The Simple Wild Page 2

  “Maybe being forced out is a good thing, then.” He grins at me.

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Davisville station is approaching. With a sigh of relief that I can end this conversation without being overtly rude, I slip out of my seat. Balancing the cumbersome box in one arm, I hold onto the bar with a tight grip and wait for the subway to stop.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You’re young.” The guy hefts his body out of his seat as the car comes to a jarring halt. “Those jobs are a dime a dozen. You could be swiping your access card at another bank in a couple weeks.”

  He’s just trying to make me feel better. I offer him a tight but polite smile.

  The doors open, and I step out onto the platform.

  The man lumbers close behind. “You know, I was you, fifteen years ago, carrying my own box of things out of my downtown Toronto office. Sure was a big hit to my ego, but it was also a kick in the ass. I decided to take the severance and start a cleaning business with my brothers. Never thought that’d be my calling, but turns out it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else, even on the worst days.” He winks and waves the rolled-up newspaper in the air. “This is fate. You’ve got bigger and better things ahead of you, pretty lady. I can feel it.”

  I stand on the platform, hugging my cardboard box, watching the enthusiastic custodian stroll toward the exit. He’s whistling as he tucks the paper into the recycling bin on his way, as if he’s ­actually happy with a life of cleaning toilets and mopping floors.

  Maybe he’s right, though. Maybe losing my job today will end up being the best thing that could ever happen to me.

  Giving my head a shake, I begin heading for the exit. I make it three steps before the bottom of my box gives way, scattering my belongings over the dirty concrete.

  My skin is coated in a thin sheen of sweat by the time I trudge up the stone walkway of our house, a ten-minute walk from the station. Mom and I have lived here for the past fifteen years with my stepfather, Simon, who bought it at below-market from his aging parents, years before. A smart investment on his part, as the value of houses in Toronto continues to skyrocket. We routinely get real estate agents cold-calling us, looking for a chance to sell the substantial three-story Victorian, clad in brown brick and well situated on a sizeable corner lot. It’s been fully renovated over the years. The last appraisal put the place at over two million.

  It’s almost noon. All I want to do is take a long, hot shower while I cry, and then crawl into my bed and avoid people—well-meaning or otherwise—until tomorrow.

  I’m almost at our front steps when the side entrance that leads to Simon’s psychiatry practice opens and a mousy, middle-aged woman in an ill-fitting black pantsuit darts out, sobbing. Our eyes cross paths for a split second before she ducks her head and runs past me toward a green Neon.

  She must be a patient. I guess her appointment didn’t go well. Or maybe it did. Simon always says that real breakthroughs don’t come easily. Either way, it’s comforting to know that I’m not the only one having a shitty day.

  Once inside the house, I kick off my heels and let the faulty box fall to the floor, glad to finally be rid of it. Two of my forty-dollar lipsticks smashed on the concrete platform, and my left running shoe—from a brand-new pricey pair, no less—is still lying next to the subway tracks. I briefly considered climbing down to retrieve it, but then I imagined the ensuing headline: “Dejected Risk Analyst Leaps to Her Death,” and I decided that that’s not how I want to make the news.

  “Hello?” my mom calls out from the kitchen.

  I stifle my groan as my head falls back. Crap. That’s right, it’s Thursday. She doesn’t go into the flower shop until two on Thursdays. “It’s just me.”

  The hardwood floor creaks as she approaches, her rose-colored wrap skirt flowing breezily around her ankles with each step.

  Simon follows close behind, in his usual plaid sweater vest, button-down, and pleated khaki pant combo. It doesn’t matter how hot it is outside, he keeps the air frosty in here.

  I stifle a second groan. I expected him to be home—he’s almost always home—but I hoped he’d be tied up with his next patient and not hear me come in.

  “What are you doing here?” Mom’s frown grows as she looks from my face to the box on the floor. “What’s that?”

  Behind her, Simon looks equally concerned.

  I’m forced to replay the dreadful morning for them, handing over the envelope with my severance package details, the lump in my throat swelling as I talk. I’ve done well, up until now, but I’m struggling to keep the tears at bay.

  “Oh, honey! I’m so sorry!” My mom spears Simon with a glare and I know exactly why. Simon’s best friend, Mike, is a VP at the bank. I got this job because of him. I wonder if Mike had any idea that I was on the chopping block. Did he warn Simon? Did Simon know how my day would turn out when I dropped my breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and waved goodbye to him this morning?

  Simon has already put his reading glasses on to scan the severance paperwork.

  Meanwhile, Mom wraps her arms around me and begins smoothing her hand over my hair, like she did when I was a small child in need of consoling. It’s almost comical, given that I’m three inches taller than her. “Don’t worry. This happens to all of us.”

  “No it doesn’t! It hasn’t happened to either of you!” Simon keeps complaining that he has more patients than he has hours in the day to treat them, and Mom has owned a successful flower shop on Yonge Street for the past eleven years.

  “Well, no, but . . . it happened to your grandfather, and Simon’s brother, Norman. And both sets of neighbors, don’t forget about them!” She scrambles to find examples.

  “Yeah, but they were all in, like, their forties! I’m only twenty-­six!”

  Mom gives me an exasperated look, but then the fine lines across her forehead deepen with her frown. “Who else lost their job?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else at security.” Is the rest of my team sitting around their desks, whispering about me at this very moment? Did they see it coming?

  Her slender hands rub my shoulders affectionately. “Well, the place is obviously run by a bunch of idiots if they would let go of their best and brightest employee.” Another eye-spear cast Simon’s way, meant for Mike.

  Of course she’s going to say that. She’s my mom. Still . . . it makes me feel marginally better.

  I rest my head against her shoulder, finding comfort in the delicate scent of her floral perfume and the softness of her sleek, chin-length golden-brown bob, as we quietly watch Simon peruse the paperwork, awaiting his verdict.

  “Four months’ pay with benefits . . . retraining with an employment agency . . . looks fairly standard,” Simon says in that charming Hugh Grant–esque British accent that still lingers, even after thirty-odd years of living in Canada. “You’re in a good situation. You don’t have rent or a mortgage to worry about. Your bills are minimal.” He slides his glasses to the top of his thinning gray-haired head and settles his shrewd blue eyes on me. “But how does this make you feel?”

  Simon is big on asking me how things make me feel, especially when he knows I don’t want to talk about it. He’s a psychiatrist and can’t help but psychoanalyze everything and everyone. Mom says it’s because he’s teaching me to always be comfortable with expressing my emotions. He’s been doing it since the first day I met him, when I was eight and he asked me how the thought of my mom having a boyfriend made me feel.

  “I feel like I need to be alone.”

  He nods once, in understanding. “Quite right.”

  I collect my severance package and head for the stairs.

  “Susan? Isn’t there something else you ought to mention?” I hear him whisper.

  “Not now!” she hisses in response.

  When I glan
ce back, the two of them are communicating through a series of glares, waggling eyebrows, and pointed stares. They’re notorious for doing this. It’s amusing . . . when it has nothing to do with me. “What’s going on?”

  Mom offers a tight smile and says in a light voice, “It’s nothing. We can talk about it later, when things have settled down for you.”

  I sigh. “Just tell me.”

  Finally, Mom relents. “There was a call today.” She hesitates. “From Alaska.”

  Unease settles into my spine. I only know one person in Alaska, and I haven’t talked to him in twelve years. “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know. I missed getting to the phone, and he didn’t leave a message.”

  “So then it’s nothing.”

  Her tight brow tells me she doesn’t think it’s nothing. Even when we were on speaking terms, my dad was never the one to make the effort, to work out the time difference and pick up the phone to say hello. “Maybe you should give him a call.”

  “Tomorrow.” I continue up the stairs. “I can only handle so much disappointment for one day.”

  And my father has already delivered enough to last me a lifetime.

  Chapter 2

  “Going out?” Simon checks his watch. He can’t fathom the idea of leaving the house at eleven P.M. to see friends, but he’s fifty-six years old and doesn’t leave the house much, period, unless my mother forces him. His idea of entertainment is pouring himself a glass of sherry and catching up on the latest BBC documentary.

  “I figured I may as well.”

  Simon peers over his glasses at me, doing a quick, fatherly scan of my outfit before shifting his gaze back to his book. I decided on my shortest, tightest black dress and my highest heels for tonight. In any other situation, the combination would be considered escort-worthy, but on a sweltering Thursday night on Richmond Street in July, it’s practically standard uniform.

  Simon rarely comments on my clothing choices, though, and I’m thankful for that. Lord knows what meaning he could find in tonight’s ensemble. An ego boost after my pride’s been trounced? An outcry for love and attention maybe? Deeply seeded daddy issues?

  “With the usual suspects?”

  “No. They’re all away. Just Diana tonight.” And Aaron, I’m sure. One can’t be at a club for too long without the other. My best friend will demand a girls’ night out and then act like it’s a complete coincidence that her boyfriend shows up, even though I watched her text him our exact location a half hour before.

  “No Corey?”

  “He’s working late,” I mutter, unable to hide my annoyance. He wants to hook up on Saturday, though. So we can “de-stress,” his latest text said. That’s code for “get laid.” Normally, a message like that wouldn’t bother me. But today is different. Today, it bothers me. The fact that he can’t even spare ten minutes to call and make sure I’m okay after getting the axe is a growing thorn in my thoughts. When did he become so focused on his career, in his bid for promotion, that I became a clear runner-up?

  And how hadn’t I noticed it sooner?

  Simon’s mouth curves into a frown. “I saw that photograph in the rubbish. The one of you two from last summer.”

  “It got mangled when the box broke.”

  “It’s a nice picture.”

  “Yeah.” It was taken last June at my friend Talia’s cottage on Lake Joe, the same cottage where Corey and I had met a month before when he was visiting a friend’s place three doors down for the long May weekend. We crossed paths on kayaks early that Saturday morning, in a quiet part of an otherwise bustling lake, slowing to float beside each other and exchange “gonna be a great day!” pleasantries. It was his silky blond curls that caught my attention; it was his mesmerizing smile and easygoing laugh that held it. I was even more thrilled when I found out he lived in High Park and worked only eight minutes away from my office.

  By the time we paddled back to our respective shores side by side, we’d made plans to meet up for lunch. By the time the bonfire in Talia’s pit was burning that night, we were playfully smearing melted marshmallow across each other’s lips.

  In the picture, we’re sitting on a pile of craggy gray rocks that creep out into the lake. Hundred-year-old pine trees tower in the background. Corey’s long, lanky arms are wrapped around my shoulders and we’re both smiling wide, completely enamored with each other. That was back when we saw each other at least four times a week, when we’d make all our plans based around each other’s schedules, when he responded to my texts with cheesy quips within thirty seconds of me hitting Send, and he’d order flowers from my mom’s florist shop every week and have her put them by my bedside table—which solidified her adoration for him almost instantly. Back when I had to push him away—giggling, of course—as he stole another last kiss, no matter who was watching.

  But somewhere along the line, things have changed. The flowers don’t come every week anymore; the text responses sometimes take hours. And the kisses only come as a prelude to more.

  Maybe we’ve just grown comfortable in our relationship.

  Maybe too comfortable.

  Maybe Corey and I need to sit down and have a talk.

  I push that thought aside for another day. “I can always print another one.”

  Simon looks at me again, his narrow face hinting at mild concern. He adores Corey, too, possibly more than my mother does. Then again, they’ve always welcomed my boyfriends and there have been more than a few coming through our front door over the years.

  Corey is the easiest to like, though. He’s intelligent, soft-­spoken, and easygoing. The corners of his soft hazel-green eyes crinkle with his laugh, and he is a master at giving you his undivided attention. He cares what other people think of him, but in a good way, a way that holds his tongue even when he’s angry, to avoid saying things he’ll later regret. He has always treated me well—never uttering a word of complaint when I hand him my purse to free my hands, holding the door for me to pass through, offering to stand at crowded bars to get my drink. A true gentleman. And he’s hot.

  What parents wouldn’t want their daughter to be with a guy like Corey?

  And why, as I stand here mentally going through Corey’s best attributes, do I feel like I’m convincing myself of them?

  “Well . . . Guard your drinks and stay together,” Simon murmurs.

  “I will. Kiss Mom good night for me.” With the wedding season in high gear, she’s already fast asleep, needing her rest before an early-morning rise to finish this weekend’s bridal bouquets.

  I make it all the way to the front door before Simon calls out, “Don’t forget to take the rubbish to the curb.”

  My head falls back with my groan. “I’ll do it when I get home.”

  “At three o’clock in the morning?” he asks lightly. Knowing full well that the last thing I’ll be doing when I stumble up the steps at three A.M. is hauling the medley of garbage, recycling, and composting bins to the curb.

  I open my mouth, about to plead for my stepdad to do it for me, just this once . . .

  “Putting out the rubbish once a week as your only contribution to this household seems like a good substitute for paying rent and utilities, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” I mutter. Because it’s true. We have a housekeeper come twice a week to clean and run laundry. Mom has our weekly groceries dropped at our door and ready-made dinners delivered from an organic, grain-fed, hormone-free, gluten-free, dairy-free kitchen, so I rarely have to shop or cook. And I always slide my blouses and dresses into the pile when Simon takes his sweater vests and pleated pants in for dry cleaning.

  I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman with no debt, who has been living on her parents’ dime despite earning a decent salary for the past four years, without a complaint from either of them because they love having me here and I love the lifestyle I can afford by l
iving at home. So, yes, the least I can do is put out our “rubbish” once a week.

  That doesn’t stop me from adding, “You’re just making me do it because you hate doing it.”

  “Why else do you think we’ve kept you around this long?” he calls out as I’m pulling the front door shut behind me.

  “I’ll meet you down there.” The wheels on the compost bin rumble against the pavement as I drag it to the curb by one hand, past Mom’s Audi and Simon’s Mercedes, my phone pressed to my ear. We’re one of the few houses on the street that has a driveway, and one large enough to fit three cars. Most everyone is stuck battling it out for street parking, which is an especially prickly situation come winter, when there aren’t just other cars but four-foot snowbanks to contend with.

  “We’re not going to get in anywhere if you don’t hurry up!” Diana yells over the crowd of noisy people around her, panic in her voice.

  “Relax. We’ll get in somewhere, like we do every time we go out.” Somewhere where we can flirt with the doormen and, worst case, slip them a few bills to let us bypass the line they’ve manufactured to make their club look like it’s packed. Meanwhile inside it’s a ghost town.

  But being two attractive, young women has its benefits and I plan on taking full advantage of them tonight. For as crappy as I feel on the inside, I’ve compensated by making an extra effort on the outside.

  “My Uber’s on the way. Just pick a place and text me. I’ll see you in fifteen.” More like twenty-five, but Diana will abandon me if I tell her that. Setting down my phone on the hood of Simon’s car next to my purse, I lug the recycling bin to the curb, careful not to chip a nail. Then I make my way back to tackle the gray garbage container.

  Movement catches the corner of my eye a split second before something soft brushes against my leg. I leap back with a startled yelp, only to lose my balance and, stumbling over the curb, land flat on my ass next to an especially thorny rosebush. An enormous raccoon scurries past me. A second one follows quickly behind, chattering angrily at me.