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Time with Mags gives me a much-needed purpose, but within a couple of weeks, probably just days now, that purpose is going to be taken from me. Each afternoon I dread hearing that she no longer craves the sustenance that I, and I alone, can provide her. And each day that she puts that straw to her lips and moans the sound that I play on repeat in the privacy of my own bed, I thank her goddess for my culinary talents.
But god how I want to show her all the other ways I could make her moan.
While she guzzles her smoothie, I sit on a comfortable daybed under Mags’ window, to the left corner of the foot of her bed. We hang out like this every day, talking about everything and nothing. I feel like I know her as well as I know my own sisters. She’s told me so many stories from her childhood. And I’ve shared all my stories with her.
Magdalena’s phone beeps and she flips it over.
“Work. Give me a second to see what this is.”
“Of course.” I pull out my own phone and check my email. I’m not expecting anything, but I had submitted an application to start working with a career coach. It feels ridiculous to be forty-three-years old, trying to figure out what to do with my time for the next four-and-half-years. But I really have no ideas other than chef.
“What are you doing next weekend?” she asks.
“Aside from saving your life?” I joke.
“The Come Into Power weekend, with Will Power is oversold so they’ve had to move to a larger venue. But now it won’t be packed, and that’s not great for optics. So, in addition to me having to write some new sales copy, the team asked if I know anyone who might want complimentary tickets. It’s worth two grand. But for you … special price!” She waves her phone at me like it’s a winning lottery ticket, which maybe it is.
I’d looked into the Come Into Power weekend but two grand for a couple of days, being motivated by a billionaire who probably never had to work a day in his life? Something felt off about his credibility.
But since Mags works for the business, if not the man himself, I don’t want to offend her or cast aspersions on how she earns her pay check.
“That’s a heck of an offer, but if I’m there, I can’t be here … ” I hedge, hoping she’ll show some self-interest.
“True. But I keep thinking, any day now I’ll have a craving for something else. Something that doesn’t require trade secrets and keeping you from getting on with your life.”
“I am getting on with my life. Thank you very much.” I’m offended at the suggestion that I’m not and my tone betrays that.
“What I mean is, I’m sure you’d rather be doing something other than keeping a bedridden future mom of two screaming kids company every afternoon.”
“I’m actually really enjoying the pre-screaming kids stage.”
“Am I allowed to say, so am I? But you should really consider this. This weekend can be life-changing. Seems like a perfect time for you to deep dive into what you really love doing—aside from putting clam juice in a blender with eleven secret spices.”
“What if I accept the ticket and you need me?”
She narrows her eyes. “What if you decline and I don’t need you?”
That question is a punch in the gut. The thought of Magdalena not needing me … I don’t like it.
“I need to say something.” I cross the room and point to the bed. “May I?”
She nods and pats the spot beside her.
“I really like being needed by you. And I know that soon you won’t need me and then you won’t want me hanging around, but until then, I don’t want to give up a minute of this time.”
She covers her mouth with her hands. I can’t tell if her look is one of “oh shit” or “hell, yes.” She stares at my lap for several seconds, not making eye contact. I wiggle my fingers to break what looks like a trance.
She finally speaks. “Can I ask you an entirely inappropriate question?”
“As long as you’re willing to accept an entirely inappropriate answer.”
“Will you … massage my legs?”
My answer to that, at least inside my head, is a perfect and terrifying blend of “oh shit” and “hell, yes.”
“Where’s your massage oil?”
CHAPTER11
