The F-Word

I pay attention to the road. For openers, I want to give her some privacy. Plus, the way she said that Hi, Mom tells me she’s not happy to get this call. I don’t know much about Bailey’s mother. I don’t know much about her family at all. We don’t talk about personal stuff, Bailey and I. All I know is what I told you before, that her father is gone.

Come to think of it, she seems a little subdued after weekends home lately. She’s been going home more often since her father died, maybe once a month—I only know this because the Fridays she’s heading home, she comes to the office with an overnight bag. As for the subdued part—she’s kind of quiet on the Mondays afterward. When I ask if she’s okay, she always says she’s fine, just tired from the traveling. And then I always say she could take a longer weekend, three days, four, and she always says, very politely, “Thank you, Mr. O’Malley, but that isn’t necessary.”

Now it occurs to me that maybe what she seems those Mondays isn’t so much tired or even subdued as, you know, worn down.

“Mom,” I hear her whisper, “I already said, I’m not coming. No. I don’t care if you told them I’d be there. I am not—”

I take a quick look. Bailey’s huddled in the corner and turned as far towards the window as she can get.

She needs more mental space for this conversation.

I reach out, punch in something, anything on Sirius. Shit. The music comes on so loud that we both jump.

Bailey looks at me. I mouth “Sorry,” and shut off the sound.

If there were a place to turn off so I could park, get out of the car and leave her alone with the call, I would, but the road we’re on is narrow and trees press in on either side

There’s some more back and forth, with Bailey’s answers coming fast. They’re one-word answers. The fact is, all of them are No, and her voice is rising and rising and then she makes this strangled sound, pounds her fist against her thigh and says, “What do you mean, why? Because I don’t want to, that’s why! I am not going to cousin Violet’s wedding!”

There is a two second pause.

“Is that what you think, Mother? Well, you’re wrong. It is not because I’m embarrassed to show up without a date! In fact, I have a date! That’s right. A date. A man. A gorgeous, successful, fantastic man. He’s taking me away for a weekend of hot sex, not for a weekend at Cousin Violet’s fucking wedding!”

I can feel my eyeballs pop.

Did my logical, always calm, always proper PA just drop the F-bomb? Did she say hot sex?

Is she really going away for the weekend with a man?

Apparently, the answers are yes and yes. I don’t know abut the weekend part, but telling her mother about the hot sex thing? Saying the F-word? Both happened. And she doesn’t just end the call, she slams the phone against the dashboard and then drops it into her lap where it lies as still and silent as a dead mouse.

I am not stupid enough to say a word. Hey, I might be a dude, but even I know when to keep quiet.

Bailey sighs. It’s a sad sound, and I look at her. She’s looking out the window. In fact, her nose is all but pressed to the glass.

She mumbles something.

“What?”

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“For what? You don’t owe me an apology.”

She doesn’t answer. I wait. And wait. I tell myself not to speak…

Myself doesn’t listen.

“Bailey?”

“Yes?”

“What’s the matter?”

She shoots me a look. I deserve it. What kind of question is that? I know what’s the matter. Her mother’s nagging her about a party she doesn’t want to go to. She wants to spend the weekend with a man instead.

Except, that isn’t true.

There is no gorgeous, successful, fantastic man whisking my PA away for the weekend. It’s a lie. A protective lie. And yes, it’s cruel for me to be as sure of that as I am that the sun rises in the east each morning, but there it is.