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Snuggled into Mason’s warm chest, the sounds of birds infiltrate the cocoon I’ve created beneath his thick navy comforter. Rain patters, softly at first, and increasing into a heavy crescendo against the window. I sigh, place a kiss on his nipple, and stretch for his one bedside table to reach my phone to turn off my alarm. My movement wakes Mason, and his arms wrap around me, pulling my body over his and his oh-so-awake anatomy. I trail kisses down his throat then push up and leap off the bed to find my clothes.
In a throaty, sleepy, and extremely sexy voice, Mason says, “Hey, get back over here.”
I giggle as goosebumps from the chilly air form all over my naked body. I clutch my arm over my bulbous breasts to keep them from swinging as I step around, searching for my clothes. Last night, when I snuck in after Kara fell asleep, he didn’t waste any time tearing my clothes off and sending them flying against various walls.
“Do not cover those up.”
I glance up, and those emerald orbs are tracking my every move. His bicep flexes as he adjusts himself in bed for a better view. I shake my head. Guys have always loved my boobs. I wish I felt the same way about them.
As a teen, I’d worn giant sweatshirts and blamed the strong indoor AC to hide these melons, then when older I graduated to loose, flowing, hippie wear in the form of shapeless dresses and tops. For whatever reason, when I gain weight, I gain it in my boobs first. I’d seriously considered breast reduction surgery but had been scared to go under the knife. Meanwhile, I have these big boobs and a somewhat flat ass. It doesn’t make sense, but Aunt Josie used to tell me not to worry. She’d say, “Once you have kids, your ass’ll come in.” Not exactly the most comforting idea, but by ninth grade I had implemented a gym routine to stay healthy and strong. One thing about big boobs, they require a strong core for carrying these puppies around.
Mason watches my every move as I slip on my lavender silk panties and growls as I pull his t-shirt over my head. I can’t stop my smile. I might have had issues with my boobs in the past, but Mason being really into my puppies leaves me tingly and giddy. And it makes me less self-conscious about the slight pudge on my belly that I can’t seem to flatten.
I flutter my fingers at him, a goodbye gesture. “I promised Kara I’d be in her bed when she wakes up. I’m not breaking my promise to her.” I slide his sweatpants on as his hungry gaze follows my every move. I want to crawl back into his bed, but Kara comes first.
He groans and falls back against the pillows. Then he snaps his head back up. “Wait. Before you go,” and he curls his index finger repeatedly.
I don’t understand, so I tilt my head. “Huh?”
“Let me see. One more time.” I laugh out loud but give in. I take the hem of my shirt and pull it over my breasts, flashing him. He moans and laughs, and I shake my head at his ridiculousness before slipping out.
I fall back asleep, warm in Kara’s bed, and wake with her on top of me, her dark hair dripping over my face. “Wake up!”
I flip her onto the bed then tickle her like crazy. Mason enters her room, and within moments the three of us are a human pile of ticklers and gigglers. I have no idea how they recommend a girlfriend be introduced into the fold, and if someone came and told me we were doing it all wrong I’d probably go pink in shame, but right now, there’s no rule book, and this feels pretty right to me. Well, girlfriend. It’s still a big word. Hard to swallow. But I’m getting there. I mean, surely after getting cold busted in the morning, it’s better to say we’re dating and not simply friends.
When we return to the den, Mason tells Kara and me to sit while he goes in to whip up a batch of scrambled eggs and hash browns. Our plan for the day is to go and buy a Christmas tree after breakfast, and to make ornaments, since Mason doesn’t have many. I’m thinking popcorn garland and tinfoil stars. And I’ll check Pinterest for more ideas.
Kara gets settled on the sofa and starts an episode of Doc McStuffins, and I pick up my phone from the floor where it’s been charging since sometime yesterday. Mason’s extra charger plugs in against the wall. I tend to forget it since it’s partially hidden by the massive, ugly, brown La-Z-Boy chair.
I wrinkle my brow. Thirty-three missed texts and three voicemails. Two texts from Anna, a couple from random friends checking in for weekend plans, and twenty-six texts from my mom. I scroll through all the texts. Most tell me to call her, then a few ask if I’m with that man. The last text sends my heart racing.
Melinda: My flight leaves at 7:20 a.m. I should be at your apartment by 11 a.m. See you soon.
Jesus, Mother, Mary, and Angels, what the heck is going on?
I call her, and it goes to voicemail. I check the time and realize she’s in the air. I stare out the window. The sky is overcast, gray, and dreary. I stand by the window, pacing, and watch pedestrians bundled in coats and scarves scurrying down the sidewalk as I listen to the ringing on the phone, waiting for my father to pick up. It goes to voicemail, and I don’t leave a message. He could be on the flight with my mother. I call Aunt Josie and get voicemail. This time, I leave a message, “Aunt Josie, Mom’s on her way here. Is everything okay?”
Under normal circumstances, I’d assume she was simply being Melinda Daniels and hopped a plane when I didn’t answer at her first call, afraid I was falling in love and making plans to remain in the big, bad NYC. Her repeated texts of “Call me now” and “I need to speak to you” have me tapping my finger on my phone and pacing by the window, fear rising as worst-case scenario ideas come to mind. A car accident. Something so bad she can’t tell me on the phone.
I spin in a circle, trying to corral my thoughts, as Mason sets out the breakfast on the dining table. A worried sensation settles into the pit of my stomach. I need to get back to my apartment and find out what has Melinda sending twenty-six texts and hopping a plane.
After breakfast, Kara and Mason bundle up in coats and scarves and follow me out onto the sidewalk. Mason slips his arms into my coat as Kara hugs my thigh, and Mason’s kiss slips into borderline inappropriate-in-front-of-kids territory. Concern radiates through his features, his wrinkled brow, and angled eyes. He offered to come with me, but that’s not a good idea.
If Melinda Daniels flew here to stop this relationship before it gets going, then he doesn’t need to face her unchecked fury when he shows up with his daughter in tow. One thing about my mother, she’s used to getting her way, and if she flew here to inquire about my relationship status, she won’t handle it being thrown in her face well. If she flew here with demands, Mason’s presence will make her less flexible, not more. There are ways to manage Melinda, and they require delicacy and the intrusion of spirits, often of the Earth-dwelling variety in the form of one Aunt Josie.
I stare out the window on the way to my apartment. The city speeds by in a blur, the cold gray winter day outside present in the blaring dry heat from the cab and the bundled pedestrians. The pit in my stomach grows with each bump over the Brooklyn Bridge and with each pothole the cab driver slam dunks. Yes, my parents purchased the spacious condo I now reside in so they could have a bedroom when they visited, but in the four years I’ve lived in it, every visit had been prepared long enough in advance for theater and dining reservations and, at times, a personal shopper. My mother’s happiest place on Earth is the private room at Louis Vuitton and the accompanying “free” champagne. Almost everything she loves to do requires advanced planning.
There’s no way she had time to pull together her preferred New York City experience. She could have bad news. News so bad phone or text couldn’t be used. I squirm in my seat and pick at my nail polish then force my hands to still as I stare out the window at the passing stores, restaurants, and delis. She could be coming here to get a handle on the boy situation. I should have answered the phone. Leaving the unknown out there for her frantic mind to unravel wasn’t wise. And if this trip’s purpose is to put an end to Mason and me? Then I’ll tell her no. I’m not going to leave her and Dad stranded in New Orleans. I will eventually return, as agreed, and step in as a partner. But I’ve never fallen for someone before, and the emotions he has unearthed in me, emotions I didn’t know I could possess, aren’t something to walk away from. I need to see where this goes. I owe myself that much. It’s part of my personal growth.
My heel raps on the floor of the cab as I think of Mason and Kara. His kindness and thoughtfulness. His tender touch and the mischievous sparkle in his eye. His devotion to his daughter. He stood up to me and didn’t let me have my way. And I still like him. Maybe even more. No one tells me no. That’s got to be a sign. An omen.
Then there’s Kara. My little dark-haired soul mate, an artist to her core with unhindered joy and happiness. I found these two, and for the first time in my life, I crave a real relationship. An adult relationship with commitment and responsibilities. Even the prospect of countless dinners at home and TV afterward doesn’t scare me away. If anything, a night of roaming bars and clubs has lost its appeal. I don’t need to hunt for the next guy because the only guy I want to see and spend time with is Mason.
For years, I’d go on a date and find something wrong. Maybe his hands were too sweaty. One guy had this white gunk on the edge of his lip. He’d wipe his mouth, and it would still be there. Goodbye. Another guy mentioned Harvard, pronounced “Hahvard,” at least once every minute. Before dinner concluded, I had created a game to see how much time would lapse before he name dropped his alma mater. The gap maxed out at a hundred twenty-four seconds. Buh-bye. More than one guy got the boot when they couldn’t look at my face. It’s one thing to have a thing for boobs, but it’s another when an entire meal is spent ogling my chest, which I never, ever put on blatant display. My friends told me I’m too picky, and I had started to suspect they might be right.
Then I met Mason, and it didn’t hit me right at first, but somehow, I found someone I want to spend time with. Yeah, he’s a good-looking guy. And we’ve never discussed it, but his well-developed, lean muscles show that he, like me, values the importance of incorporating some sort of fitness into the daily routine. He must do push-ups or something. Burpees and planks. Probably after she goes to bed at night.
The whole single dad situation. That’s like a revelation. I would have never thought I’d be into the parent thing, but the way he looks at her, with so much love, turns me into a puddle. And he cares. He’s into me. He’s made it clear he wants this relationship. With me.
As an only child, it’s not like I didn’t grow up with people caring about me, but the way he looks at me, holds my hand, feeds me, checks in during the day... Yes, the relationship is new, but it’s good. Mason defines a good person. I’ll never wonder if he’s with me because of my family’s money or our New Orleans heritage because money isn’t what drives him at all. The man uses his daughter’s artwork to decorate his walls. He’s driven to care for others. The man is an animal doctor. That’s got to be a sign his soul is good. And I’m not going to give him up. Not yet. Not when I just found him, and we are still at the most fantastic stage. When something happens to you that hasn’t happened before, don’t you at least have to find out what it is?
A calmness sweeps over me as the cab approaches Clarkson Street. I refuse to let her break us up. For the first time in my life, I will stand up to Melinda Daniels.
I take the elevator to the fourth floor, which is the floor my bedroom is on. It’s 10:30 in the morning, and I don’t have much time to shower and prepare for my mother. I charge down the hallway to my bedroom, and as I pass the staircase that connects all three floors of my condo, I hear my mother’s voice from above, echoing through the stairwell.
“Delilah, is that you, dear? Come up here, darling. I’m in the kitchen.”
I exhale and pause in front of one of the hallway floor length mirrors. I pulled my hair up into a bun this morning, but flyaways dart out all along the sides. I’m wearing a gray plush sweatshirt and jeans I purchased yesterday in the little Montague Street shop, and my brown boots with the peekaboo toes. Shoes meant for warmer fall days than today. Mom will either critique the boots or the hair. Since the hair speaks to my not having stayed in my apartment last night, I’m betting on the hair.
I smooth my palm over the flyaways, although without hairspray it’s a fruitless endeavor. Might as well face the demons, as they say. I pull my shoulders back and climb the stairs. She must have landed earlier than estimated and has already had time to get settled in one of the guest rooms on the sixth floor, which means she’s already scoped out the entire place.
As I reach the fifth-floor landing, I face my mother. She sits on a stool in front of my kitchen bar, her straight, angled bob absolute perfection, not a hair out of place. Tears run down her cheeks. Her mascara doesn’t run, and for one bizarre moment I want to ask her what brand she uses, but I blow out air to clear the inane thought. “Mom, what is it?”
She lifts her head, and light blue eyes, replicas of my own, shimmer through the tears. “Oh, honey. It’s your father.” Tears gush forth, and I wrap my arms around her. She rests her head on my chest as she sobs. “Honey, he’s dying.”