The Super: A Bad Boy Romance (6 page)

“I think I’m going to take that trip out of town we talked about.”

“That’s fine. Just make sure you’re back by Monday. And say hi to Ma for me.”

“Sure thing. You know, if you manage to tear yourself away from your desk, maybe you could take the train up there and meet us.”

“The train? No way. I’d have the service drive me up there, if anything.”

“Having a few hours of alone time might do you some good. And I don’t mean in the back of a Lincoln. I mean in a public place.”

“Come on. Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t taken Metro North since we were kids.”

“Suit yourself. If you come up, maybe you can ride back with me in the Mustang. If you behave.”

“Shut the door, would you?”

I smile and close the door behind me as I continue making my way to my office.

Closing the door behind me, I take the small wooden box out of my bottom drawer, along with the letter Mom sent me.

I tuck the letter and box into my inner jacket pocket and text Ma.

Care for some company?

The draw to stay in the city for the rest of the weekend is there. I want to go back to that club, find Molly, and give her what I know she wants. I imagine her pretty, pink, heart-shaped lips on my cock as I show her what a real man is like.

She doesn’t belong cooped up in her apartment. She’s too pretty for that. She needs to be out and meeting people. Loosen up. She’s too serious. I’d show her something that would loosen her up, and she’d beg for more.

But I have to get out of the city. And I have to check in on Mom.

After researching the Anderson brothers and their firm, and getting my more important research out of the way, I decide that instead of borrowing something from Jess, I’ll go out and buy a new outfit of my own for my first day of work.

I hop into the G train subway station and give a few bucks to the man playing U2 songs on his guitar, case out and filled with crumpled bills. He’s always there, and he always sounds amazing. He has the voice of an angel and is good with the guitar, and I wonder if he ever tried to really make it, and when he stopped.

The train comes quickly and I get on. It’s crowded for a Saturday afternoon, but I get the one empty seat left near the door.

I finally get to the L train, stay on for a few stops, and get out at 14th Street to go shopping at my favorite discount designer store.

It’s a hot day, and I smile because this is always how summer comes on in New York City. Last night was freezing, and today is the day all the women trade in their boots for flip flops and their rain coats for tank tops.

It’s a city of extremes - high highs and low lows. No grey areas. No room for in-betweens. The best of times, the worst of times, and all that. Even the weather follows suit.

When I open the door to my destination, a cold, air-conditioned gust of wind hits me squarely in the face. I feel like the beads of sweat on my back freeze into little ice crystals as I trade in one form of discomfort for another.

I take my time browsing the store. I look at the shoes and settle on a pair of cute patent-leather flats. I pick up a trim little black suit with a cropped jacket and a navy blue shell. Everything looks on-trend and classic at the same time.

There’s a woman browsing the aisles near me - a really pretty, tall blonde woman. She looks familiar. I swear I’ve seen her before.

Holy crap!

Clarissa? Could it
actually
be Clarissa, Drew’s ex?

Why would she be shopping here? Shouldn’t she be on Fifth Avenue, shopping in some chi-chi boutique?

I try not to stare, but I need to know if it’s her.

Call it research. For my new job. I’m on my way to becoming a real journalist, after all. I shouldn’t stifle my desire to get the scoop.

Tonight at eleven:
Wealthy heiress seen shopping at a bargain store. What was she doing there? Coming up after the weather.

Maybe I should go into TV journalism, instead of print.

I try to study her face, without looking too obvious. I notice everything about her - the who, what, where and why, which are the basics of reporting.

Who? I’m not quite sure. I think it’s Clarissa. I try to look for clues as to whether it is actually her or not.

The what? Shopping. It’s what lots of young women in the city like to do on a lazy, hot Saturday afternoon, maybe after some brunching. Go to one of the big makeup stores, try out some new eyeliner, and pick up a few new pieces to freshen up the old wardrobe.

But our mystery woman doesn’t look like she’s enjoying herself. She looks bored. And she isn’t studying the garments or picking anything up or comparing prices like most girls would.

Where? A big discount department store, a place where I would never expect Clarissa to be. It just wouldn’t make sense for her to be here.

And finally, the why. This is the key question. Why would Clarissa be here?

Just as I’m about to reject the idea that it’s her, a man’s voice calls out to her.

“Clarissa!”

I was right! It’s her.

Clarissa looks up and seems instantly more bored than she did a few seconds ago, when she was browsing the rack of shirts with the enthusiasm one would have when trying to decide which brand of cold medicine to get.

“Yeah?” she responds.

“Come here!”

I tilt my head down and bury my eyes in a rack of dresses, but keep stealing little glances at Clarissa and our new mystery guy.

Mystery guy is hot. He has a perfectly symmetrical and tanned face, a five-o’clock shadow, a white t-shirt, dark-wash jeans and a naughty, crooked smile. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think it was Drew.

But from my research, and from meeting Drew Anderson, I know it isn’t him. But it isn’t Robert Crandall, either.

He pulls her in tight by the waist and presses his lips onto her, giving her a short but passionate and hot kiss, his hand holding her chin softly. He’s tall, and she has to stand up on her tip-toes even though she’s wearing three-inch tall lace-up gladiator espadrilles, and the way he holds her makes them seem like new lovers.

But Robert, he is not.

That’s a cold move, Clarissa. Two-timing your fiancee with
two different
guys?

It would explain what she’s doing in this store - hiding out.

She pushes him away softly, like it’s just for effect and she doesn’t really want him to stop kissing her.

“What if someone saw?”

“Let them watch. I don’t care.”

She locks her hand into his for a second and then swats it away, heading toward the escalator with him following her.

Damn. She can’t even display affection for her one of many boyfriends in public for fear of getting caught, and here I am without a boyfriend at all.

It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault but my own that I’m without a boyfriend.

I wonder what it would be like to be like Clarissa for just a day.

I also wonder what it would be like to be with Drew for just a night.

“Ma?”

I make my way up the crumbling wooden steps and open the creaky screen door.

“I’m in here!”

She has a dust rag and a bottle of cleaning solution in her yellow rubber-gloved hands.

Mom’s wearing black skinny pants and a white work shirt to clean. She’s chic, there’s no doubt about it. I take after her in that department. Like her, I also know how to dress. A red bandana holds her jet-black hair away from her face. She looks like a modern-day Rosie the Riveter, just with a little bit more lemony-fresh cleaning solution.

“Put that stuff down and give your favorite son a hug.”

“Eric is here, too?” she says, putting her supplies on the table just inside the front door and peeling off her gloves.

“Very funny.”

She brings me in tight for an embrace. She smells like the musty old house and marinara sauce.

“Come, let’s sit in the kitchen. I am so happy you’re here. Tea or coffee?”

I don’t like coming here. It just reminds me of the fact that I had to spend my time as a kid in two places, and it makes me think about the fights and disagreements my parents always had about the correct way to raise their sons. I’m thankful that they came to the compromise they did, but being in the country house still makes me feel on edge.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Tea, then.”

She goes over to the stove and turns on the burner under her tea kettle.

It’s funny how a place can endure so many years and still not change. I still remember leaving the house at the beginning of every summer with bittersweet excitement - I would be leaving all my school friends behind, but I would have adventures in the city. When I was in high school, I would leave behind whatever girl I was dating at the time, and meet new ones in the city. It was like leaving for summer camp. And while mom had to rule the house during the school year and make sure we did our vocabulary flashcards and times tables, our dad let us do pretty much whatever we wanted during the summer while he was busy building up his empire.

The house is the same as it was about ten years ago when I left for college. There’s still the tapestry showing New York State hanging on the wall over the old floppy couch. My mom still even has her old TV, a tube-style, and definitely not high definition. I think she got it back when I was in junior high.

It feels like Clarissa re-decorates her apartment twice a year. Out with the old, in with the new.

Mom sets down two cups and saucers for our tea.

“So? How is the planning going? I know you must be pretty stressed out with all the wedding preparations.”

“Clarissa did most of it. And anyway…”

I don’t want to tell my mom about Clarissa breaking off the engagement, and I don’t want to tell her about the legal troubles Eric and I are having, either. But she has to know. I have to tell her eventually.

It’s not like I can stage a fake wedding with Clarissa just so I never have to tell my parents that this so-called perfect woman of New York society dumped me.

“What? Don’t tell me you haven’t helped her at all. Not even with the cake tasting?”

“Mom, I have to tell you something.” I suck all the air I can manage to fit into my lungs and blow it out in one big, exasperated breath.

“Clarissa called off the engagement.”

Mom’s face drops with disappointment, and she puts her tea spoon gently into her cup.

“I can’t believe it. I’m so sorry, Drew.”

“It’s fine. It wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”

Not with her ex in the picture. I’m getting angry again, and I don’t want to be.

I’ve had enough anger in my life. I want to focus on the silver lining of the situation. Like the fact that I’ll be able to go out and slay as many young things as I want. Like the fact that I don’t want to be with someone who would cheat on me. Like the fact that I’m glad it ended when it did, instead of twenty years from now, like my mom and dad’s marriage had.

Of course, I know mom wanted me to settle down and marry. Leave my old bad habits and trail of women behind.

Mom puts her hand on mine.

“Anything you need, I’m here for you. That’s what moms are here for. To take care of their kids.”

“But I’m not a kid anymore. I should be able to take care of myself.”

The tea kettle whistles and mom gets up.

“Nonsense,” she says, pouring hot water into each of our cups. “Even when you’re grown up, you’re always someone’s son or daughter.”

“I got the package you sent me.”

“Ah, yes. I love it, but when I found it, I knew you had to have it. I wanted to remind you how small you started. Building that little box for me. I kept your Honor Society medal in it for so long. But you should have it.”

“I really appreciate it. I brought it with me, actually. It was in my office, but I feel like I should carry it with me.”

“I’m glad, Drew.”

She still has a little bit of the accent she had when she was young. Even after traveling all over the world with my dad and having a life outside the small town she was from, she always went back to her roots.

I get up and walk over to the front door. The condition of the house is bothering me.

“When are you going to get this fixed? The creaking on the joints of this screen door sounds like a dying cat.”

When my dad left, she really let the place go to shit. It was already starting to fall apart when he was still around. When he left the city, I think he gave up on everything around him. He turned inward. He was distant. And the house was the first thing he started to let go of. He had bigger things to give a shit about than Mom. And the house has deteriorated even further in the years since Eric and I left.

“Oh, what’s the point?” she asks, taking a sip of her tea. “I’m selling the place, anyway.”

“You could get more for the house if you fixed it up. Let me do it.”

“You don’t have to do that. I don’t care about the money. I have more than enough in the bank to put a down payment on a new place and cover my mortgage and other expenses for years. Plus, I intend on continuing to work. Maybe do some part-time math tutoring.”

“Everyone could use more money.”

“I guess you learned that from your father,” she responds, rolling her eyes.

“Come on, Mom. You know it’s true.”

“Fine. If you want to fix some basic things, you can. You’re right. No one is going to want to buy a cottage with a busted door.”

“Thank you.”

“But just basics, okay? People up here don’t buy property to get a new jacuzzi tub or a sub-zero freezer. They want to live here so they can have a sense of community and send their kids to schools with small classes.”

“Running for city Council? Or are you exploring a new career as a real estate broker? Trying to sell the house to
me
?”

“I’m just saying.”

I hear a light rap on the screen door behind me and my mom waves and starts toward the door. I turn around to see an older gentleman outside, holding a paint can and wearing a kind smile and an old work shirt.

“Hey, Richard! Come on in!”

Mom scurries past me and pushes the door open for her visitor.

“Hey, Liz. How are ya? I just came by to see how you were doing. If you needed anything.”

“I’m lovely. Here, this is my Drew.”

“Drew, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

He puts his hand out and shakes mine firmly but kindly, not like some shot caller in the city who’s trying to put on a front like he’s been your best friend for years when he just met you. For once, it seems like someone is actually happy to meet me. It doesn’t seem like he wants something, which is the case with nearly everyone I meet.

The money doesn’t always attract the right kind of people.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

I slip a hand through my hair. It’s a little odd to be greeted by someone who clearly knows my mom well, who thinks it’s okay to just pop by.

Then I remember where I am. In the country, front doors are always open to allow in the calm breeze or an unexpected visitor.

“We were just having a cup of tea. Would you like to join us?”

“I would like that very much! So, Drew,” he says, placing the paint can down at the door and making his way into the kitchen with Mom and me, “I hear that you live in the big city. You have a real estate firm with your brother?”

“That’s right. Yes. We mainly deal with commercial and multi-use properties. We actually just acquired something new, but there’s a little bit of an issue with it.”

“Oh? You didn’t mention anything to me,” Mom says.

“Nothing too serious, I hope?” Richard chimes in.

“No, no. Just a little contract dispute. It’s nothing. But I won’t bore you with all the stupid details. Eric is more worried about it than I am.”

“That’s Eric. He was always the slightly more neurotic of my sons. Drew here was always a cool customer.”

She punches my shoulder playfully. It’s like I’m back in high school and my mom is trying to embarrass me in front of a girl.

“Anyway, I just stopped by to help mom with the attic a little bit. Get some of my old crap out of her way.”

I start to get up from the table, but it seems like Richard wants me to stay. For him, chatting isn’t just a formality. Small talk isn’t just a means to an end, something to fill up a quota of time before business is discussed.

He’s laid back, his tone ambling and conversational.

“How’s the fiancee treating you? I heard all about her from your mom.”

“Oh…” My mom shoots Richard a glance and shakes her head in quick, small bursts.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Trouble in paradise? It seems like you’re going through a little bit of a rough patch, son.”

“Something like that. It’s actually good to be away from it all. I took my Mustang up here. Good to feel the breeze in my hair for once.”

“Good for you. Hold onto that. When you’re my age, you’ll be lucky to have any hair.” Richard puts a hand on his head. He’s balding slightly, but he still looks great.

“Oh, I’m not afraid of going bald,” I respond. “I think an older man with a bald head can look distinguished.”

“Tell that to my ex-wife!”

The three of us laugh, but all this feel-good talk and closeness is making me feel itchy.

“You’re not older, Rich. And anyway, some things get better with age,” my mom says, looking at Richard with a sympathetic smile.

“Like me,” he responds. “Or a nice cheese.”

“Or wine,” I add, separating myself from the table. “I’m going to go check out the attic. You need me to do anything up there?”

“No, no. Rich helped me clear some of the stuff out. Take anything else up there that you want. I probably would have ended up shipping it to you, anyway.”

I make my way up the narrow stairs to the attic. It’s just as dusty as I remember. I don’t blame Mom for wanting to sell the place, and if it were up to me, I would do a full gut-renovation on it until the thing is fucking unrecognizable.

All that remains, tucked in a corner of the attic, are a few boxes and the spare couch we kept up there for guests back when the space was usable as a spare bedroom. All the Christmas decorations and board games are gone.

I recognize the boxes right away as the place where I had tucked away all the mementos I collected from high school. Yearbooks, football trophies, my science fair ribbons, my bowling ball and shoes - everything that would remind me of my life before moving to the city has been set into the boxes.

These things aren’t just reminders of the past - they’re everything we’re supposed to keep as reminders of the past. That’s what they’re for. That’s why we have them.

And here mine are, packed up into some shitty, dusty boxes in a house I don’t live in or even visit much anymore.

I dig into the box and open up the back cover of my Senior yearbook. I don’t want to look at pictures of my old classmates - I’m friends with all of them on social media and can see pictures of them whenever I feel like it. I don’t want to see pictures of them from Senior year of high school. No one actually looks good in high school, and to make matters worse, it was the early 2000s.

Instead, I go straight for all the messages my classmates wrote to me, and seek out the message from the girlfriend I had Senior year.

I don’t have to look far. I know exactly where that loopy pink handwriting is - right in the top corner of the back cover.

Drew, don’t ever change! You’re a truly special guy, and I hope you have fun in college. I hope we can still be friends!

She didn’t even sign it. She didn’t have to.

It’s strange, in a way. I had so many girlfriends in high school and college, and so many cheap, disposable one night stands before settling down with Clarissa. It’s like Amanda represented all of them, the way she kept her message anonymous. Or maybe she didn’t sign it because she thought I’d never forget her.