Page 3 of Ruthless Mr. Ricco
I order my usual—a large cold brew with an added espresso shot—and hand the barista the last ten from my wallet.Besides the five remaining in the billfold, a few coins in the zipper pouch, and the emergency twenty at the bottom of my briefcase, I’m out of cash.
Refusing to let my father’s betrayal outshine my mother’s health, I push aside my anger and the feeling of defeat and plop down at a corner table.After pulling out my laptop, I update my resume, browse a few job listing sites, submit to several smaller law firms with online application forms, and network with the group of people I graduated law school with before packing up and joining the grind of the city streets.
When I push open the door of the building where I rent a studio apartment, the smells of bleach, old sweat, and rubber invade my nose.Weights clink together from the back room and music pulses out from under one of the small studios, but I smile as an old man’s voice echoes clearly from the office.
The old building may not have a fancy security system, but I’ve never felt safer than I do living above the gym.My landlord and part-time employer rules his space with an iron fist and is an excellent judge of character.Some people may look at him and scoff, but the scruffy old man is way stronger than he looks.
“It’s just me, Mr.Carter.I’m heading upstairs,” I call back to him.
He rounds the corner and gestures toward the boxes built into the wall.
“You got mail,” he grunts.
My gut twists and I regret having coffee on an empty stomach.
Most of my mail goes to my parents’ apartment since they live in a much nicer, albeit still modest, area.Only things I don’t want them to worry about land in the box on the wall.
I offer Mr.Carter a smile and a thanks and unhook my keys from the ring hidden inside my briefcase.After pinching the tiny metal key between my fingers, I unlock my mailbox and pull the single envelope from the darkness.Mr.Carter grunts again, nods, and turns back toward the office.
I shut and lock my mailbox before striding past the out-of-order sign stretched across the elevator doors and starting up the stairs.Although windowless and narrow, the staircase is brightly lit all the way up to the third floor.I fit my apartment key into my fist and step into the hall.With four doors on the left, an exposed brick wall on the right, and skylights in the roof, the hallway has its own worn-out charm.My feet drag as I open my door and lock it behind me.
I drop my keys into my briefcase and hang it on the hook by the door as I kick off my shoes.Tired and sweaty from walking all day, I strip as I cross the studio apartment and drop my underthings in the pile by the futon before taking a hanger from the thrifted clothing rack.With rote motions, I hang my suit and reach for the pins holding my bun at the back of my head, but the shimmery fabric peeking out from all the gray, black, and dark blues of my barebones wardrobe catches my eye.With a sigh, I abandon my hair and lift the dress from the rack.
It’s pretty, even if it isn’t my style.
I glance between the hem and my naked legs.
Biting back a groan, I shove the hanger back on the rack, grab my only pair of matching bra and panties—a lacy white monstrosity—out of the plastic drawers, and stomp into the bathroom.I hate shaving, but with every pass of the razor, I replay my mother’s excited words.
She beat cancer.She’s a survivor.
She won.
She fell in love again and has nothing but happiness on the horizon.
I can neither forgive nor forget my biological father’s betrayal, but I’ll never drag my mom back into the trenches with me.She’s free.
Tonight is all about her.
I finish my shower, doll myself up, pull on the lingerie, and step into the dress.
It’s a little tight across the chest and hips, but I expected it to be.When my mom gifted it to me a year ago, I was stick-thin from stress, depression, and overworking myself.I’m proud of what little curves I have now, so long as the seams of the dress hold.
I transfer my phone, keys, and wallet into my purse before carrying the strappy sandals to the futon—my only place to sit besides the toilet—and secure them to my feet.
My head spins when I rise, but I slip on my thin shawl just in case of wardrobe snafus, swing my purse onto my shoulder, and text my mom before exiting my apartment.
After exchanging hearty hugs with my mom and stepdad, we follow the waiter into the ritzy building and settle at a table covered with a fabric cloth.Dinner is amazing.I eat more than I have in weeks.My stomach hurts, but I smile and laugh with my parents.I give my all to them as we sit in the candlelight and chat about their plans for the next few years.Bittersweet and surreal, I lose myself in the discussion, my heart threatening to burst as I study my mom.
She’s gorgeous.After fighting so hard for so long, she deserves every ounce of joy in the world.
When Gary orders a glass of wine to share with my mom and offers me one as well, I accept.As casual as though I’ve done it a million times, I sip my first taste of alcohol and enjoy the warmth slowly spreading through my veins.
Between studying, working, and caring for my mother, I never had the time or the interest to drink, but in this laid-back setting, I like it.It’s nothing like the parties my college classmates bragged about.
Gary normally whisks my mom away at the first sign she’s tired, but with both of us watching her closely, we stay at the table a few more minutes, savoring our time together.By the time we rise, the wine buzzes in my veins, highlighting my fatigue and dulling my senses.My brain throbs.All I want is to drop onto my futon and sleep for days.
I hug my mom and pass her to Gary after he opens their cab door.He settles her into the seat before turning, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, and tugging me tight against his side.I return the half-hug and fight unexpected tears.
