Make Me Sin

5

A.J. swings his bulk into the passenger seat, slams shut the door, shoots me a smirk, and they’re gone. I release the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. So much for trying to strike a peace accord with the fire-breathing dragon.

I won’t make the same mistake again.

And Kat owes me ten bucks.

By the time I get home from work, it’s dark, there’s no parking available on the street, and the migraine that had been threatening me earlier has descended in full force. My head feels as if it will explode.

I wish it would. Then at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the play-by-play, slow motion reruns my brain is torturing me with of the meeting with the Jerk today. At least Kat and Nico were happy with the way the meeting went. I fibbed and told them A.J. and I made a truce so they wouldn’t worry my feelings had been hurt. They have more important things to think about. Then I told the truth and said he’d left to spend some time with his new special friend he’d met in the candle aisle. Kat snorted. Nico rolled his eyes, trying to hide a smile, and said, “Figures.”

It “figures” that he runs off with a woman he just met to have s*x. Probably amazing, animalistic s*x. In her convertible.

In my next life, I want to come back as a rock star.

I circle the block four times, crawling through traffic, until finally someone pulls out from the curb just in front of me and I whip into his spot before it’s stolen by all the other apartment dwellers circling behind.

When I moved in last year, the sales girl from the management company that maintains the building failed to tell me that finding a parking spot in this neighborhood after five o’clock is as likely as finding a winning lottery ticket on the sidewalk. She failed to mention several other important things, too, like how when she described the building as “full of character,” she actually meant “decrepit.” The faucets drip, the pipes rattle, the walls are so thin I’ve become uncomfortably familiar with the nighttime intimacies of my neighbors. But since I sank all my money into Fleuret, I can’t afford to move. And there’s no way I’m taking any money from my parents. I’m going to make this work one way or another, without their help.

I drag my sorry self from the car, sigh at the sight of the security gate c****d open because the lock is still broken, climb three flights of stairs—elevator’s on the fritz again—and let myself into my apartment just in time to hear the phone ringing. When I pick up, it’s my mother.

“Thank goodness! I was just about to call the police to report a missing person.”

I lived at home until I was twenty-four. My mother is having a hard time letting go. She’s also convinced that living in this part of town, I’ll be raped and killed in my sleep. I’ve reminded her that if I were raped by an intruder in the middle of the night, I’d probably wake up before I was killed in my sleep. She didn’t find my logic amusing.

Wearily, I drop my purse on the floor, sink onto the couch, and close my eyes. “You should try my cell, Mom. I’m hardly ever here.”

“Well. I don’t want to bother you at work.”

There’s a slight emphasis on “work.” This is an old argument. I’m in no mood to rehash it again. “How are you? How’s Dad?”

“I’m fine, dear, thank you. Your father is . . .” A faint, ladylike sigh comes over the line. “Well, he’s taken another pro bono case.”

She says it as if she can hardly bear the shame. To my mother, there’s only one thing worse than working, and that’s working for free. No matter that my father makes eight figures a year in his law practice, a single pro bono case will set her teeth on edge for months. I steer clear of that landmine, and head into safer waters.

“And Gigi?”

Her voice warms. “My baby is so sweet. We went to the groomer’s today for a bath.”

I smile at the thought of my mother and her pampered bichon frise puppy taking a bath together at the dog groomers. When she talks about the dog, it’s always “we,” like they’re a single entity. She bought Gigi as part of her empty nest adjustment, and I swear she loves that dog more than anything else in her life. Probably because the dog is as much of a snob as she is.

“I’m calling because your brother’s coming into town this weekend, dear. Will you and Eric come for dinner Sunday?”

My smile grows wider. “Jamie’s coming out? Awesome! Business trip?”

“I think it’s an immigration reform conference or some dreadful thing like that. You know your brother. Champion of the downtrodden.”

My brother’s an attorney who works for the largest immigration law firm in Manhattan. The way she discounts his job always grates on my nerves. “He’s doing good work, Mom.”