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"It’s Taco Tuesday!" I yelled as I came through the front door.
Every Tuesday night my mom made . . . tacos, you guessed it, for family night. When Gray and I were traveling, we attended family night through Skype, but it was nice to be here in person sometimes, too. I was the last to arrive since I had to fight Chicago traffic to get out of the city.
"Stay out of the kitchen," Mom said to me before giving me a hug. "The food's already done."
"A little overdressed for Taco Tuesday, aren't you?" Peyton asked as she pointed to my feet.
"Oh, just breaking them in. They're new." I looked down at my white tank top and cuffed jeans. I thought the shoes made a nice statement. The turquoise added a little bling to the boring clothes. I didn’t quite escape the shoe department without a purchase.
The attendance for tonight's event was down from normal. My sister, Peyton, was here with her two girls, but then again, her kids would never let her miss a night. Her husband was working. My stepdad and dad ditched out to go have a beer somewhere. Somewhere, preferably without screaming kids, I guessed. I had two more brothers and two more sisters who were all absent for one reason or another. I was okay with that. Sometimes, when we were all together, we turned into children again, screaming and throwing toys for the slightest perceived insult.
Some families were just like that. Fight hard, play hard, love hard. We did everything to extremes. With only the five of us, the house was relatively quiet since everyone had settled after eating. Chris and Lizzie were playing in the family room, my mom was in the kitchen, and Peyton and I were sitting at the dining room table.
"I brought copies of the taxes I did for some of the girls at the pub," Peyton said.
Laid out on the table were five folders, labeled one through five, containing receipts, W-2's and other various pieces of information. Peyton had made copies of everything.
I ate a taco while Peyton laid out the contents of folder one. As she explained each piece of information, she picked up the correlating piece of paper and handed it to me.
"The time they work in the restaurant is the same as when you worked there. They make the Illinois minimum tip wage, plus tips. Their payroll check stubs show the hours worked, the wage and the claimed tips. From this total, taxes are then estimated and withheld; the remaining balance going to the server." Peyton handed me a W2 form from earlier this year and continued. I held the paper in one hand and my taco in the other. I eyed the paper. Most states had a lower minimum wage for tipped employees with the idea that the server’s tips added to the lower wage would actually bring them above the federal standard. The lower wage helped restaurants stay in business.
"Any servers or bartenders that work the outside events are paid as individual contractors. Taxes are not withheld for them by the bar. They are issued a W9 at the end of the year." Peyton put her hand on her stomach, her face grimacing for a moment.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Yes. The baby just shoved her foot under my ribs. I'm fine." She took a deep breath before continuing with her lesson.
"Since the girls have to pay all of their own taxes at the end of the year for the side jobs, I advised them all to put some money away from each check. They make quarterly payments from the savings. I, also, told them to save any receipts from clothing used for the sole purpose of the work events. I could deduct them from their taxes as a work expense, and that's where it gets hokey." She started rifling through the folder.
"I'm used to seeing receipts for jeans and tennis shoes, standard for their attire in the pub, but not for Jimmy Choos and Manolos. I deducted over twenty thousand dollars in high-end clothing receipts for this one,” Peyton said, passing me a folder. “She swore that they were a work necessity. She also gave me receipts for hair appointments, nail salon visits, and facials, saying it was a business expense because her appearance is the primary factor in her getting the extra work. She is, by far, the busiest of the girls I do taxes for. She’s raking in some serious money." Peyton sat back, finished with her speech.
I flipped through the shopping receipts: Niemen Marcus for twenty-five hundred dollars, Stuart Weitzman for twelve hundred dollars, Bloomingdale’s for twenty-nine hundred dollars and so on.
"I don't know what I assumed they would be wearing for these events, but not this. What the heck is going on?"
"Each folder is the same. I have even more requests this year for tax work from their coworkers, all promising to keep every receipt.” Peyton’s hands rested on her stomach as she eyed me. “I could tell you what I think."
When she looked at me like that, I got nervous. I was leery of asking but did anyway.
"Okay, what?"
"I think they are hookers."
"Peyton Elizabeth! Watch your mouth," my mom said. She threw a dishtowel at Peyton, startling both of us. I hadn't even realized she was there. I was so caught up in the receipts that I had not seen her sit down. Peyton pulled the towel from her face, placing it on the table out of our mother’s reach.
"Ha. Ha." I looked at Peyton, singing, "You got in trouble."
She rolled her eyes, and again I was reminded to break my own habit of it. It really was annoying. She’d been getting into trouble for her mouth since birth. By then, one little scolding from Mom rolled off of her back like water off a duck’s butt.
"I'm serious," Peyton said.
"You read too many novels. I bet the one you are reading now has a Pretty Woman-wannabe prostitute in it hoping to meet her Richard Gere." I raised an eyebrow at her, and she looked away.
"I'm right, aren't I? What's her name? Pussy Galore?" I asked. I loved the old James Bond films. My mom started shaking her head but kept her mouth shut.
Peyton blushed. My mom was watching me throughout our exchange. She never joined in the conversation, but I felt she had something she wanted to say. Something, by the look of her, I didn’t want to hear.
“Give it up.”
“Nope.” I wanted to hound her until she told me about her secret smut, but Peyton had a stubborn streak a mile long. It was rare that I’d ever been able to break her. So, I got back to the taxes.
“What does this all mean?” I asked.
“I told you what it means. I think the ‘bartenders’ are escorts.”
“But the restaurant pays them.”
“Exactly. I think somehow, they are being booked, so to speak, through the restaurant. You’ve been working there. Have you seen anything weird?” I shook my head.
“I guess I’ve got to do a little more snooping,” I said before popping the rest of my taco in my mouth.
We left it at that. My mom and sister were addicted to Lifetime movies. I found it a fault of theirs, but somehow ended up getting sucked into them. After dinner, we settled down to watch one. It was always the same old story, girl meets boy, finds boy annoying, but they fall in love. Then, some unforeseen trauma happens leaving everyone on the edge of their seats. Oh, no! Will they make it? But, he loves her sooo much. And just when you are sure they won't reconnect, they do. Surprise! And, then, they live happily ever after.
Yeah, right.
I once heard someone say, "Fairy tales end with happily ever after but in reality, the last words should be, 'and they worked really hard at their relationship.'" I agreed with that. Why do some women feel that marriage will solve every problem in a relationship? It usually didn't work out that way. According to the national divorce rate, it didn't work out more than fifty percent of the time.
The movie was winding up. The love-struck couple was kissing on the back of a boat, the sun setting over the water behind them. Since this movie was set in Manhattan, New York, I found this impossible. The sun rose over the water there, not set. The credits started to roll. I braced myself. I knew what was coming now.
"Are you going to say yes to Gray? That could be you." Mom sighed.
Yep. I was right. Here it is.
“You told her.” I sat up on the love seat to better stare at Peyton with my death eyes. Peyton’s only reaction was to raise a shoulder, neither denying or admitting it.
"It’s a movie, Mom," I said. I planted my feet firmly on the ground for the conversation. Just in case I needed to run.
"Regan, you always look to the end. Yes, you may end up divorced but don't look at that. Think about the happy times that would occur. That’s why people marry." I looked to Peyton for help, but she had her head down, looking at her lap.
"Mom's right," Peyton said.
That traitor! I needed daggers that would fly from my eyes at a moment’s notice. Starting right then. The girls’ laughter echoed up the stairs from where they were playing. The laughter made a happy contrast to the strain in our room.
Peyton continued. "You are a control freak. Just let loose and go with the flow."
"Go with the flow? I quit my job and have no home. I never know what city I'm going to be in more than a few days in advance. I don't think I could go with the flow any more than that."
"You always know where you are going to be, where you are going to stay. I know you plan that out. I know you plan out bus routes and flights. I know you. I bet you spend hours figuring out a path to take and how to take it, or reading about a place and then hoping it lives up to that dream, so you won't be disappointed," Peyton said.
The only thing I could think to say was “So?” So, I didn't say anything. Peyton had a valid point. I did spend hours mapping out where we would go and where to stay. I might not actually book a room, but I was aware of the options when we pulled into a town. I read the history of every country we visited and had a list made up of the things I wanted to see in each one. I was a planner by nature. Other than the actual act of getting married. Marriage wasn't plannable.
"Your opinions are duly noted," I said.
"Duly noted? Cute. Are you running for president now?" Mom said.
"That's all I can give you right now. I'm sorry. I need time."
"That’s not much giving. Apologize to Gray, not us," Mom said.
“Why are you always on my case? You never hound Harry like you do me?” I threw my little brother under the bus. In mom’s eyes, he could do no wrong. She’d babied him his whole life.
“Harry is finding himself. He just needs a little more time to get his feet under him.”
I snorted in response. Yeah, right, a little more time. He was twenty-three and still partying his way through college on my parent’s dime. At least I paid my own way.
Mostly.
Peyton and I rose from our seats. She needed to get the kids back home, and I needed to go back to the city. I helped her load them up and buckle them in. I would be seeing Mom and Peyton again on Friday. They were coming into the city for Jax's show. I headed back inside to get my things.
"I love you, kid. I just don't want you to make any mistakes regarding marriage. Peyton and I are both worried you will regret not giving it a chance," Mom said. I hugged her goodbye.
"I know. I love you, too." If they were this worried that I wouldn't ever try out marriage what were they going to do when they realized I meant it when I said I didn't want kids?