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I wait for the right moment to interject into my mother’s musings, in between one phrase and the next, when she happens to be taking a breath, and say, “Oh no, Nico’s just puked on the floor.”
Nico’s sitting pretty and perfectly innocent on the rug next to me, looking at me as if he disapproves of my particular choice of lie.
Maura’s tirade has been successfully interrupted. “Ugh, you’d better take care of that immediately, Talia. That stuff can stain the floorboards. I really don’t understand why you tolerate that creature anyway. Cats are such useless things.”
“We’ll talk more later, okayloveyoubye.” The last four words come out as one long breath as I hit the end button, but not before I hear her last shouted, “Use that calorie tracker I got you!” Maura’s version of an “I love you”.
A sigh of relief slips from me and I pick up the stack of paperwork off the coffee table, the glass of wine in my other hand as I begin to rifle through the documents. Most of them are requests to rent the club for events, a lot of which fall on the same days, which forces me to read each request and choose who gets it. The rest of them are reports to look over, projections he’s made for the coming months, which I can already tell are not as accurate as they could be. I have to give him credit where it’s due, though. They’re notawful.
These documents are a sign that the club is doing really well. Word is getting out, and it’s being sought after for high-end events.
But that just means more work forme.
Taking a heavy sip of wine, I begin reading.
Within an hour, I’ve managed to separate most of it into two piles: consecutive dates of requests we will accept, and a pile of people we’ll have to contact to see if they can choose another date. There will be some finagling I’ll have to do to fit them all in, and we’ll most likely lose some interested parties, but apparently we’re booked out enough that that won’t really matter. My pizza is half eaten on the cardboard tray before me, the wine bottle halfway gone, when I lift a page to find a hot pink sticky note attached to the one under it.
Don’t work too hard.-K
His penmanship is nicer than I would have expected. He’s so rough around the edges, I wouldn’t have expected an elegant cursive scrawl, but I suppose that’s the result of being a nepotism baby and growing up in the finest schools LA has to offer.
Even as irritation flickers inside me, I find my fingers lingering over the note. I pull it free from the paper and stare at it. Resentment courses through me at the fact that the extra work I have isbecauseof him, but then my chest warms at the idea that he wrote this outforme.
“Pathetic, Talia,” I murmur to myself and rise from my seat, heading over to the trash to throw out the note. He can’t get to me that easily.
But as I hover the note over the garbage, something stops me. I let the irrationality of the moment take over and walk away from the trash, heading over to the fridge, where I stick it up instead.
“There,” I say to myself, placing my hands on my hips. “A reminder of how much I hate you.”
Even those words feel false in my mouth. I make a noise of disgust at myself that warrants a meow from Nico.
“Oh, don’t judge me. Cats are notoriously poor judges of character,” I tell him as I return to my seat on the couch and the stack of documents.
Nico hops up on the coffee table and stares at me as if to argue that fact.
“He’s a nuisance, just like you,” I tell Nico.
That solicits another meow.
“Don’t start lecturing me like you’re my mother. I hear it enough.”
I pick up the paperwork and continue my organization. Nico hops off the table.Good riddance,I think, taking another sip of wine. Not really to Nico, mostly to my mother. The desire for Kay to leave me alone is still to be determined.
Pulling out my phone, I slide down the list of previous messages until I find who I’m looking for. I type out,You owe me more than a sticky note for all of this work, and hit send.
Tossing my phone onto the couch cushion next to me, I turn the page and scoff at a request for a retirement party. A bunch of old people in our club isnotgood for our image. Who wouldwanttheir retirement party at a Malibu dance club? Sounds like a midlife crisis.
I finish my glass of wine just as my phone buzzes.
It’s Kay responding to my text, far quicker than I would have expected him to.
How about dinner?
I scoff again. My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I type, shaking my head.
In your dreams. I’m thinking more along the lines of a bonus.
Before I can even toss my phone aside, it buzzes with his response.
