An Illicit Pursuit (6 page)

“But just you, okay? I don’t want your
boyfriend.”

I nod. It’s not like I take extra
satisfaction in torturing myself by informing Zach about my
potential pursuers. “You need to go now.” I lift my hand to push
him away. The touch on his sweaty skin sends jolts from my finger
through my body. I was holding hands with him just Wednesday; why
am I so sensitive to a tiny skin contact now?

He looks down at my hand, which is still
touching his bare skin, and smiles before getting up to his feet.
“Tomorrow at noon. I’ll text you the address. I can pick you up and
drive you back at the end if you want.”

I’m too embarrassed to move; he’s standing
beside me with his crotch at my eye level. “I’ll think about
it.”

I hear him smirk. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he
says and brushes my cheek with a finger.

I freeze in my seat, although my eyes flip
around to make sure Zach isn’t around. He is not. I exhale a deep
breath of relieve and watch Adam climb down the stairs with the
grace of a dove. I feel like hugging a pillow and diving into the
waves of romantic dreams, just like I used to do every so often
back in junior high.

The second half starts, and Zach is still
nowhere to be seen. How does he manage to arrive late even from a
restroom visit? He needs professional help to get rid of this
annoying habit of his. When he finally appears at the exit, he
beckons me out with his hand. He looks distressed, making me feel
guilty for getting upset with him. Did he see Adam sitting next to
me? Oh, God, please no!

I sling my purse over my shoulder and hurry
across the row toward the exit. “What’s the matter?” I ask him as
soon as I arrive at his side.

“My mother called. My father had a heart
attack an hour ago. He’ll have surgery tonight.”

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry.” I wrap my arms around
his neck and pull his head down to my shoulder. He’s trembling and
probably fighting back tears.

“I booked a flight to Denver for tonight. I
want to see him before the surgery.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, no. Don’t worry. I’ll come back as soon
as his situation improves.”

He pulls back and holds my hand as we start
walking out. I glance one last time at the court before leaving and
catch Adam staring at me, disappointment clear in his
expression.

I help Zach pack a small suitcase for the
trip and drive him to the airport. I buy three boxes of cookie mix
on the way back to his apartment. Despite the busy street outside,
the apartment is too silent without Zach. His roommate usually
stays out, clubbing the night away on Saturday nights. So, I’m all
by myself tonight. I grab my guitar, settle on the couch in the
living room, and prepare for the songs I’m planning to play
tomorrow, until about eight p.m. Later than that, the old lady
downstairs starts hitting the ceiling with a stick to convey her
discomfort about the loud music.

At eight o’clock sharp, I set about baking
cookies. I skipped dinner, but I don’t want to go to bed with an
empty stomach. I bake eight large cookies and then eat them all.
They’ll probably give me acne on the forehead and extra inch around
my hips, but I don’t care. I used to eat twice as many cookies at
one sitting in addition to a family-size pizza during my early
adolescent years. I’d save up my pocket money and order pizza when
my mother went out to play poker with my step-father at a
neighbor’s home. I was never out of money, because I had both my
mother and father pumping up my income. Even my step-mother would
squeeze a twenty into my hand every now and then to shut me up when
I was particularly mean to her.

My waist size was growing almost an inch a
week. One day, my then-best friend, Mary, from junior high came to
my help and showed me how to finger my throat to purge. “Shove
three fingers down the throat while punching your stomach with the
other hand,” she said with an angelic smile.

The process was painful and the result gross.
Seeing all the half-chewed pizza bread and mushrooms forcing their
way out of my mouth made me want to keep on puking the entire
night. My gums and throat swelled like I’d had mumps, and much to
my surprise, I didn’t want to even look at food the next two days.
As a result, I was forced to the conclusion that puking wasn’t for
me, so I decided to cut down on the food. Rather than family-size
pizza, I started to order normal size and only every now and then
rewarded myself with the family-size or extra cookies.

My primrose path came to a halt, when one
night my mother and step-father came home early from their poker
night, catching me enjoying an NY-style, pepperoni pizza in my bed.
With my obesity, it didn’t take a genius to add two and two
together and figure my bed-and-pizza affair wasn’t just a one-night
stand.

My mother grabbed the pizza box and, to make
sure I didn’t steal it when they went to bed, spilled hot water on
it before dumping it in the garbage can. I did steal it and eat it
with the same pleasure as if it’d been dry. What was she thinking?
Me, going to bed hungry? I don’t know whether she noticed the
missing contents of the pizza box the next morning, but she cut all
my pocket money and ordered my father to do the same for “my
sake.”

So, that led me to babysitting the neighbors’
kids. Even though my mother took the money I earned, the job still
had its perks, such as an easy access to the refrigerators of the
families who hired me. Unfortunately, that came to an end, too,
when one particular neighbor called my mother on a Christmas day to
inform her about the missing Christmas cookies and her suspicion
about me being the thief. What happened to all the stories about
Santa’s love for cookies?

My mother sent me to a therapist and put me
on a strict diet, which worked to some degree. But my real
weight-loss success came when I laid my eyes on Zach in high
school. He was beautiful, handsome, smart, and for some strange
reason thought I was pretty. I forgot all about food and gave my
entire attention to him. To his penis, to be specific. After all,
orgasm triggers the body to release endorphins, the happiness
hormone, doesn’t it? I didn’t need food to feel happy anymore. I’d
play my guitar and compose song after song while riding the high of
sex with Zach.

And now, after scarfing down a plate full of
cookies, I feel like my life is going back to junior high, where
something always felt missing.

The next morning I wake to the phone buzzing.
I jump up, thinking it’s from Zach, and grab the phone; instead I
find a text from Adam.

Have you decided about the
transportation?

I don’t feel like writing back to him, not
before knowing about Zach’s father.

So I text to Zach,
“Hi baby, how did your
father’s surgery go? Is he going to be okay? Missing you
lots.”

I’d rather call him directly, but his mother
isn’t particularly fond of me for stealing her only child. The
first time I went to have dinner at their home, his mother cornered
me in the kitchen and called me Shiksa. I thought it was Hebrew for
slut. Tears rolling down my face, I ran to Zach and asked him the
meaning of the word. He laughed and told me it meant non-Jewish
girl. It didn’t calm me down. Obviously. The way his mother called
me that sounded like she’d rather have Zach date a Jewish slut than
me, a desperately-in-love Shiksa.

To this date, Zach’s mother hasn’t
acknowledged our relationship. So, there is no need to irritate her
now, while her husband is struggling with a grave illness.

The phone buzzes with a new text message.

“
Wrong recipient. Although I’m missing you
lots too :)”

What! I quickly check the number to which I
sent the message. Adam. Fantastic! I hit my fist on the bed with
anger at myself. How could I mix the numbers?

I re-send the text, this time making sure
it’s to Zach.

Zach replies immediately:
“The surgery
went well. We’re waiting for him to wake up. Wish you were
here.”

Me:
“Call me when he wakes up. I love
you.”

Zach:
“Will do. Love you too.”

I leave the phone back on the nightstand and
slip down under the covers. Tiredness takes over, as if I haven’t
blinked an eye last night. I relax and start easing into sleep when
the phone buzzes again. This time, though, it’s not a text message
buzz but an incoming call. My head still on the pillow, I grab it
and hit answer.

“You’re intent on not communicating with me,”
Adam speaks, his voice frosty.

I can be frosty, too. “I’m trying to
sleep.”

“Is that why I’m getting weird texts from
you?”

“It was just one text.”

“Still.” He waits for a moment. I hear him
sigh to the phone. “So, what’s the plan? Want me to pick you up?
I’ll be in Westwood area, anyway.”

“No, I’ll drive.”

“As you wish.” He sounds disappointed. “I’ll
text you the address. You can come around one.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“See you.”

I hear a click, and the line goes dead.
Dropping the phone onto the bed, I roll onto my side, wondering how
Miss California would react, had she known how enthusiastically
Adam wants to be my private chauffer. Honestly, why doesn’t he
pursue her? She’s much better than I am in every sense. Is he
thinking I’ll hit it big and be a nation-wide star? Is that why
he’s so persistent, hoping to have a celebrity girlfriend?

I sleep a little more and wake up with the
alarm clock that I’d set to eleven. My stomach doesn’t feel good,
so I skip breakfast, and busy myself with a relaxing bath and then
going through my clothes. I didn’t ask Adam about the type of dress
I’m expected to wear. But it’s a birthday party among family, so I
won’t be so out of place if I put on a sun dress. I pick a
knee-length, sky-blue, sheath dress, and flat pumps.

I get into my car a little before twelve in
case there’s traffic and pull up at twelve thirty in the drive way
of a three-story house. Well, a mansion actually. I grab my guitar
case and the folder with notes and climb out. Adam meets me at the
patio, wearing a black, fitted shirt, through which I can see his
chest muscles flex, and black jeans.

I bite my lip to stop a silly joke about
black and funeral coming. “Hope I’m not too early.”

Shaking his head, he reaches for me and gives
me a kiss on the cheek. Although it’s a brief one, it feels long
enough to feel the intimacy of his lips on my skin and give me tiny
shivers. I hear girls giggling and turn toward the window where the
giggling sound is coming from to see two teenage girls, dark-haired
like Adam, flashing their braced teeth toward me.

“My youngest sisters. They’re twins.” Adam
motions with his hand inside the house. I follow him in hesitantly,
too nervous to take in anything on my way.

A hugely pregnant woman, who probably passed
nine months long ago, with the same piercing hazel eyes as Adam’s,
greets me. “Hello, I’m Adriana. Adam’s older sister. Welcome to our
home.”

I introduce myself and shake her hand.

“You spared us a big hassle. I’d hired a
harpist as a surprise for mom’s birthday and she canceled on us
yesterday. How unprofessional people can be, right? I’m glad that
you could find time for us. Adam told me you acted in a movie. I’m
looking forward to watching it.”

“A small role, no big deal actually.” I shoot
Adam an angry look, and he laughs.

“Yeah, the movie isn’t a big deal but her
voice is,” Adam chimes in. “She’ll blow your mind away.” Then he
turns to me. “Come on. Let me introduce you to my mother. She’s
over in the kitchen.”

We move through the long hall. I spot a
piano, as we pass the living room and enter the kitchen. The smell
of spices and baking meat hits me hard, reminding me of the
breakfast I skipped. It’s a huge kitchen, crowded with various
sizes of pans, pots, and kitchen appliances both on the counters
and the island. But, the blonde lady in the middle of the kitchen
doesn’t blend into the mess. In fact her straight posture, the
vibrant energy that radiates from her face makes her stand out, as
if she’s the only object to look at.

Adam gently taps the small of my back. “Mom,
this is Pat Stevens. Pat, this is my mother, Grace.”

Startled by the intimacy of Adam’s discreet
touch, I move forward to shake his mother’s hand, but instead she
embraces me in her arms. She smells of lavender and vanilla, which
makes me stay a little longer in her arms than courtesy would
allow.

Then, I am introduced to the teenage girls,
who laughed at me a minute ago. Nikki and Brendie. Identical twins
through and through; from their haircuts down to the clothes they
wear.

“Nikki has a scar on the side of her
forehead,” Adam comes to my rescue, when I try to distinguish who
is who.

“Shut up,” Nikki says, smiling and punches
Adam’s arm.

“Boys, right?” I point out, with an
additional punch on Adam’s other arm. The girls break into
laughter, as if they haven’t heard a joke in years.

We all go out to the backyard and find
Adriana’s husband, Joe, and her little daughter, Joanne, playing on
the slide. They’d set up an entire playground fully equipped with a
slide, swing, maze, and a small square with sand. And, it doesn’t
even cover half the space of the backyard. A large property with a
mansion in the midst of Beverly Hills doesn’t come cheap, I’d
guess.

“I can start playing now if you’d like,” I
ask Grace since she’s the birthday girl.

“That’d be lovely, darling.” Grace takes her
place on a chair at the round table beside the playground. The
others follow suit. I pull a chair in front of them, set my guitar
on my lap, and play the song I sang for the movie. Adam closes his
eyes soon after I start singing. Grace is rocking gently side to
side to the rhythm, a peaceful smile curling her lips. Soon, the
twins find their spots under her arms and rock together with her,
Adriana sitting beside them. Even the baby girl, Joanne, is paying
attention to my song. When the song finishes, I continue with
another of mine that I wrote years ago, about what love can
endure.