Melt for You
He stalks over to me, thrusts the phone in my face, and pins me with a furious glare. “Five o’clock tomorrow mornin’, lass,” he says through gritted teeth. “Trainin’ starts. If you’re not ready, I’ll kick down the door and drag you out of bed myself.”
I watch, mystified, as he strides away, launches himself through the living room, and disappears.
“What about your meat loaf?” I holler after him.
My only answer is the sound of his slammed apartment door.
TEN
“I can’t believe that was really Cameron McGregor!” my father enthuses as the echo of a slamming door reverberates through my apartment. “Wait’ll I tell the guys at the club—they’ll totally flip out. Epic.”
Because my parents are Los Angeles natives, uttering words like epic to describe a two-minute telephone conversation with a stranger is par for the course. Pretty much everyone I grew up with in our small beach community takes great liberties with the English language, as do their parents, who practice yoga and get Botox and eat disgusting things like kale salads and generally act as if aging is something that only happens to people less in tune with the healing energy of the cosmos.
“So he actually is famous,” I muse, turning off the oven because the meat loaf is finally done.
“Are you kidding?” My father scoffs. “He’s like, the athlete of all athletes! How do you not know this, honey?”
“Because I hate organized sports and everyone who plays organized sports and would rather burn my eyes out with acid than be forced to watch or read anything to do with organized sports.”
My father thinks for a moment. “Yes, I recall when your sister was on the volleyball and swim teams in high school, you refused to go to any of her meets.”
Right. Because inevitably I’d be stared at by people comparing me to my beautiful, popular, overachieving sibling and be forced to spend hours suffering through whispered comments behind hands such as, That can’t really be Jacqueline’s sister! Was she adopted?
Pushing away the vile memory, I beg, “Please tell me he’s not more famous than Michael Jordan.”
My father laughs. “He’s way more famous than Michael Jordan! He’s basically the most famous athlete on the planet.”
Mr. Bingley jumps up onto the chair Cam vacated and looks around wistfully, and I need another glass of wine.
Then my father is gone, and my mother is yammering in my ear like a mental patient without even drawing a breath.
“Holy cow Joellen how could you not tell me Cameron McGregor was living in your building that is crazy and you have him in your apartment oh my goodness wait till I tell Cindy she’ll die.”
“You’re forbidden from telling anyone, Mom, especially that blabbermouth Cindy! It’ll be all over Twitter within half an hour!”
She ignores me because her postmenopausal hormones are resurrecting themselves from the dead. “Is he as gorgeous in person as he is in photos? Is he really as muscular as he looks on TV? What about his hair? Does he have good ha—”
“Mother. Focus. He’s a person, not a sex object.”
The sound of the receiver being tapped against a wall comes over the line, followed by my mother’s sarcastic voice. “I’m sorry, we seem to have a bad connection. I thought I just heard my daughter say that Cameron McGregor, the sex object to end all sex objects, is not a sex object.”
For some bizarre reason, I feel a little defensive of the Mountain. “He’s actually pretty smart, if you want the truth. He’s very intuitive, and he’s got an amazing vocabulary.”
Her silence is thundering. I sigh and relent. “Okay, fine. Yes, he’s muscular. And he has good hair. Satisfied?”
“No, I’m not satisfied! Details, sweetie, details!”
“I never thought I’d hear myself speak these words, Mother, but I think you’re overdue for some sexy times with Dad.”
Her voice drops, and she starts talking to me in that “we’re best girlfriends” tone that drives me up a wall. “I’ll tell you what, sweetie, your father is in for some big fun tonight, because Mama’s hot tamale is en fuego at the thought of Cameron McGregor in the flesh!”
“I have to go now. My mental breakdown is calling.”
“My God, that Scottish brogue.” Her shiver of delight is audible. “And a sense of humor, too!”
“What did he say that was funny?”
“That you two were in love!”
“Oh, that. Yeah, he’s a real laugh a minute,” I say drily, shaking my head. Then something strikes me. “Why was that funny?”
My mother laughs. “Oh, honey! As if a man like that could fall in love with you!”
That hurts so much it leaves me breathless. When I’m silent too long, my mother realizes her mistake.
“I didn’t mean it like that, sweetie—”
“I know exactly how you meant it.”
Her voice turns firm. “Joellen, don’t do that.”
“Do what? Feel insulted when someone insults me?”
“Turn a harmless comment into one of your personal pity parties!”
I stand there with my mouth open, unable to speak because I’m so angry, and so disappointed in myself that I’m letting myself be affected by this ancient family shit once again.
In a steady, quiet voice, I say, “Mom, my dinner’s ready. Thanks for the call. I’ll talk to you next week.”
I hang up before she can reply and spend a few long seconds swallowing down the lump in my throat until I’m sure I can safely speak without crying. Then I take the meat loaf out of the oven, make the mashed potatoes and gravy, and head over to McGregor’s with everything on a platter.
When he opens the door, neither of us smiles.
I hold out the platter like a consolation prize to the losing team in a bake-off, even though it’s me who’s the loser. “This is yours.”
He looks at it, then back up at me. “I wasn’t gonna turn the music on.”
“You know what? It’s okay if you do. Who am I to tell you how to live your life?”
We stare at each other, the air electric with unspoken words. He makes no move to take the platter from my hands, so I set it on the carpet at his feet, then straighten and look him in the eye.
“Five o’clock,” I say firmly. “I’ll see you then.”
He slowly nods. When I go back across the hall and close my door, he’s still standing there, staring at me.
Anyone who’d like to know what hell is like should spend an early morning exercising in freezing temperatures with a professional athlete who has an endless supply of energy and no soul.
“Keep up!” Cam barks over his shoulder at me as I lag behind him on the sidewalk, breath steaming white from my nose and open mouth, sweat pouring into my eyes, my will to live quickly being extinguished.
“Must. Stop. Death. Imminent.” My wheezing and staggering frightens a flock of pigeons into screeching flight from their perch on the back of a bus bench.
Cam turns around and trots back to me. He hasn’t even broken a sweat, the heartless bastard. “Joellen,” he begins patiently. “We’re two blocks from the apartment.”
“Oh my God! I made it two whole blocks?” I wonder how the heck I’m getting back and decide I’ll take a cab. If we don’t have to call an ambulance first.