“So, what got you so interested in psychology?” Riley asked over his imported beer.
She narrowed her eyes at the personal question, annoyed that Riley was breaking her rule, but she decided to answer it to maintain the date pretense. “I’m sure it sounds cliché, but I wanted to see if I could make a difference.”
“Make a difference? In what? Because if you say the whole world, that sounds a little ambitious, even for you.” He took another sip of beer, never taking his eyes off of her. “What, specifically, made you want to do this?” He stared intently across the table, as if his gaze was searching the reaches of her brain for the truth.
Vanessa shifted in her seat feeling the weight of his gaze. Usually she prided herself on not falling victim to probing questions, but since this was not necessarily a doctor-client session, she felt herself waiver. Plus, something about the way he looked at her, like she was the most interesting person who held all the secrets of the universe, made her want to tell him. Just about on the brink of sharing, she shook off the feeling.
“No,” she said firmly. “This is unethical. We must maintain the previously discussed agreement.”
His brow furrowed. “Look,” he said, after a short pause accompanied by what looked to be his death stare. “I think it’s only fair. We are here in this obnoxiously expensive restaurant, trying to pretend to the real world that we are on a date.” She raised her hand to begin her protest, but he interrupted. “I know it’s not a real date, but you are planning to convince me to allow you to dive into the deepest chasms of my psyche, so I think it only fair for you to answer my question. It’s not even that personal, really. It’s not like I’m asking your bra size or the name of your favorite porno or anything.” His smirk was back. “It’s simple, really. I told you mine, now you tell me yours.” His voice lowered, almost to a growl. “Quid pro quo, Ms. Taylor.”
“It’s DOCTOR Taylor,” she quickly corrected, then grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Habit.” She took a deep breath to reduce the flush in her cheeks. “And I don’t know of any pornos.”
He smiled, and a hint of a wicked glint sparkled in his eye. “So then, DOCTOR Taylor, what, specifically, made you want to study psychology?”
She took another deep breath while sipping her water, concentrating on not inhaling an ice cube, the whole time trying to come up with a viable explanation for her need to follow the psychological path. She tried to think of anything rather than reveal the incredibly embarrassing and emotionally scarring truth. Instinct took over.
“Well, I became fascinated by the power of the stage-mom subculture,” she threw out there, hoping that would be enough of the truth without revealing the whole thing.
“Stage moms?” he asked, eyes hinting at amusement.
“Yes, stage moms.” She waved her hand in a circle. “What better place to study them?” She averted her eyes to study her fork.
“What got you interested in stage moms?” he asked with genuine interest.
Again she resorted to her water glass for pause, wishing the waiter would bring their food already. The water glass was getting dangerously close to empty and would not be available much longer as a delay tactic. They had already ordered, so that distraction removed itself. Only thing left was either leaving for the restroom or talking until the dinner came. She proceeded with great caution.
“Growing up, I was in a position to witness many stage moms… pushy mothers who drove their kids to the brink of insanity, all under the guise of trying to be supportive or do what is best for their kids. In actuality, all they are really doing is trying to live vicariously through their children’s successes and taking credit for them. I feel it is a severe form of child abuse.”
“For just trying to support their kids to do their best?”
“No, the type of stage mom I mean goes beyond supportive parenting. I’m talking the ones who go too far. I believe it’s closely related to Munchausen by proxy, since these parents manically push their kids for their personal need to have attention, or at the very least it should be considered a personality disorder.”
He sat back in his chair, surprised at her revelation. “Jeez, that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“You don’t know,” Vanessa spat, bringing her fist down on the table, which made Riley jump. “You don’t know what it’s like to be on the receiving end. To never get to rest or play with your friends or do normal things. To always be practicing. To never be allowed to stop until it’s, air quote, ‘perfect.’ To be punished for being lazy when you’re really just exhausted. To have your mother push and push and push,” she stopped because she felt the panic rising in her throat at the memory. She looked around the restaurant for the waiter or for the water boy or for any sort of distraction that would take his curious eyes off her. She knew that excusing herself to the restroom would give too much away, so, taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down and get control of her voice. “Sorry, I just feel pretty passionate about it. I came across a lot in my research. I wanted to do my dissertation on the topic of the moms, but I switched my focus to how this aggressive parenting affects the kids.”
As he stared at her over the table, his once questioning expression became unreadable. After taking another sip of his beer, he smiled. “Tell me about your research.”
She smiled slightly. Without realizing, he offered an out: no revealing her past, a past she did not want to revisit. A past she did her best to repress for thirteen years.
“I first immersed myself in the pageant world. I traveled to various pageants as a spectator just observing. Understand that most of the moms are just what you described, loving, supportive mothers. However, some of the things I saw were awful, not quite the to the level I needed for my thesis, though. Moms resorting to bribery and threats to manipulate their daughters. Plus, I have a very hard time with little girls made up to look like vixens. There was this one girl, whose mom had called Bambi, which in and of itself should be considered child abuse…”
“Bambi? Really? How awful of a nickname,” mock horror dripping with sarcasm laced his interruption.
“Not a nickname… her real name was Bambi. And how she spelled it? B-A-M-B-E-E. With that name and that spelling, the kid was destined for air-headedness or a stripper pole.” Riley nearly choked on his drink, but she continued. “I really do believe in naming your kids for success. No girl named Bambee with two E’s at the end of her name will ever become a rocket scientist or win a Nobel prize.”
He guffawed and promptly covered his mouth, looking around to see if anyone noticed. “Wouldn’t know, but go on. Tell me your findings.”
“My research involved just observing the subculture. The moms focused on winning so much that they were willing to do anything to ensure success. I met one family who was in negotiations for a third $20,000 loan in as many years, all for their five year old. She had won one time when she was three, and once her mom got a taste of winning, the mom quit her job to pursue her daughter’s career. She actually believed they could make a go of it full time. The dad joined them on weekends during pageants, but the marriage was obviously strained. The daughter hadn’t won another pageant since her first win. I don’t think the parents spoke directly to each other the whole time I saw them together. I didn’t see them at the last few pageants and heard they were divorcing.”
“Wait,” he interrupted, “You mean they can make a living at this?”
“No. Not at all. If the child wins, usually a check is awarded, depending on the size of the competition. Age is also a factor in determining prize money. And with an average of one pageant per month, the moms delude themselves into believing that it can be a supplemental income. Really it’s barely enough to pay for more pageants.”
Finally the dinner came, but both were too engrossed in their conversation to begin eating right away. Vanessa motioned for a refill of her water glass.
“Wow, I didn’t know they could make money from this,” he said, cutting off a piece of chicken and lifting his fork to his mouth.
“Only if the kid wins. And again, it’s not enough to count on profiting from the wins. Sadly, it’s such a fickle business. It’s not like sports with an obvious measure of success. Kid plays well, kid wins. However, pageantry is based on too many out of control factors – costuming, staging, distractions, even the judges’ moods, it all factors in. And most of the girls don’t ask to do it. Name a three year old who tells her mom, ‘Mommy, I wanna be a pageant queen.’ Nope, it’s the mothers who sign them up for it. The younger ones compete because Mom said so. Sure, they like the dressing up, but the politics and the hours are horrendous. The older ones do it because it’s all they know how to do.
“Plus, the mothers. Ugh. They would make me so angry. I was only there to observe, so I couldn’t say anything, but some were certifiable. I was looking for a certain profile, but what I saw was sad. I saw a couple who were control freaks, never letting their kids rest. Contrast them with the permissive parents, the few who let their kids run all over them. Then there was the one who fed her four-year-old kid only carrots and celery. On the other side, one mother let her four year old snack on Pixy Sticks and Red Bull, then threatened her when the kid ran around crazy on a kiddy-crack high. Another smacked her kid across the face right in front of me just because the kid said she didn’t want to go on stage because her stomach hurt. Another mom physically attacked one of the pageant judges after the crowning of the winner, obviously not her daughter. Oh, and then there was the mom who forgot to put sunscreen on her two-year old. Poor baby blistered, and Mom made her compete anyway in a scratchy dress with a petticoat, kid screaming the whole time.
“The one mother-daughter duo who fit the profile I needed for my dissertation seemingly paraded her daughter around to get herself dates, like she was using the kid as bait. From what I witnessed and learned from interviews, the kid was never touched, but there is a laundry list of other questionable things the mother did. She allowed me to interview her daughter when I offered to pay her. It was very hard to keep my reactions neutral. I won’t bore you with the details. Let’s just say that although she didn’t do anything I could consider worthy of turning her into CPS, none of it was fun to experience. I was happy to end that leg of my research.”
She paused to take her first bite of food, noticing nothing but his curious eyes still glued to her.
Now it was he who reached for the drink to pause, as if carefully measuring his next move. “So what was it?” he asked.
Her fork froze midway to her mouth, and she stared, thrown off by his question.
She must have looked confused, so he asked, “Cheerleading? Acting? Cello?”
She replayed the last few sentences of her speech in her mind to see if she could figure out what he was asking. “Wait… what?”
“For you? What was it?” he repeated softly, eyes questioning again.
She steeled herself. “I don’t think I know what you’re asking.” Liar.
“Doesn’t take Bambee, the Nobel-prize-winning rocket scientist, to figure out you had a close, personal experience with a stage mom,” he gently explained. His eyes grew softer. “I’m guessing yours.” He paused, waiting for an answer. When she didn’t, he continued. “I mean, you mentioned an older brother, but, based on your passionate dedication to the topic, I doubt he was the object of your mother’s, to use your word, abuse?” He took a bite and chewed slowly, never taking his studying eyes off of her. “So, tell me, Vanessa, what was it?”
Rattled, she maintained eye contact with her plate, cutting her chicken into smaller and smaller pieces. “Again, Mr. Tate, we are crossing the lines set forth in our agreement.” She kept cutting, smaller and smaller pieces. “I deem this topic of conversation over. I more than adequately answered your question. Let’s finish our meal, please.”
She concentrated on eating, breathing between bites to keep from running from the table. She dared to peek at Riley. Just as she feared, he was watching her eat. A semi-smug smile crept up on his mouth and his eyes danced. Jackass knew he hit a sore spot. He was enjoying himself. He sat back in his seat with his glass, as his plate was already empty, and just watched her. She kept eating, but she felt him analyze her.
Abruptly, he leaned forward on his elbows, his expression turning serious. “I asked you to call me Riley. If we were really dating, we would be calling each other by our first names. All this ‘Dr. Taylor’ and ‘Mr. Tate’ stuff will give us away. At least when we are in public, could we please skip formalities and use our first names, Vanessa?”
She paused her fork halfway to her mouth and looked at Riley. The sound of her first name in his soothing, deeply rich voice softened her mounting panic. He held her gaze with his sparkling green eyes, so clear and seductive. All of a sudden, her desire to tell him about her past came to the surface again, but she knew that it was not an option. In order to maintain the professionalism she had promised herself she would keep, she could not, would not let her guard down. She was to uphold her strictly professional policy, no matter how charming or cute or sexy the man sitting across from her was. Not your type, Nessa. Not your type. Damn, only the second day and I’m already threatening to blow this. Again. Dammit. Shame on me.
“Fine, Riley,” she responded, her voice a throaty whisper. Unrecognizable emotion flashed across his face. She cleared her throat and continued. “I think we should return to focusing on you. I can’t very well help you if I don’t know why you need me.”
“That’s the thing. I still don’t think I need you. I only agreed to this whole idea as a favor to Charles.”
“But Mr…” she smiled, “Riley.” He winked, but she continued. “Starting fights with people on the set? And leaving for three days with no word where you were? Showing up to the set drunk? Each one is a textbook cry for help. Charles described your behavior for the last month as ‘increasingly erratic.’”
His gaze broke hers, directing his line of vision to his plate. “I have never claimed to be the poster boy for normal behavior.”
“According to Charles, you never did any of these things before. So,” she reached across the table to lay her hand across his, restraining her reaction to the warm surge that shot up her arm at the contact with him. “That’s why I’m here. To see what IS normal for Riley Tate and return him to it.” She squeezed his hand to get his attention. His eyes slowly raised to hers. His expression was pained.
“There is no normal anymore.” His eyes clouded. Both the statement and his expression grabbed at her heart. She had to stop herself from jumping up from her seat to run around to his side of the table to wrap her arms around him in comfort. She also knew that this very public restaurant was not the place to continue this line of questioning.
“Dancing.” The word surprised her as much as it did him.
“Huh?” He asked after a few seconds of silence. “You want to go…”
“That’s what it was. With me. Growing up. Dancing.”
His eyes crinkled at the edges. “Glad it wasn’t the cello.” He smiled. “Always hated those cello-playing skanks.” He winked again. Damn the Devil and his wicked trick to put dimples on this sexy, hunk of burning stud!