echo, bumping his hip against mine and clapping to the music only he hears. I burst out laughing at how horribly off the beat he is.

“Enough, enough! I promise I’ll stay in character!” I howl. “You just promise me you’ll keep your dance moves to yourself and we should be fine! Now, let’s get a move on. We’ve got a show to perform for the great and powerful Candace of Pacific Heights.”

That feeling of near euphoria he always inspires burbles up in my brain. Looking back at his playful face as I lead him down the stairs and to the front door, I can’t help but think everybody should get a taste of this kind of joy.
What could be wrong about this? Why do we have to hide?
I know the answer is that love is a singular experience that not everyone will understand, and right now the least understanding person of all is my mom.

There’s an old saying about chickens coming home to roost. I never quite understood the idiom, but I know it means something similar to ‘facing the music.’ As Jayson and I get into his truck and shoot across San Francisco, leaving Western Addition for mother’s house in the neighborhood many, many tax brackets above my own, the phrase comes to mind. For better or worse, I’m about to orchestrate a culture clash the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Jesus supposedly had dinner with Zacchaeus. OK, maybe I exaggerate. But it feels pretty damn big to me.

When Jason eases to a halt in front of the impressive mansion, I smile tightly, trying not to show my nervousness. A valet driver steps up and politely accepts the keys to park the car along with others in a neat row filling the driveway. I shiver when we walk up to the front door, though not from the cold. The house looks warm and inviting, glowing with Christmas lights against the dusky early evening sky, but I’d rather stay outside. I can all but feel the impending doom, contrary to my adamant denial to Jayson that there’d be any problems with him showing up for this shindig with Mom and all her ritzy friends.

He was worried about my mother and me getting into a heated discussion. I’m more worried about him getting brushed off or, worse, Mom treating him like shit because she thinks he’s beneath us.

“Ready to go inside, cupcake?” Jayson whispers out of the corner of his mouth as another couple pushes past us and walks on in. He eyes the sky. “I don’t want you to catch a cold out in this damp weather. Looks like we might get some snow soon.”

I take a deep breath and steel my nerves. “Hmm, that’d be a rare treat, a white Christmas for San Francisco. Alright, I’m ready. Let’s go in before it starts dumping.”

We boldly stroll into the house, and hired staff collect our coats and whisk them away to the corner office Mom uses as a coatroom when she does big events. I can see Candace has spared no expense. We’re met by scenes fit for a style magazine, the elegant decking of the halls evidence that she had a decorator do the place up. The front entrance is dominated by a ten-foot- tall spruce dripping with white lights, shiny tinsel and glossy ornaments. Music tinkles invitingly from the grand piano just outside the dining room, and Jayson and I follow the well-dressed guests who came in ahead of us toward the sound of pleasant conversation in the next room.

We pass through the main corridor past other invitees. All the while Jayson wears an uncomfortable half-smile, which tells me he’s just as much on edge as me. We end up in the formal living room where the bulk of the partygoers are enjoying the music, and I meander through and greet the people I know personally, neighbors and old family friends.

A bald guy with a diamond stud in his right ear makes a beeline for me the minute he sees me. I quickly rummage through my memory for a name to fit the face. “Kitrina, darling! You look amazing!” he exclaims.

I remember his name just in time. “Well, thank you. Mr. Peters, this is my friend, Jayson.” Jayson nods as I drop a hand on his forearm. Now that I think about it, the lecherous old bugger asked me out once, but I turned him down because he has to be pushing forty. Judging by his excitement at seeing me, he’s still showing interest. I’m absolutely not ready to deal with his persistence, especially with Jayson at my side.

“Oh, hi. Jayson, is it? Yeah, pleasure to meet you.” Clint Peters gives Jayson a dismissive glance and gazes back at me, oozing charm I’d rather he put a Band-Aid over. “But, wow, look at you, Kit. How old are you now? I haven’t seen you since your eighteenth birthday party. How have you been?”

“I’ve been well,” I effuse, trying to keep a plastic smile in place.

“Hi, Kit!” A girl’s voice calls from across the room, rescuing me.

I look around for the caller. “Hey, Lily! Um, could you excuse us a moment, Mr. Peters?”

I dash away to speak with the fresh-faced captain of the cheer squad from high school, someone I was never close to in the past but welcome seeing now, if only to get away from Clint. Her parents are friends of Mom’s, both doctors. I hardly notice that Jayson gets left behind until I look back and catch Clint, the CEO of Yeager Real Estate, asking Jayson what he does for a living.

I distractedly speak with Lily Penton and then hurry back to retrieve my boyfriend, feeling like a ping pong ball volleyed back and forth across the room. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur sincerely once I’m able to pry Jayson away. Clint looks disappointed to see me walk off. We might be in character, but Jayson has no qualms about possessively placing a hand at the base of my spine with a confident smile.

“For what? Your chatty ex?” he whispers back with an unconcerned chuckle. I lead him to an alcove in the formal living room so we can tuck ourselves away in a corner, allowing me to scope out the scene. I have yet to see my mother, the Dragon Lady.

“I didn’t mean to leave you back there talking about what you do for a living with him, and he’s not my ex. Or did you mean my ex-stalker? He’s old enough to be my grandfather. Maybe great- grandfather,” I say disdainfully, mentally depositing an extra forty years on Clint Peters. “Hardly my type.”

Jayson laughs, that rich baritone of his ringing out sexily. Heads turn, mostly women staring like he’s the last candy bar and they’ve all been on a diet far too long. Frowning, I reach up to adjust his tie. It’s a tiny gesture, but enough to let all the lookie-loos know Jayson Zephyr is well taken care of right where he’s at, thank you very much.

“Don’t worry about it, Kit. I’m not embarrassed by what I do. I’m an entrepreneur who makes an honest living and happens to love his job. I’d call that successful. But, while we’re on the subject, what’s your type?” He grins and I’m reminded of why I like him. He’s so down to earth, so self-assured. Anyone looking at us at that moment would catch my dreamy sigh and the two of us locking eyes like we know the best secret in the world but were keeping it to ourselves. We’re so damn obvious.

“You. You’re my type,” I murmur.

Jayson discreetly squeezes my hand before pulling a comfortable distance away and shooing me with his hands. “You go mingle. I’m not here to monopolize you. I’m fine, and your mother needs to see that you’re fine, so get out there and talk to people.”

“About my mother, I wonder where she is. Have you seen her? She’s usually the star attraction.”

I scan the room again, but my attention gets arrested by the star I picked out when I was five years old. It’s perched atop the living room tree, another lovely spruce like the one in the entry hall, but this one with more personality. Dotted amongst the branches I spot special ornaments I picked out during my whimsical years, even a few I made personally—old popsicle sticks, glue and glitter monstrosities that add a nice, homey touch.

I nostalgically remember thinking the empty, prettily wrapped boxes beneath the gaudy displays were a crime against Christmas for lacking gifts. When I was a kid, Mom didn’t wrap presents; they were delivered in designer shopping bags. I once wrapped a gift for her—not well—and she let me know that the store would do it for me, if I asked.