Confessions From A Coffee Shop (3 page)

Potty training‌—‌a breeze.

Sports, dancing, and school came easily to me.

I never struggled with a thing.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t work hard; I did. I knew how good I had it, and I didn’t want to take anything for granted. It was not in our blood‌—‌being lazy. My family, from the moment we stepped off the ship and onto American soil, excelled. Ever hear of the Puritan work ethic? That fit us to the core. Toil, toil, and more toil. And when tired, we worked some more. None of us knew how to slow down. My grandfather was ninety-three when he died. He married late in life and didn’t start a family until his forties. When he died, he was sitting at his desk working on his last book. He quit teaching years earlier but never “officially” retired from academia. Grandfather cranked out article after article and then decided to write a book on the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

Just like everyone in my family, I knew what I was doing and where I wanted my life to go; that is, until I sat down to actually write my novel.

At first, everything went according to plan. Within a few months I had it half finished. But as I continued, I realized I didn’t have an ending. How can someone write a novel, or two-thirds of a novel, and not have a clue where it’s fucking going?

My agent would like to know the answer to that as well. So would the publisher who had already advanced a substantial amount of money based on my short stories, my mom’s name, and the “It” girl label.

I was teetering on the precipice of complete and total failure, and I was scared shitless. Never before had I experienced failure. Never before had I wanted something so much. No one in my family had ever failed‌—‌that was not a tradition I wanted to start.

I had been trying to put my finger on the issue for months. Everything in my life was going well. I had a beautiful, supportive girlfriend. My family, while crazy, would do absolutely anything for me. I was highly educated, motivated, in good health, and happy. I wished I could use the excuse that I was battling depression, or I was an alcoholic, or that I was a drug addict. But I was not any of those things.

I was just failing.

Maybe if I had failed earlier in life, I would know what to do, but it was too fucking late for that now! This was not the time to learn a life lesson. My reputation, my career, and my future were on the line‌—‌not to mention my mom’s reputation.

Mom went to all my interviews. She sat with me on the couch, spouting off about how proud she was of me and how I would be an even better writer than her. Not once had she thrown that in my face, not even when it became apparent that something had gone horribly wrong with my novel. Mom gave me shit about my writing, or lack thereof, but she never made me feel bad about damaging her good name. If my grandfather were alive, he wouldn’t be as kind. He might have disowned me.

Let’s just say, I felt like crap about everything that happened over the last sixteen months. Crap really wasn’t the right word, but I couldn’t think of a better one at the moment. And when I walked into Beantown Café to ask for my job back, I wanted to jump off the Tobin Bridge instead. Not that I would actually do that. Suicide was not an option. Not in our family. Putting our noses to the grindstone was all that we understood. So I was donning my Beantown Café apron once again and chipping away at my debt, one fucking penny at a time. What asshole said, “A penny saved is a penny earned”? I wish I could throw him off the Tobin Bridge. I couldn’t save any pennies. Everything went to American Express. Fucking bastards.

Chapter Three

After my shift at Beantown, I headed to my mother’s house. Mom sent me a text every ten minutes after I hung up on her, informing me that if I didn’t stop by I wouldn’t be her daughter anymore. My mother was more dramatic than a squad of high school cheerleaders on prom night. Ignoring Mom wasn’t an option, unless I wanted to suffer for the rest of my life.

As soon as I entered my childhood home, she started in.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.” Mom waved her arms in the air and looked as if she were having trouble breathing.

“What’s wrong?” I rushed to her, thinking she was having a heart attack or something. Her breathing was erratic, her face scarlet, and she was pacing in the front room.

“Your father and that woman!” Mom sat down heavily on the couch. “What will everyone say?”

“Mother, for the last time. Dad is not having an affair.”

“Yes he is!” Her eyes bored into mine.

“All right, what proof do you have?” I crossed my arms, disregarding her distress now that I knew it was for show.

“A wife knows, Cori. A wife knows,” she cried.

I studied my mother. Her usually perfect hair was a mess, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. Was this part of her act? It was hard to know with Mom.

Her beady eyes demanded a response.

“Like the time you thought he bought a sports car without telling you?”

“I admit I was wrong then, but how was I supposed to know he rented the car to surprise me for our anniversary? I always wanted a Jag. But I’m not wrong this time.” Her tone told me she wouldn’t budge on this.

I tried steering the subject away from my father’s imaginary affair. “Do you have anything to eat? I’m starving.”

“There’s some leftover pizza in the fridge. Help yourself.” She waved her hand in the air like a beauty queen in a parade.

I returned with a slice of cheese pizza.

“You know, Barbara’s husband has cheated on her from the beginning. It was only a matter of time before your father did.” Mom exhaled sharply, clutching her throat like it was on fire.

“That’s why you’re stuck on this. You’re always competing with Aunt Barbara, but this is really low, even for you.” I ripped off another piece of pizza, mumbling between mouthfuls, “Dad is nothing like Roger. You can’t compete when it comes to this, so don’t even try.” I waggled the half-eaten slice at her.

Mom shook my words away with a toss of her head. “I know it’s true, Cori. I wish you would believe me. Kat does,” she murmured.

“What?” I pulled the pizza away from my mouth. “When did you and Kat talk about this?”

“This morning. When you hung up on me!” she shrieked.

“I was at work!”

Again my mother dismissed me, this time by swiping strands of hair out of her face. “She’s always there for me, unlike someone else I know.”

I let out a long, slow breath. “Well, then, what does my girlfriend have to say on the subject?”

“She agrees with me completely. Do you know the last time your father and I had sex? He hasn’t even asked for a BJ.”

I nearly fell out of my chair. “Mother! I do not want to hear about this.” I jumped up, uncomfortable. God she was sex-crazed‌—‌always talking about it.

“Why? Kat listens to me.”

“You’ve talked to my girlfriend about that?”

“Of course, dear. Women talk about this stuff. Don’t be a prude.”

Her steady voice unnerved me.

“Women talk about this ‘stuff’ with their friends. Not with their daughter’s girlfriend. I forbid you to talk to her.” I planted my feet firmly on the ground.

“Forbid me? Who do you think you are?” Mom crossed her arms defensively, her foot tapping out a rhythm on the floor.

“Seriously, you need to think about the stuff you blurt out of your mouth. You can’t go around talking to Kat about sex, especially when it involves you and my father.” I shook my head, trying to permanently dislodge the images from my brain.

“At least Kat talks to me. All you do is hang up on me.” She pouted, running her hands up and down her arms to comfort herself.

“Look at me! I’m here right now, talking to you. I should be working on my lecture for this evening, but no, I came to see how you’re doing?”

Mom’s expression perked up. “That reminds me. The three of us are meeting at Pablo’s Café after your class.” Her face clouded over as she gazed out the front window and her voice dripped with scorn as she added, “I’m sure your father will be with his hussy this evening.”

I considered responding, but opted to stay quiet.

“Don’t worry, I know money is tight right now, so I’ll pay for dinner,” she said. “And that’s another thing I want to talk to you about. You need to stop making Kat feel guilty about not being able to find a job.”

“What? Make her feel guilty? I never mention it. Not one bit.” I really didn’t. Not once had I said or suggested that she should get a job. She should, but I knew the likelihood of that happening was pretty much nil. Kat knew how to spend money, not how to make it.

“She says she can see it in your eyes. I know Kat likes to shop, but you can’t lay all the blame on her. Blame the Republicans.” Mom punctuated her statement with a quick nod.

Yes, it’s all George Bush’s fault, even though he’s been out of office for years now. I was not a Republican, but unlike Mom, I couldn’t continue to blame them for everything. They didn’t tell her to go shopping every day. That was, unless Kat was still following George’s advice after 9/11. I still couldn’t believe that idiot, after the country was attacked, and how he said everything would be all right and that Americans should go shopping. Don’t worry about a thing, just go shopping.

Mom’s voice snapped me back to the present. “And you love Pablo’s Café. Kat reminded me it’s your favorite place.” She tried to placate me with a smile, but then immediately bit her lower lip in distress, as if the actress in her had briefly forgotten about the “affair” and then realized she needed to put on a sad face again.

I laughed. “Oh, please. That’s Kat’s favorite place. They cook their rice in pig fat. It’s disgusting. I can barely eat anything there.”

Okay, I loved Pablo’s, but I wasn’t willing to admit that right then. I couldn’t believe Mom was on this rant about my father. Once an idea like this took root in her head, it was trouble‌—‌with a capital T.

She ignored me completely. “And I know how much you love their margaritas. Do you remember how sick you got last time?”

“I got food poisoning.”

Again, I didn’t want to admit she was right. I got plastered and puked on the way home.

Nothing registered on her face. “So don’t be late. As soon as your class is done, hop on the T and meet us there. I’m picking Kat up early so we can get a table. It’s Thursday, so it’ll be packed.”

They both wanted to go early so they could get sloshed. Why not? It was the perfect opportunity for my mother to continue her campaign of “feel sorry for me, my husband is having an affair.” Unbelievable.

It was as if she’d waited decades to compete with Barbara on this one. I loved her, but sometimes even Mother Theresa would want to bonk Mom on the head.

She turned back to walk into the kitchen, our conversation over. I followed. I knew she wanted to be alone now. Maybe she planned on calling Kat to talk about my father again. But I wanted another slice of pizza from the fridge to eat on my way to the T. It was time to get to my office on campus and polish my lecture. If I were diligent, I’d have time to fiddle with my novel.

* * *

I managed to stumble through my lecture. I had never got around to fine-tuning it. Afterwards, I changed clothes for dinner and briefly considered forgetting about meeting up with my mom and Kat at the Tex-Mex restaurant. Doing a no-show would allow me one night of peace and quiet, but the repercussions weren’t worth it. Mom would never let me forget it. Poor Kat would be in the middle. Bless Kat. I had no idea how she spent so much time with my mother. And she never lost her cool like I sometimes did.

Kat stole my heart three years ago. Katharine Finn was not your typical beautiful woman. Unlike many hotties, Kat‌—‌please don’t ever call her Katharine because she hates that name‌—‌owns her beauty and sex appeal. You’ll never hear her say, “Me? Oh, I’m not beautiful. I have fat thighs.”

By the way, she didn’t have any fat on her, except in the right places. Her ass was as scrumptious as a peach on a hot summer day, and her breasts swelled over her bra. She intentionally bought all her bras too small, just so they popped out. She wasn’t afraid to show off both‌—‌her tits and ass. Usually Kat’s shirts left little to the imagination, if you know what I mean.

Another quality I found sexy was that Kat wasn’t stupid nor did she ever pretend to be. I liked people who could be themselves and be confident in who they were. That was sexy. Kat was not afraid to engage in scholarly debates, and she wasn’t afraid to give her opinion.

My wonderful Kat knew people were attracted to her; of course, she’s been known to use it to her advantage. If I were that hot, I know I would. Yet she never made me feel insecure in our relationship. From afar, people assumed Kat was a whore just because she was beautiful. In fact, she has only slept with three people, including me. She was the most loyal person I knew. When people bought her drinks, I never felt like marking my territory. If asked to dance, she would readily accept. She acted herself, which included risqué moves if her dancing partner was up for it. But at the end of the night, Kat always went home with me. Some may think she was asking for trouble: provocative dancing and skimpy clothes. A person would just have to see it for themselves, but believe me when I said that with Kat, it didn’t come across the wrong way. She didn’t give men and women the impression they would be taking her home at the end of the night. From what I had witnessed, they appreciated Kat’s zest for life and enjoyed her company. We’ve been dating for three years, and I’ve never witnessed mixed signals. I have never encountered someone who thought Kat had duped them, or who expected more from her. Only those who didn’t bother to interact with her assumed she was slutty.

That didn’t mean our relationship was perfect. No relationship was. Our biggest issue was her spending. Kat was addicted to shopping, and the past year it had grown progressively worse. My savings have been wiped out. As of yet, I haven’t said much to her. I didn’t know how to bring up the subject, and I didn’t think she did either. I knew I would never leave her because of it. Right now, I was busting my ass to pay off the debts. I needed to think of another way to help with her addiction. My brain told me I should talk to her about it, but truth be known, I was scared. She was sensitive. I didn’t want Kat to think I was blaming her. I wasn’t. Everyone has their demons. Kat spent money we didn’t have, and I couldn’t finish a novel that should have been completed a year ago. We just needed to find a way to deal with both of our demons. We just needed to fix it. And fast. Or I needed to figure out a way to make more money‌—‌a lot more money.