The 90 Day Rule (15 page)

Exhaustion didn’t quite touch it. Righteously riled did. Another weekend sparring in silent passive-aggression with Robert left me wrung out and suffering from serious heartburn.

Or maybe it was the mystery fish at the fundraising dinner.

And the vapid, simpering bimbette on Robert’s left. His latest ‘assistant’. It didn’t take x-ray vision to see that ‘little robert’ was interested.

Funny how, even after I’d made the decision to cut the cord and free myself from bondage, something in a size double-aught and fake lashes could still sucker-punch me.

I am such a girl.

Thank you gods of socialization. Instead of wanting to go all Xena on her narrow ass, all I wanted to do was pout and bemoan my lack of assets.

I’d lost track of the countdown, opting to slide
what’s wrong with me
into that sound track in an unending loop.

The Audi purred contentedly as I cruised down the interstate. In truth I was not entirely unhappy with the weekly trips to Pittsburgh. Angst aside, it was the only quiet time I had left in weeks filled with Mission Improbables.

My schedule had morphed into two more players from the squad jumping on Mamma Jes’s literacy-for-all train. Coach Bryant had been so impressed he’d relieved me of the mundane paper work in favor of four days a week teaching
See Jane Run, See Jack Jump Jane’s Bones.

If I’d known how many of Coach’s ‘boys’ were taking Human Sexuality, I might have switched majors to Fun & Games with Particle Physics. Or at least invested in a better quality porn selection than what the local video store carried.

Thankfully Tray was a quick learner once he’d gotten past the embarrassment of his reading deficiencies. I’d called in a speech and reading specialist to deal with what was clearly a pattern of dysfunctional learning. The educational system so far had failed these boys but they were on my watch now.

Mother Theresa would have been proud.

The Bellefonte exit loomed off a steep downhill run that had big rigs barreling out-of-control behind me. I flipped the turn signal on early and said a little prayer. At eighty plus there was little room for error and a really short ramp to a stop sign on which to stand my trusty steed on his silver nose.

Threading through Milesburg, I mused on how well I’d managed to avoid temptation. Perhaps ‘avoid’ was the wrong term. Incompatible schedules might be a better explanation but in this modern age of email and cell phones that seemed oddly out of synch.

He hadn’t called. He hadn’t sent flowers or chocolates.

My stomach growled. Crap. With all the drama in the theater of the absurd that characterized my stilted posturing with Robert, I’d forgotten to eat.

I missed those smoky blues, that quick quirk of his lips and how he loomed into my space, draping me like a second skin, hot and sweet and…

Oh dear mother of…

Clenching my thighs did not make for good driving habits.

Get a grip, woman. It’s just lust, nothing else. If he wanted you, he’d have made an effort. A wave of the hand, maybe a nod of his head.

Nothing, nada, nix, nope, no way.

Of course, Jessamine-with-excuses recognized that conscripting one of the conveniently empty classrooms with AV equipment just down the hall from Jack’s office for the purposes of exploring the wide world of sports, complete with voice-overs, diagrams and links to Planned Parenthood, wasn’t a good idea. Not so much because of the dicey subject matter, but because I feared filling that classroom once word got out that alternative learning was the new black.

Chazz and Tray had arranged for all of us to gather at the frat house. The boys had been more than welcoming. They gave me a parking spot for the Audi, rent free, fed me all the pizza and beer I could handle, and challenged me to a free throw smackdown after our sessions.

I pulled into my parking spot at the rear of the Victorian, an ass-ugly piece of architecture begging for a do-over. The back porch led into a spacious kitchen, the only nice room in the house, fully featured with professional quality stainless steel appliances and an oversized fridge with shelves positioned to handle cardboard wine containers and six packs of beer.

I poked my head in the door, hoping to find something edible sitting out on the counter.

“Hey, girl.”

“Oh hi, Tray.”

“You look a mite peckish, hon. Let me make you a sandwich.” He opened the fridge and scooped out a selection of plastic containers, a loaf of bread and a half-gallon of OJ while I pondered where he’d learned a term like ‘peckish’.

While he popped four slices of bread in the toaster, he muttered about the sad-looking remains of the tuna salad. I slid onto the bar stool at the center island and watched as he freshened whatever was in the container with shredded lettuce and chopped celery.

“How was it?”

Tray knew about my trips, maybe not all the particulars, but enough to generate some concern for my mental welfare. He and Chazz were tight. Tight enough that apparently I was on the sharing menu. It made me feel … looked after.

“It was okay.”

He gave me snake eyes while he built the sammies, then shoved the plate in my direction. I bit into it and sighed with pleasure.

“You might want to consider Le Cordon Bleu if they don’t pick you up in the first round draft.” Tray chuckled and gave me the middle finger. It was a discussion we’d been having for more than a week. I decided one more round of Mother Knows Best was worth a shot.

“At some point they’ll force you to make a decision. You can’t stay in general ed forever.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t ready.”

Not yet
lingered on his face this time, a big step up from the set in stone scowl he’d used the first time I brought it up.

I knew when to pick my battles so I shrugged and muttered, “Well, when you want to talk about it…” letting my voice trail off. Tray would balk at a full frontal assault but if I niggled at the edges he’d eventually stop turning a deaf ear.

Besides, I still had a ways to go before the gentle giant was going to be comfortable with anything containing more than two syllables. ‘Andouille sausage’ would throw him for a loop right now and I had plans to add some culinary reading to his syllabus.

The boy had talents that went far beyond slam dunks.

After helping him clear the dishes, I edged out the door with a, “Gotta go,” and a wave of thanks.

I grabbed my backpack out of the trunk and locked up. The air was chilly for early October and I hadn’t really dressed for it. Jogging to Etty’s place seemed like a good idea but before I got far, Tray’s voice floated into the night.

“You want to cancel tomorrow since ya gots that midterm on Tuesday?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Oh hey, I almost forgot. Coach Ryan wants you to stop by when you have time.”

Oh really.

Chazz came out of the elevator just as I shoved my way into the lobby. Two across and three blocks downhill after eating, even keeping to a slow even jog, hadn’t been my best option. I was breathing hard and the backpack had moved from lightly stuffed to Everest assault weight.

We did the
how’d it go, fine, see you tomorrow
routine.

Then Chazz said, “Coach would like an audience. Tomorrow if possible.”

“Uh, thanks. I might have to email him with the progress report. I’m a little—”

“Not Coach Bryant. Ryan wants to see you.” Chazz looked down at me, his eyes narrowed to slits, going into protect the wimmun and chillun territory.

It gave me a warm, fuzzy … and then a hot flash of indignation.

If that jerk can ignore me for coming on four weeks, then snap his fingers and expect me to jump to his tune he’s got another think coming that SOB POS mother—

Chazz snorted and scooted out the door.

Etty was pouring hot water into a mug with my soothing chamomile teabag, for my post-Robert calm down session.

“Not tonight, daughter mine. I need something more bracing.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Yes, no, not really.”

Robert hadn’t been a source of irritation for some time. Dress sizes, pert breasts, skinny asses and translucent skin were my new rallying points, and I had the benefit of all that without needing to engage in a sparring match with my rat bastard husband.

Oh, I was on a roll.

Twenty-two years. Years of sex so subpar I had no idea that I was missing anything. Years of put downs. Dissing. Of never measuring up.

Then along comes this man. This gorgeous, domineering hunka burning lust and with one swipe of his mouth, his clever hot lips, his…

Oh mercy, I was wet with wanting what I couldn’t have.

Loretta poured a generous dollop of vodka in a mug, added cranberry juice and swirled it with an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry, no OJ.”

Grabbing the cup, I swigged the contents and held it out for more.

“Don’t you have a mid-term you wanted to study for?”

“It’s economics. All I need to do is write
Adam Smith sucks lemons
and the instructor will cream his jeans and give me an A for showing up.”

“Mom!”

“Well, it’s true.”

It was. The kid had a hard-on for tall women of a certain age with dyed crimson hair knotted in dreadlocks. He was also on the intramural squad with the least talented group of ball handlers I’d ever seen. That was the other remedial effort I’d assumed without Bryant asking.

Young Jeff blossomed under my tender tutelage. And the way he guarded me I had the distinct impression my tutelage wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

You used gifts where you found them.

Besides, he had that whole Antonio Banderas Desperado look going with an earring and long straggly black hair swept back in a tail. If he lost the tortoiseshell frames he’d actually be handsome in that unformed grad student way.

And anybody who could talk about guns and butter with a straight face was okay in my book.

Etty rested her chin on her hands, waiting.

“Oh all right. It was bad.” I explained about the bimbette, tiptoeing around ‘little robert’ but she had that canny expression that told me volumes about her perceptive abilities. That or she and Tonia had been having more heart-to-hearts behind my back.

In no universe was it okay that the fruit of your loins should know that her father was a lying, cheating sumbitch. That it had driven a wedge between them was clear. They spoke less and the few times I’d been privy to Etty’s side of the conversation, it hadn’t been cool and copasetic.

She still loved him, and for that I was grateful and I would never, ever, try to break that bond … but the issue of respect loomed large. On that I feared I wasn’t providing much backup. I kept my mouth shut, as much as I could, but my face was an open book most times.

My darling daughter. She hugged me and said, “One more month, that’s all.”

That wasn’t all. It was a gate. On the other side, I still had a long three months or more of disassociating myself from my former life. Then, and only then, could I take a breath and start on making plans for my future.

Chugging my third helping of moral turpitude, I stumbled to the couch and yanked the text book out of the backpack. Falling asleep, with the page opened to a watery landscape of charts and graphs, was a time-honored university student tradition. It worked fine at mid-terms. Finals required a slightly more proactive approach. If I should live that long.

I smiled at Etty and slurred, “Osmosis,” and let my head rock against the back of the couch.

“Um, Mom? Coach Ryan called. He wants to see you.”

Yeah, yeah, right.

“He said something about trying to reach you but the cell won’t go to voice mail or something.”

I managed a ‘huh’ without a lot of interest. Not my problem.

“Where’s your cell?” I waved to my purse on the coffee table. She tickled the keys with her thumbs and looked at me oddly. “You blocked him.”

Oh shit. I so did not.

Infusing my voice with a thick layer of
knock me over with a feather
, I said, “I don’t even know how to do that.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

She did a thing or two to the device and handed it over with a flourish and a sly expression.

“Fixed.”

That meant the next time he called, assuming there was a next time, I’d either have to answer it or let it go to not giving up.

Damn, damn, damn.

He said he was coming for me. I tapped on the calendar app and counted off days but the beginning and end points had blurred. Where had we started? Did the clock stop on Election Day? Or when the papers got filed into the system? And why did it matter?

Etty mumbled, “Goodnight,” and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving me to a belly awash with liquid misgivings and a boatload of longing.

With a month away from the man that whole episode had taken on the aura of a bad dream, one I’d finally woken up from. I’d even gone hours at a time not thinking about him. Much.