Starting Over (3 page)

“Ew, gross,” I say. “That’s my brother still.”

“Fair enough.”

“Where is Josie?” I ask.

Julia leans back and props her feet up on the coffee table, looking as if she could fall asleep at any moment. “Last time I checked, before I tried to do a battle royal in the bathtub with Violet, Josie had her earbuds in and was watching something on TV in the other room. If you give me just one full minute to sit here with my feet up, I swear I’ll go get her for you.”

Laughing, I indulge my sister-in-law in the brief moment of silence that to her must seem like a luxury nowadays. I mean, I could very well just get Josie and be on my merry way, but I kind of like just sitting here, closing my eyes, and letting my mind go blank and not thinking about one single solitary thing.

But the funniest thing happens. Instead of going blank, a thought pops into my mind. Actually, it’s not a thought, it’s a person . . . one very specific, handsome person: Mr. Thomas, science teacher.

The next thing to come out of my mouth is even more unexpected. “Julia?”

“Hmm?” she answers.

“Do you think Indiana Jones is hot?”

Without missing a beat, Julia answers with a question. “Are we talking before or after Ally McBeal cut off his balls and slapped an earring on his ass?”

My eyes fly open and I look at her. She’s still in complete and utter repose and doesn’t seem at all caught off guard by my question.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“You’re asking me if Harrison Ford is hot, yes?” I mumble a yes, and then she opens her eyes and calmly says, “Well, if we’re talking about before Ally got her hands on him, yes, he was so utterly hot it was almost disgusting. But if we’re talking about after she got her grubby little paws on him and ruined it for the rest of all womankind, then no, he’s as far away from hot as you could possibly get.”

I rack my brain for a second before saying, “Before. Yes, definitely before the whole Ally thing happened to him.”

“Well, then, you know my answer. Hot, superhot.” She closes her eyes again before quickly opening one of them to look at me. “Why are you asking me this anyway?”

“No reason.”

Ugh, I answered way too fast. And by the severely wicked smile that is now growing on Julia’s face, I know she knows that I know something that she doesn’t and won’t let up until she does.

“You dirty little liar,” she says and pulls her legs off of the coffee table. “Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I pretend to look at the watch that doesn’t exist on my wrist. “Oh, would you look at that, time to get Josie and go home.”

I stand up and call out to Josie, then remember that she has her earbuds in, so I walk toward the television room. But that’s enough time for Julia to start following me and peppering me with a series of questions. “Who is this Indiana Jones look-alike? Where did you meet him? Are you going out on a date with him?”

Ignoring her is not an option, so I stop abruptly, which makes Julia run right into my back. As casually as I can muster, I say, “It’s nothing and no, I am not going out with anyone. So there really isn’t anything to tell, I promise.”

By the look of confusion on her face, I can tell my explanation wasn’t enough, so I add, “But as soon as there is something to tell, I swear you’ll be the first person I call.”

Her face beams with a ridiculous goofy smile, but I don’t have the heart to tell her that there will never be a thing to share. If just the promise of nothing is enough to put her off, then so be it.

Josie sees us coming her way and pops out her earbuds. “Hey, Mom, how was it?”

“Good, sweetie,” I say. “We’ve got to get going home though. Can you start packing up your things?”

Josie answers by getting all of her stuff ready, and in another minute we’re saying our good-byes to Julia, with both of us telling her to pass on our good-byes to Alex and Violet.

But before we make our escape, Julia grabs my elbow with superhuman strength as Josie is making her way to my car.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but something is going on,” she whispers, yet manages to make it sound like a threat.

“Julia—”

She lets go of my arm and puts her hands up to stop me. “I’m not saying I need to know everything. What I’m trying to say is—and obviously doing the worst job possible—is that if you need me for anything, I’m here for you.”

And in that instant, and as crazy as it seems, I feel a closeness to my sister-in-law that I’ve never experienced before. I know it doesn’t make sense, because it’s just this one little thing about a guy who she has no clue about and probably never will, but it’s true. I don’t have a sister and neither does Julia. And through marriage, she has become the sister I had always wished for and probably vice versa for her. I can only imagine that this is what sisters are supposed to be like: sharing and caring for each other, yet remaining close friends through thick and thin and being there for the other whenever the time calls for it.

“You’ll be the first person I call if Indiana Jones shows up on my doorstep.”

She claps her hands together and says one last good night to me before closing the door. After we arrive home safe and sound, Josie goes to bed in her room and me in mine, and I’m still smiling at the exchange between Julia and me, because if anything, I think being friends, like real friends with someone, is the beginning of opening myself up for other things in my life.

CHAPTER THREE

E
ver since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed that one day I’d be sitting on the banks of the Seine in Paris with my sketchbook in hand, living as an artist. From as far back as I can remember, I’ve had an ability to flesh out my thoughts on paper, either in charcoal or watercolors. It’s just always come easily to me. I used to sit for hours, drawing the flowers outside my mother’s kitchen windowsill. Taking great care to get the colors and shading right and the way the petals bent just so whenever the wind would pick up. Sometimes something as random as pieces of broken glass on the concrete would get my attention, and I’d take a mental snapshot and then start drawing it in variations when I got home, until my wrists were sore and my hands were nearly black with charcoal. My mom likes to take credit for this. And she probably should. She always nurtured my love of painting and drawing, fostering it with art classes, taking my brother and me to exhibits from a very early age, and encouraging me to push myself past my limits to see the fruits of my labor.

Needless to say, I never envisioned myself working part-time at a construction company as an office manager. Then again, I never pictured myself being a single mom either. But that’s the way the cookie crumbled for me.

My father owns said construction company: Holt Construction. So yes, I took the nepotism route. I’m not ashamed by it either. When he offered me the job, at first I was hesitant since I hadn’t ever worked in an office environment. I’d been waitressing here and there to supplement my income as an artist and making ends meet just fine. But living on tips, not to mention the hours, was nowhere near a suitable option for me once Josie came into the picture. And as much as I pride myself on being independent—getting an art scholarship for college, working at the local pub near campus to pay for my books and art supplies, never asking my parents for a dime and instead selling some of my pieces at street fairs to put food on the table—I couldn’t smack a gift horse in the mouth when my father approached me with this job. I think it takes a lot of courage to be able to admit to oneself that you can’t do all of it alone. That saying “it takes a village to raise a child” is remarkably true.

During the school year my days usually begin around five in the morning. After I hit the snooze bar a couple of times, I drag myself out of bed and onto the treadmill for my daily two-mile run, then take a quick shower before I wake Josie up by six thirty. After I’ve warned her that I’m waiting to leave at least four times, she’s usually done getting ready for school. I’ll drop her off and head to the office, which is about thirty minutes away.

As the office manager, I’m supposed to be in the office before the rest of the staff. What ends up actually happening is that the barista at Starbucks—who has been making my salted caramel mochas for the last five years—starts chatting with me, and before I know it, I’m getting to the office at exactly the same time as everyone else. I don’t take a lunch hour or a break, really, and maybe sneak one empanada at my desk from the roach coach that makes the rounds of the corporate park. On most days, I work straight through until it’s time to pick up Josie after school or after whatever club meeting she has on any given day of the week. If we don’t have to stop anywhere, like my brother’s house, or my parents’ house, or the grocery store, we’re usually home by four o’clock in the afternoon. She’ll do her homework while I make dinner. We eat together, and then it’s back to bed and I’m hitting the rewind button to do it all over again the next day. Basically, my life is like Bill Murray’s in
Groundhog Day
.

On the weekend, all bets are off. For one, we sleep in. I’ve trained Josie well in that she likes to stay in bed as long as humanly possible, just like me. But the best part of the weekend is that it allows me the luxury of time to paint or draw, sometimes all day if I’m lucky.

If I didn’t have this outlet, I’d probably lose my mind. I decompress, but more than that, it’s a way to express myself on canvas. As an artist, albeit a part-time one at this point in my life, it’s a gift to be able to pour my heart and soul into a piece and see it come to life right before my very eyes. Even if it’s only for my eyes. Whether or not the pieces I create are shared with the world or stay with me forever is not the point. It’s the road I take to get to the final product that makes life that much more satisfying.

With the anticipation of possibly working in my studio this weekend putting a smile on my face, I start to wind down my day at the office before I have to leave to pick up Josie. It’s a Friday, which is movie night at our house. I usually pick up some takeout, and then we plop ourselves in front of the living room television to watch and eat dinner in our pajamas. We alternate who gets to pick what we watch, and this time it’s my turn. Even though I dread how fast my little girl is not so little anymore, there are some advantages to her growing up, one of which is not to have to sit through awful kid movies—Disney and Pixar films excluded, of course. I’m a sucker for the Beast and that old curmudgeon in
Up
.

As I’m mentally cataloging the favorites in my Netflix account to choose from later tonight, my dad calls out to me from his office. “Vanessa, can you stop in here for a minute before you leave for the day, please?”

Out of habit, I stuff a pencil into the makeshift bun in my hair and swivel the chair away from my desk. “I’ll be right there, Dad.”

I cringe after realizing I called him “Dad” in front of the rest of the office staff. I try to keep our relationship in the office professional by calling him Mr. Holt, but sometimes I slip up.

“Sorry, I mean, Mr. Holt,” I say as I walk into his office and take a seat.

“You don’t have to call me that, Vanessa. It sounds ridiculous, and everybody thinks so, and so do you.” He pauses and lifts his head from the monitor to give me a wry smile.

“I know, but it doesn’t feel right to remind everyone every single day that I only got this job because I’m your daughter.”

“Vanessa, if you weren’t any good at this job, I would have fired you years ago whether you’re my daughter or not.”

I chuckle. “No you wouldn’t.”

My dad doesn’t laugh at all. “I fired your brother, didn’t I?”

“No you didn’t. He quit when he bought the gallery, and then you ‘fired’ him to save face in front of them.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder to the rest of the office staff.

Alex had worked for my dad’s construction company every single summer from the time he was twelve years old until a few years after he graduated from college. It was then that he had saved up enough money to buy his own art gallery in South Beach. When he finally told my dad that he was quitting, my dad was so upset that his only son wouldn’t be taking over the family business that he “fired” him. They didn’t speak for a week, until my mom stepped in to clear the air between them. Ever since then, my dad likes to remind me that he technically fired Alex, but we both know it’s nowhere near the truth.

“Semantics.” He clears his throat and then says, “I just wanted to check in before you left to make sure you didn’t need anything from me, because I’ll be away on vacation until Wednesday.”

“Did you sign all those purchase order forms I left for you earlier?”

“I just finished.” He hands me a pile of papers across his desk. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think so. If you can just check in with the foreman on the Chamberlin job before you hit the road today, I’d appreciate it. It will save me the headache of having to field calls from both sides come Monday morning.”

My dad smiles. “You got it. But you do realize they will still call no matter what I tell them, right?”

“I know.” I get up and go to leave his office. Stopping at the door, I turn and lean on the door frame. “Where are you going anyway?”

“I’m taking your mother away to a little B and B in the Keys for a little R and R, if you know what I mean.” He winks and then laughs.

“That’s disgusting, Dad. TMI.”

“TMI?” he asks. “Is that some lingo the kids are saying these days?”

“Yes, it means too much information.”

My dad stands up and walks around his desk toward me. “Vanessa, when are you going to be going to a little B and B in the Keys for a little R and R?”

“Dad!”

“Shhh! Keep your voice down.” He grabs my arm and pulls me forward so he can shut the door and give us some privacy. “Vanessa, your mother and I are worried about you. All you do is this and Josie. All day, every day. You need to get out more, meet people, and be social.”

“That’s not true,” I say on a shaky breath. “I do lots of things.”

My father gives me a look that makes me feel like a little girl all over again. “Sweetheart, you know your mother and I want nothing but the best for you, right?”

“Yes.”

“I—I mean
we
—wonder when you’re ever going to get back on that saddle.”

I cross my arms to keep my heart from exploding out of my chest. My cheeks blaze red in embarrassment. Because the very last thing any thirtysomething woman wants is her father wondering when she’s ever going to be getting some in this lifetime.

“Dad, I’m happy. Why is that so hard for you and Mom, or anyone for that matter, to believe?”

And I am. I’m supercalifragilisticexpialidocious every day. Well, technically not every day . . . but close enough so I don’t feel there is anything that is missing from my life.

My dad is still staring at me with concern in his eyes, as if the more times I say it out loud, the more I’m trying to convince myself that it’s true.

“I swear, Dad, I’m very happy. Everything is just fine as it is. Plus, what kind of message would I be sending to your granddaughter if I started bringing men in and out of her life?”

He rubs his chin thoughtfully and opens his mouth to answer. “Um . . .”

“Exactly. So please let me live my life, since I’ve been doing just fine all this time. And who says I need a man in my life to complete it anyway?”

“Well—”

“Well what, Dad?”

“Well, I never said you needed a man to complete your life, Vanessa. I simply was trying to get you to loosen up a bit. Go out with your friends. Do something instead of this.” He waves his hand in the air dramatically around us. At least he has the sense to look a little sheepish.

“Dad, I appreciate your concern, I really do . . . and Mom’s, but I swear, I’m fine. Please stop worrying about me.” I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek. “Go ahead and pick up Mom for your little getaway. I’ll hold down the fort like I always do while you’re gone and see you in a few days.”

Before he can say anything, I open the door to his office and walk back to my desk with purpose in every stride. I can feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head while I start gathering my belongings to leave for the day.

I make sure to say good night and the usual “have a good weekend” to everyone I pass until I’m out the door and under the blazing late afternoon Miami sun. It’s then I take a big gulp of hot air through my nose and blow it out from my mouth. I do this one more time to relax enough to operate the heavy machinery necessary to pick up my daughter from school. Nobody should be behind the wheel when they’re this upset. I mean, it’s a recipe for disaster. I can’t even think straight, that’s how upset I am right now.

The hard truth of it is that I don’t have many friends. I had Josie when I was twenty-four years old. My friends at the time were busy living it up, dating, and having a ball. And there I was, trying to find the right formula for my newborn so that she wouldn’t throw up on me every three hours after she finished a bottle. So slowly but surely, the friends I did have fell by the wayside. Josie came first. I barely have time as it is to think about how I don’t have friends. But I have my family. They’ve always been supportive of Josie and me, and have been there through everything.

And as far as dating or a relationship goes, no on both counts. As a single parent, to a girl especially, I can’t be flip about who I bring into our lives, our home. I’ve come to terms with this. It’s taken me years, but it gets easier to be alone. In fact, I rather enjoy it. It’s kind of hard to break out of the habit after almost thirteen years of it. Who knows? Maybe I’ll start dating when Josie finally has to put me in a home so I don’t cramp her style.

Walking toward my parked car, I start to relax. This isn’t the first time that one of my parents has tried to have a “come to Jesus” talk with me about my nonsocial life. My parents should take their cue from Alex, who knows better than to even say one word about it anymore. But sadly, every time they see an opportunity, they strike, and they strike hard. It’s even worse when they gang up on me. I’ve feigned illnesses at family parties a few times to get away from their incessant nagging.

I understand my parents’ concern. But honestly, when are they going to get sick of having the same conversation, over and over again, when obviously nobody is listening? Or, more importantly, why don’t they realize that I’ve been doing just fine for years, and that I’m completely okay with my life?

And I am. I’m okay . . . with everything. As is.

I’ve been so absorbed with this latest conversation about my not having a life that before I know it, I’m pulling up to Josie’s school. Luckily, I don’t have to text her to let her know I’m here since she’s already outside waiting for me. She’s sitting underneath a palm tree with a couple of her friends, looking as happy as I’ve ever seen her.

Josie gathers up her things and starts walking toward the car. But halfway here, she stops and says something to her friends, who giggle and cross their fingers. She turns around again and walks the rest of the distance, then opens the passenger-side door, letting the stifling hot air suffocate the car for the two seconds or so she has the door open before slamming it shut and we’re on the road again.

“How was your day?” I ask.

“Good, thanks,” she says cheerfully. “How was yours?”

“Good. The usual.” I put my turn signal on to make a left onto Sunset Avenue but get stuck at the light. I turn my head to look at her. She’s on her cell phone, texting, when I ask, “So, do you have any preference on what kind of movie I pick tonight? I’m thinking something scary or maybe something really sappy. What do you think?”