Not the Marrying Kind Page 25

  I was naked and following her before the words left her mouth.

  35

  Max

  An hour later, I was still whistling—with slightly wet hair—when I pulled up on my bike outside of Pop’s place. What Fiona and I had talked about wasn’t going to be some perfect solution. But I felt a little better at least.

  Even if thinking about riding on out of New York City wasn’t feeling as good or as easy as it would have a week ago.

  I tugged off my helmet and caught sight of a familiar figure I hadn’t seen in a year.

  “Hiya, Max.”

  My mother was standing outside our apartment building—leather jacket, long gray hair, looking much older than the last time I’d ever seen her here in the city. Which was probably ten years ago at least.

  “Mom?” I stepped off the bike, shocked. “What… what are you doin’ here?”

  She shrugged and grinned—the charming, charismatic grin that probably got her into as much trouble as it did me. She walked right up and hugged me hard, rocking back and forth. “Oh, it’s good to see ya. Have you gotten taller?”

  “I haven’t had a growth spurt since I was teenager.”

  “Ah.” She stepped back, patted my arms. “Well, you look different.”

  My eyebrow arched. “Well, I haven’t seen you in more than a year. Where…” I stalled, realized I was about to sound like Mateo when I’d strolled into his art gallery like an asshole. Where the hell have you been?

  On the road, I’d been without the community I’d re-found here. But after a week of Fiona and Pop and Mateo and the Quinns, her devil-may-care attitude about parenting seemed flimsy when it used to seem normal. It was who she was.

  But she looked so happy to see me, and it was my mom, and I was always yearning for more time with her, truthfully. So I ignored my irritation and hugged her again. “Sorry, I meant to ask where you’ve been staying?”

  “All over. Hey, that’s a nice bike.” She walked over to check it out, and I followed. I glanced uneasily at the door.

  “Mom, does Pop know you’re here?”

  “Nope. Should he?”

  It wouldn’t be good. Their current relationship was non-existent at best, contentious at worst. I knew—I was often in the middle. Although Pop had mellowed a bit over the years, I still didn’t think he’d want to get a surprise visit from his ex-wife.

  “I think he’d be fucking shocked to see you, if I’m being honest,” I said, trying to catch her eye. “Is that why you called the other day? Are you back home?”

  “I got your text a couple weeks back. About being in the city again. Thought I’d swing by for a visit. Hey, does the diner on the corner still have that sludge coffee I loved?” she asked.

  “Rick’s?” I asked. “That place closed forever ago. Back when I was in high school.”

  She clapped me on the shoulder again. She only came up to mid-chest on me, but with her big gray hair and loud laughter, she’d always been the center of attention, the spotlight. The firework as my dad’s family had called her. I never thought they had the best relationship, but I hadn’t known until Pop mentioned it that my grandmother had begged him not to marry her. Usually I just remembered her dominating every space and making everything fun. When she was around, that is.

  “The Westway, then?” she said. She gave that famous smile of hers, and I softened. Rubbed the back of my neck and wondered if Fiona had been right. That she was in town for good news and maybe wanted to be more in our lives.

  I nodded toward the subway station. “Come on. I’ll take ya. But I can’t stay for long since I’ve got stuff to do. I’m planning a benefit concert for The Red Room in a few days.”

  “Holy shit, what’s up with your dad’s place?” She did look concerned.

  I patted her arm and picked up my helmet. “It’s a long story if you’ve got the time.”

  An hour later, Mom and I were devouring pastrami sandwiches at the diner, and my new irritation had faded away. It was hard to be mad when she was making me laugh with tales from the road and the weird-as-fuck people she met. Chuck, the cook, came out to see her with a surprised shout and a giant bear-hug.

  “It’s always a good day when Barb comes home,” he said, grinning widely as my mom smiled up at him. A trio of people I didn’t know called out for her from the back of the restaurant, then swarmed her for more hugs. I picked at my fries and watched the reunion, her big hand gestures and contagious laughter. She wasn’t everyone’s cup of fucking tea, but people remembered my mom. The times we’d meet up on the road somewhere often happened at diners and dive bars just like this one, where everyone seemed to adore her.

  I sent a secret text to Pop, letting him know, hoping the heads-up would smooth away any tensions while she was here. He could be civil, as long as it wasn’t a surprise.

  Besides, he said he and Angela were spending the day together anyway.

  “So where were you the past few months though?” I asked when she finally sat back down. “You never said.”

  “North Carolina?” She didn’t sound sure. “Tallahassee for a bit before then. Hard to remember sometimes the older I get. Frank and I broke up.”

  I wasn’t shocked, but it still sucked. “I’m sorry, Mom. What happened?”

  “Same thing as always.” She added more sugar to her coffee, stirred it. “He wanted to stay in Tallahassee because he liked it there. Thought it was time we settled for a bit. I said no siree.”

  I leaned back in the booth and propped my arm across the back. “You really liked Frank though, right?”

  My mother had never re-married but had plenty of boyfriends over the years. None ever stuck around long, so I sometimes forgot which guy she was talking about.

  “Yeah, of course. But he wanted more forever type things. I was stressed out just talking about it. It was easier to bail before he did something stupid like propose.”

  “Always independent, huh?” I said.

  This conversation was making me miss Fiona.

  “I’m having fun, Max,” she said. “I miss you though. Happy you got to help your dad with this money stuff. I can’t believe he’s still living in the same place, working the same joint.”

  “That place was our home, Mom.” It came out harsher than I meant, but she didn’t notice.

  “For you, maybe,” she said. “Felt like a prison to me, always. You’ve got itchy feet like me.”

  She wasn’t fucking wrong. I twirled my coffee cup between my fingers. “So I’ve got some good news.”

  She shoved at my hand. “Tell me.”

  I smiled. “I got a job at Rusty’s. In L.A.”

  She leaned forward, eyes wide. “Holy fucking shit. You’re joking?”

  “Nope. I’ll be doing custom builds. Working with celebrities and rich people to design their motorcycles.”

  “Maybe you could take a look at my bike before you go? It hasn’t had a tune-up in ages.”

  “Sure, of course,” I said. “Maybe, depending on where you go next, you could come visit out in California?”

  She brightened. “I would like that. It’s been years since I was out there. Probably left a few too many broken hearts, if you know what I mean.”

  I shoved my plate over so she could more easily eat my fries. Thought about her string of broken hearts and compared it to waking up hugging Fiona against my chest, breathing in the scent of her hair as the sun rose outside. I know I didn’t usually feel this way, but I’d let myself go deeper with Fiona, and the complications were what made it better.

  “I’m seeing someone,” I said, trying to track her reaction. It was total shock.

  “You are?”

  “Fiona Quinn,” I said, smiling as I said her name because I was clearly so fucking gone for her. “You remember Lou and Sandy, right? The Hand Grenades?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t think so. She’s from that whole crowd at The Red Room?”

  “Kind of. Her parents are in a band. You could say they
’re minor celebrities.”

  “Those people there never leave this town,” she said. “They’ll be a hundred years old going to the same place and seeing the same people. Your girl’s not like that, right?”

  “Mom,” I said, looking behind me to see who was around. “Those people keep Pop’s business open. Those people made sure I had dinner and did my homework when Pop couldn’t find someone to watch me for the night.”

  These words came out sharp, and I meant it. Pop made digs at Mom all the time. So did Mateo and Rafael. All of it usually rubbed me the wrong fucking way.

  I’d forgotten Mom did it too. Had forgotten—or maybe allowed myself to forget—the very real fact that a lot of kids with divorced or separated parents don’t have one that straight-up leaves them to fend for themselves.

  “Okay, jeez,” she said, rolling her eyes cartoonishly. “When did you get so fucking serious? I’m just saying… I didn’t expect you to be dating someone from back home. Dating in general, honestly. I was a little surprised. But if you like her, that’s great. Really. Do you want me to meet her?”

  And the smile she gave me was so warm and so maternal I found myself forgiving her immediately.

  Like always.

  “I would like that,” I said as a tornado of butterflies invaded my stomach. My palms went slick, and my pulse raced. “A lot, actually. Pop thinks the world of her, obviously.”

  “Huh.” She ate the last French fry and cocked her head. “I really don’t remember them.”

  I thought about that picture Pop kept, of me and him on the day that reporter was snapping pictures for the newspaper. That she’d left for Atlantic City, missed a big night for him while happily leaving me without any adult.

  My mom was, according to her, living in Detroit with a new boyfriend when I graduated from high school. That big party Pop threw at The Red Room, the night where I’d sat on that fire escape with my best friends and dreamed of our future, well, she hadn’t been there. It was complicated for me to remember Pop’s quiet anger about her not showing up.

  It was even more complicated to remember how sad I’d been, to stare out in the audience as I gripped my diploma and didn’t see her. I had desperately, desperately, wanted my mother to be there. Had even entertained a stupid little notion that she’d show up as a surprise.

  As usual, she’d called the next morning and smoothed over my hurt feelings with her usual charm. And I’d tucked that memory away because I hated thinking about it.

  I struggled to refocus on our talk. “It’s… uh, it’s all good,” I stumbled. “You’ll like her.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Thoughts of Fiona flooded my brain, washed away my irritation. “She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. She’s brilliant and really fucking smart. Way smarter than me. Passionate. Funny as hell and really confident and totally unafraid to go after what she wants. And she’s beautiful, just so…” I stopped, trailing off. I was babbling, and Mom was looking at me like I’d grown a lizard head.

  “Wow,” she said. “I guess you do like her.”

  I shrugged, looked out the window. “It’s whatever.”

  “Are you going to L.A., or are you staying here, though?”

  “I’m going to L.A.,” I said. “Don’t worry. My feet are already itchy.”

  And that right there was a real goddamn lie. To my own mother, who built her life philosophy around not giving a shit and doing what she wanted, honesty and all.

  “Sounds complicated.” There was so much judgment in her, my jaw ached from clenching it.

  “It’s not,” I said. “Me and Fiona, we understand each other.”

  I pushed my cup aside and placed my elbows on the table. “Why don’t you come to the benefit show? It’s in five days, and it’ll be a ton of fun. Everyone will be there, and the music will be great. I’ll talk to Pop, but I’m sure he’d be fine if you were there. Then you can meet Fiona.”

  She nodded quickly. “Absolutely. I’d love to.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You think your own mother won’t show up for your concert?”

  I rubbed my jaw. Thought about standing on that stage, searching for her face. “I know you forget sometimes,” I said, as gently as I could. “But it would really mean a lot to me. To see you there. To support Pop and me too. And you’ll see when you meet Fiona. You’ll love her.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She patted my hand. “I will be there. I promise.”

  I squeezed her hand back. “It means a lot to me. Seeing you, having you be here. I miss you a lot, Mom. I wish we saw each other more.”

  I couldn’t really read the expression on her face at all. But she said, “I always miss you. I’m never far. I’m only a phone call away.”

  I nodded. Held my tongue again. Because that wasn’t entirely true. I might have fucked up with Mateo, and I never called Pop enough. But I always felt connected to my mom on my travels, like we were the only two people who understand this alternative way of life.

  So I did call her. She often didn’t call me back.

  “That’s true,” I said. “Plus, you’re here now for a bit. Everything’s okay, right?”

  “Passing through,” she interrupted. “Seeing some friends. Seeing you. I figured if I was going to head back up north, I couldn’t not stop and see ya.”

  She called for the check and smiled nice and big. “I’ll be there at the show. I promise. And I can’t wait.”

  36

  Fiona

  On the morning of the benefit show, Max and I stood in the center of The Red Room, gazing up at the empty stage. It was strange, viewing the club in these hushed hours. It looked naked, almost vulnerable, without the crowds of people and surges of sound.

  Thirty-five years of musical history lived in these walls. Thirty-five years of dancing, singing, laughter; thirty-five years of rock music howling at the moon and declaring itself to be alive. In our teenaged years, Max and I had orbited each other in this tiny, important space, without any understanding of how we’d come hurtling back into each other’s lives.

  He entwined our hands, squeezed my fingers.

  “You wouldn’t want to meet me in the supply closet, would you?” he whisper-growled at my ear. I burst out laughing before giving him a smacking kiss on the mouth.

  “I told you us planning this event would be an issue,” I said smugly.

  He narrowed his eyes playfully. “I see no issue with the time we’ve spent together, Fiona Quinn.”

  I lowered my voice. “You fucked me, twice, before breakfast this morning, friend.”

  His laughter was warm and oh-so-sexy. “That doesn’t seem like an issue. That seems like my new favorite way to start the day. Making you come twice before your coffee.”

  My cocky bad boy had, of course, perfected the art of sleepy oral sex, and this morning had been no different. After kissing me breathless, dawn light peeking in through the window, he’d burrowed beneath the covers and planted himself between my legs with a dedication that belied the early hour. As morning motivation went, it couldn’t be beat.

  I’d been drowning at work the past five days and working long hours so I could take the day of the concert off. We hadn’t been able to have traditional dates. Max, however, had shown up every night, well past dinner time—usually strolling into my apartment with a smile on his face and take-out in his hand. He made sure I was properly fed, with wine and good music and a foot massage for good measure.

  And then he made sure I was properly fucked.

  The sexual intensity between the two of us hadn’t abated but grown stronger.

  I had a feeling his departure for California tomorrow night had something to do with that.

  The reality of his leaving hit me in the gut. I swallowed past it uneasily, but let Max wrap his arm around my shoulders and tug me against his chest for a silly hug.

  “Yeah. The idea that you two were just friends was the funniest shit I’ve heard all year.” Mateo arrived, three coffees in
hand. “And buenos días, happy Red Room day.”

  Max smirked, took the coffee offered to him. We were all in workout clothes, ready for a morning of setup and prep work. I’d come with every organizational office supply I owned—including walkie-talkies.

  “Fiona told me she’d heard friendship was overrated,” Max drawled. “Right before she kissed me.”

  Mateo laughed, shook his head. “I made a lot of money on that bet.”

  Max elbowed him in the side. “Which I hope you used to buy us these coffees. Where’s Rafael, by the way?”

  “At the bodega, picking up breakfast sandwiches.”

  “I love your fiancé,” I said.

  “Same,” Max and Mateo said in unison. Max continued, “Once we’ve eaten, Fiona has a color-coordinated flow chart of setup and prep. And I’m organizing the sound check for all the bands and working with Pop to get this place cleaned up.”

  Mateo nodded. “We’ve got art installations coming today.” He glanced at Max. “And your mom is coming?”

  His tone was measured, but I caught the slight clench of Mateo’s jaw. Max had told me all about his mother’s surprise return home, although their breakfast at the Westway Diner seemed to make him both happy and confused. I understood that gray area. And it sounded like his mother was the kind of person who operated solely in that kind of confusing space.

  I watched Max brighten. “She is, yeah. And I reminded her a ton, so I know she’ll be here. She hasn’t seen The Red Room in ages, and, well…” He looked at me, hope on his face. “She wants to meet my friend here.”

  I winked at Max. “I’m nervous.”

  “She’ll adore you.”

  “I can confirm that,” Mateo added.

  “And you’ll know when she arrives. She’s got a presence,” Max said. He seemed excited, a little nervous, and I wasn’t used to seeing him like this. His earnest anticipation was too cute—but I didn’t miss Mateo’s mixed-signals body language.