Not Looking For Love: Episode 1 Read online

  He just stares at me like he can't figure out what I'm doing there.

  "Thank you for saving me," I explain, belatedly adding, "or, you know, trying to."

  He puts the saw down, wipes sweat off his face with the back of his hand, and finally takes the coffee.

  "I put milk and sugar in. I don't know how you like it," I say rather stupidly.

  His eyes, the color of a cloudless blue sky now with just a hint of sunlight dip down to the v of my dress. With the push-up I'm wearing, the dress reveals more than it hides.

  "Thanks. I like milk and sugar just fine."

  His gaze warms me again, heat shooting through my stomach. Somehow, I don't think he's really talking about the milk and sugar.

  What I'm feeling must be showing on my face because he chuckles a little and gulps down the coffee.

  "Thank you, Miss...?" he says, holding the empty cup toward me.

  "Gail," I manage.

  "Miss Gail," he says and chuckles again.

  "No, just Gail," I explain too seriously. His eyes are still taking me in, sizing me up, and sending tingles across all the places I wish he'd touch. "And what's your name?"

  "Scott," he says and shakes the empty cup at me. "And you're welcome. Anytime. I'm just glad you're not dead."

  Dead, I hate that word. That word used to be scary, now it's terrifying. Dead is what my mom will be. Her two-month sentence will be done in one week. An image of her laughing face flashes through my mind, as she bought me the bracelet in Rome, and as she listened to me telling her of that boy I was so helplessly in love with back in sixth grade. She doesn't laugh like that anymore. Soon she never will. Because she will be dead.

  Scott's eyes narrow and pull together. He bends down and places the cup on the ground. "I should get back to work. Thanks for the coffee. Have a nice day."

  "I'd like to thank you properly," I hear myself saying, with no idea where the words are coming from or where they're going. "Do you have time for a proper drink later, after work?"

  I've never asked a guy out so pointedly before. Never had the nerve. Not in sixth grade, not at any time since. So, I don't know why I'm doing it now. I must be crazy.

  He lifts his eyes up to mine again, stopping just a little too long at my boobs.

  My mouth is hanging open, and my eyes must be too wide. I know all this, but can't stop it. I wish I had Kate's easygoing manner with guys, but I don't. And now he'll say no, thinking I'm just a crazy rich chick, and this is the second time I'm making a total fool of myself in front of him.

  He gives me a lopsided grin, and locks his eyes on mine. "I'd love to; I really would, but..."

  I hate that 'but'. At least he's being nice about it.

  I want to wipe the expectant look off my face, but it's stuck there.

  "... that guy, Brandon... he likes you. He's my boss, sort of, and I need this job, kind of, but I'd love to."

  I know I'm wearing a confused, unattractive grimace on my face right now.

  "So is it a yes or a no?" I ask.

  A cloud of annoyance covers his eyes, and I look away, down to his chest at his dark red nipples. I wonder what they'd feel like between my teeth. Oh my God, I've never ever wanted to suck a guy's nipples before. What's wrong with me?

  "It's a no," he says. It feels more like a slap.

  I'm going insane; it's the only explanation. I'm asking a gardener out on a date. And he said no.

  "Fine, fine, whatever," I mutter, pick up his empty cup, and twirl around, sloshing my own, untouched coffee all over my dress this time.

  It's too much. My mom is dying, I've barely slept, I'm not acting like myself at all, and now this guy is rejecting me. Tears blind me.

  "I'm sorry." I think I hear him yell after me, but I'm already climbing back through the fence, sloshing more coffee all over myself. What was I thinking? I'm a mess. I should be with my mom, not chasing guys and wondering what their nipples taste like. Not asking gardeners out on dates.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I'm running up the stairs, intent on getting out of my dirty dress and spending the rest of the day under the covers.

  "Gail?" Mom calls through the cracked door of her bedroom.

  My heart stops, and my foot freezes in midair inches above the step.

  Mom's voice sounds so shaky, so quiet. What if this is it? What if today I have to say goodbye?

  "Yes, it's me," I croak out so silently she couldn't have heard me. I take a steadying breath and climb up the rest of the stairs. My legs are shaking, and I'm clutching my hands into fists. Why is it always like this? Why can't I just pretend that each day might not be her last? Why did the doctors have to put a number on it? Two months is a very short time. And each day I have less hope that they're wrong.

  I relax my hands and push open the door. The French doors are open, and the breeze is blowing the white translucent curtains in and out. The breeze does nothing to chase away the smell of disinfectant, staleness, and the minty ointment that eases her cough slightly.

  Her whole face, including her lips, is a pasty, sickly bluish white color, and the bright silk scarf she's wearing only serves to better contrast it. She smiles gently and lifts her hand toward me.

  "Hi, Mom," I say and rush to take her hand. It's cool and clammy, but I don't mind. My hands are warm enough for the both of us. A year ago, we were running around Rome, the eternal city, laughing and exploring. She was fine then. Sure, she got tired rather quickly, but otherwise she was fine. And now she's dying.

  "Did you just get in?" she asks. Her voice breaks a little on the question, but she manages to stifle a cough. "What happened to your dress?"

  I glance down at the large coffee stain. I'd meant to change before anyone saw it, but she called me, and it might have been for the last time.

  "Well, you know me. I'm a slosher," I say lightly.

  "Looks like more than a little slosh to me." She chuckles, but it turns into a cough. I grab her hand with both of mine, the prickly ball of tears expanding in my throat.

  She gains control of her breathing quickly though and squeezes my hand back. "It's not so bad today. In fact, I was just about to watch a movie. Want to join me?"

  I nod excitedly. It's been a few weeks since my mom was well enough to sit through a movie. Today would likely be no different, but I don't dwell on it. "I'll just go and change," I say and stand up. "What do you want to watch?"

  "I was thinking Titanic," Mom says, a grin spreading across her face. I only just manage not to roll my eyes. She likes her romantic movies, and I'm not about to disagree with her today.

  I forgo the shower I'd planned to take, not wanting to waste any of the precious moments of Mom's lucidity. Some days, in the beginning, after they'd already passed the death sentence on her, she'd still get up and walk around, even eat dinner with us downstairs. But the last such day was my birthday. These days, she sleeps for most of the day and night.

  I'm snuggled next to her five minutes later and pushing play. When Edna the nurse comes up, I'll ask her pretty please for some popcorn. I haven't eaten since dinner last night, but I'd rather starve than miss movie day with my mom. We settle in and after a few minutes, it's just like old times, those lazy afternoons we'd spend watching movies, talking, and laughing. My mom was a high power attorney. But she always made sure to spend time with me, always left work at work when she decided to take a break. International law, specialized in human rights, and it's what I'm studying too. I wonder if she misses work. There's still so much she had meant to do. Maybe I can do some of it for her one day. I swallow the sad thought and concentrate hard on the movie.

  The romance between Jack and Rose starts. Not long after, I've already cast Scott and myself in the roles. What was it like for Rose? Stepping out and defying convention by falling for Jack? Must have been exciting, super charged. I'm imagining last night again, Scott and me in the pool, his bulky, strong arms around me and his lips on mine. In my mind, I'm wearing the long, lacy underwear women used to w
ear, because it fits this fantasy better, and I'm a geek that way.

  "So do you have a boy you like now?" Mom asks. Blood rushes to my face. I was just thinking about tasting Scott's nipples again.

  "No," I stammer, totally revealing my lie.

  My mom chuckles a little, and there's the ghost of her once melodic laugh there, but it's immediately crushed by the horrifying cough.

  I move to massage her back, hoping to ease the coughing, but she nods that she's alright.

  "You can't lie to me, Gail," my mom whispers. "Who is he?"

  "No one really. I hardly know him, and I'm pretty sure he wants nothing to do with me," I say. It'd be useless to lie now. Pointless. I've never lied to my mom, not much anyway.

  On the screen, Rose is posing nude while Jack draws her. I wonder what it would feel like to have Scott look at me like that. Somehow, the anticipation of the touch, seeing but not being allowed to feel, seems even more erotic than the real thing.

  Mom is studying my face seriously now. "You should convince him then. Regret is not something you want to die with, Gail."

  This time, I feel the blood drain from my face, as a cold, relentless vice clutches down on my chest. I'm rigid with fear. I don't want to talk of death with my mom. My mom's death.

  Tears are brimming in my eyes, and my throat is so tight, so constricted I couldn't say a word even if I tried. Even if I knew what to say.

  I hug her tightly, and all I want to say, all I have ever wanted to say is in that hug.

  She strokes my hair, and holds me loosely. She has no strength left. "Promise me, Gail, that you'll live. Promise me."

  She's shaking as she says it, like a leaf trying to hang on in the strong fall wind, but her voice is firm. "We live and then we die. So we must live. You must live."

  I nod into her shoulder. I can't imagine the day she will no longer be here; not really, I see no life beyond that day. There is only the dark abyss like I'm standing on a cliff, darkness around me, darkness below. But she sounds so strong today. I have to be strong for her.

  Coughing overtakes her again, and I let go, giving her air. She can't stifle it this time, and a few minutes later Edna rushes in to give her the medicine.

  Pain flashes across Mom's face with each breath she manages to take between the bouts of coughing and the terrifying gasps, when she can't get any air into her lungs. The prickly ball of tears spreads out from my throat, into my chest, settling in my stomach. I want to wail; I want to scream and stomp. I don't want my mom to die. I don't want to live if she dies.

  I dig my nails into my palms and concentrate on that pain to chase away the other. It rarely works anymore and doesn't today.

  "Maybe she needs oxygen?" I say to Edna, but my mom is shaking her head, her eyes wide. She always says the oxygen burns her nose and doesn't really help.

  Edna gives my mom a shot of morphine and lays her down gently on the bed. On the screen, the ship is going down, the people scurrying, and screaming to live. My mom's eyes close, and my heart thunders to life. I'm on my knees next to her bed, clutching her hand, certain that she'll never open her eyes again.

  But she does. They flutter open for a second, and her lips twitch like she's trying to smile. She can't keep her eyes open though, and she can't smile.

  "Let your mom rest now," Edna says and pushes herself off the bed.

  I stand up slowly, not wanting to let go of Mom's hand.

  Dad comes home an hour or so later. He catches the four o'clock train from Grand Central these days and is always home by five. No more late nights for him, not now. Though he spends most nights working at the dining room table after I've already gone to bed. I wonder if I'll ever be able to lose myself in the work like that. Law. The more I study it, the less I want to actually practice it. But there are other careers in human rights. I could be a consultant, like my dad, skip law school altogether and just get a specialized degree. There will be time to decide all that later, time enough.

  "How's Mom?" Dad asks, unfastening his tie and draping it over one of the dining room chairs.

  "She was better today. We watched a movie," I say.

  He smiles sadly and walks over to the bar to pour a glass of whiskey. Half the bottle or more will be gone before he goes to bed tonight. His drinking worries me, but I don't say anything anymore. He needs to come to terms with this too, and I understand his need to escape, if only for a little while. I just hope it won't be at the bottom of the bottle that he finds the answers.

  I follow him to the sofa and sit beside him.

  "I'm taking the semester off," I blurt out. I'm not even sure why I'm telling him what I decided, but it's better that he knows. "I want to stay with Mom."

  His hand jerks a little, and he sloshes some of the drink on his pants. He's a slosher too. "You can't, Gail. This is your final year."

  "I can't concentrate on studying anyway," I counter. "As it is, I'll have to redo some of my exams to get my GPA back up."

  "Your mother would not want you to drop out of school."

  "I'm not dropping out." It's always the same with him. He knows I don't love the law, and thinks I'd still rather be majoring in history. The way they both pressured me to change my major back then, urged me to be sensible, and to get a degree I can actually make money off, as though going poor was actually a possibility in our old money family. I gave in to their advice, and I don't regret it anymore. The future is uncertain after all, and Mom can be quite persuasive. I made my choices, and I will see them through.

  "It happens sometimes," he says and takes a slow sip. "And what about after..." He chokes on the rest of the sentence. Mom's death is not something we speak about, unless we're forced to.

  Frustration is constricting my throat. Why does he have to bring this up now? Why can't he just let me make my own choices?

  "Why can't you trust me?" I yell and shoot to my feet.

  "After... you might not want to go back," he finishes. "You can live here and still go to classes."

  I'm shaking now, anger and sadness consuming me, and swallowing me whole. I can't study now, and I can't even think about anything but Mom. Why can't he see that? Why does he have to make me feel so guilty about it? He can work through it sure, but I can't.

  "I'm taking the semester off," I say and run from the room. To the garage and my car. Tears are blinding me, but I can't stay in the house any longer and can't listen to this talk of what life after my mom's funeral will be like.

  The garage door takes forever to open. I drive out too fast when it finally does. I don't look once I reach the end of the driveway. All I want to do is get to the beach, watch the waves roll in, and understand how small we really are, all of us, how transient. The jolt and screech of metal grinding against metal jars me back to reality.

  I've run smack into the back of a red pick-up. If I'd left the house two seconds later, I could be dead. I'm clutching the steering wheel with both hands, my foot shaking on the brake, my face frozen, and my brain still processing what might have happened.

  Scott's banging on my window. "Are you hurt?"

  It's sounds like it's not the first time he's asked.

  I release the steering wheel and flex my fingers to get the blood flowing again but can't find my voice to answer.

  Scott shakes his head and walks over to the front of my car.

  I manage to put it in park, and get out slowly, hoping to hell my dad didn't hear anything.

  "Are you alright? Maybe you should go to the hospital," Scott says when he sees me.

  I shake my head. I'm fine, hardly got jolted, I was too lucky by far right now. Bart's Gardening Service is written in cursive green letters against white on the side of the pick-up. A black smear is etched into the back of Scott's truck.

  "You really should be more careful. I never even saw you coming," he says. His eyes are wide, and his jaw tightens as soon as he finishes speaking. He looks around, and the tendon in his neck stands out sharply. I wonder what that would feel like touc
hing it. We're still alone. No one heard the accident, thankfully.

  He turns back at me, his eyes dark green now. His grin reveals a row of perfectly white, straight teeth. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to your neighbors."

  He looks too perfect to just be a gardener; he really should be on the cover of some magazine, with that blond hair, hard, bulky muscles, and mysterious eyes. The white t-shirt that must have dried since this morning hangs loosely over his chest, but I can still see the tips of his nipples poking through the thin fabric.

  I can't believe I'm thinking this. I'm worse than some sex-crazed guy. Maybe I did bang my head.

  "I won't tell anyone," I say and flick my finger at the side of the truck. "Though Bart might wonder what happened."

  He shrugs and points to the scratch on my car, before folding his arms across his chest like he wants to stop me from staring. "You'll have to take that nasty scratch in, or it'll rust. It's too nice a car for that."

  "It's just a car," I say a little too loudly.

  His eyes narrow in the same way they did before, when he thought I was crazy. He probably still does. "Are you sure you're alright? Maybe you shouldn't be driving today."

  His rejection from earlier flitters back to my mind and coupled with my mom's instruction to go for it makes it all unbearable. I've now made a fool of myself with this guy for the third time in one day. There's no way anything will happen. He thinks I'm crazy. Still, I'd so much rather have those strong arms around me. His right bicep twitches a little like he knows what I'm thinking and it's suddenly all too much.

  "Don't worry, no one will know," I say, lunge back in the car and slam the door before backing up and driving away. I don't check my rearview mirror because I don't want to see him muttering anything after me. I know what a fool I've made of myself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The beach I'm heading to is far enough away from my neighborhood that I never meet anyone I know there. I visit it to be alone. Wanting to avoid the rush hour traffic, I don't get on the thruway. The decision that gets me hopelessly lost on all the little side roads. The beach is only about six miles from my home, but it still takes me almost an hour to get there. It's good; focusing on finding my way calms me, maybe better than the sea could.