Mia

This holiday is the culmination of years of saving, despite making enough money to keep me comfortable for a long time. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I am a miser or penny pincher hoarding all that money to keep for rainy days.

I don’t have that luxury as it’s been up to me to raise two brothers from teens since my mom passed away six years ago and my dad split, apparently overwhelmed with grief and the thought of being a single father.

So yeah, six years, two of which involved getting Justin and Shaun through high school by the skin of my teeth and then convincing them both that college was not a negotiation but a must after what they’d put me through.

Not that it’s doing much good since both my brothers barely made it through that experience as well, proclaiming themselves heartily sick of school and grinning as if their barely passable grades were a favor they did me.

Both are currently in some Asian locale, probably sleeping on the beach and surfing by day, among other things. Ungrateful wretches, I think, smiling tenderly because no matter what they put me through or how much it’s cost me, both financially and personally, I adore them.

They’re all the family I have left, even if they forget I exist most of the time, only really remembering that I’m still alive when they need that wire transfer, or more often than not, my shock filled gasps when they regale me with tales of their adventures.

Secretly, though, I am thrilled, if a little envious because everything they’ve done, are doing or will do are things I’d planned myself as a senior in high school, just months before Mom finally let go and Dad stopped pretending to give a shit.

Six years I struggled and spent my time working for a cretin, a tyrant of massive proportions, being his on-call slave to the point that once I didn’t sleep for two days because I had so much work to do.

And no, I do not count the fact that it was ‘a paid vacation’, as my boss put it, since the truth is that’s what he lured me to China with, the promise of a few days of sightseeing, after I’d helped him seal up a practically sealed deal.

The reality was me running around non-stop while the poor translator fell asleep in the hotel lobby and then being told ‘regretfully’ that the trip was being cut short the minute the contracts were signed because Lucas was needed back at HQ to deal with a staffing crisis in one of his offices.

Vacation-and I still snort whenever I consider that word-cut short, I’d had to hightail it back to the West Coast with him and then proceeded to deal with said staffing matter so the wretch could go on a date with a certain Hollywood starlet who enjoyed showing her vagina ‘accidentally’ on very many, verrrrry many occasions while exiting a car.

I’d been two days without sleep, screwed up due to the time zone changes, and short tempered to the extreme when the dean called me to let me know Beavis and Butthead had been caught streaking through the girl’s dorms.

It took an inhuman effort not to lose my mind at that point, but I’d persevered, driven down and laid down the law to two very unrepentant men who struggled not to laugh the whole time I yelled at them, threatening them with bodily harm.

I can see the humor in it now, considering I’m five two to their six three, a piece, but by then I was living on energy drinks, coffee and malevolent rage towards Lucas Fabrizio.

Matter sorted, I’d returned to my apartment, fallen into bed fully clothed and been woken by my phone ringing what felt like only minutes later.

Lucas, demanding my presence, urgently. I thought, okay, shoot, I hope to God I didn’t space and screw something up in my exhaustion and hightailed it to his penthouse, shaking inside from a mixture of nerves and the need to sleep standing up.

The urgent matter turned out to be his girl toy, the vagina flashing psycho, going nuts and crying in a performance worthy of…something because the great and oh so powerfully attractive Mr. Fabrizio had not taken too well to her hinting at marriage.

Then I really did blow my top, monumentally and not because I was jealous that a man I’d been crushing on for six years had just ordered me to make the crying stop.

Not because I was vulnerable, hurt and offended that he thought so little of me that this was my role.

Nope. What really sent me over the edge was what he said after I’d mopped up the lip flasher, commiserated and suffered boogers in my hair and a soaked shirt…

I’ll cut the description short and just say that it took me no less than an hour to convince her that he wasn’t worth it and that she had so much more to look forward to than wasting herself on a man who only saw her as a sex object.

Turned her into a feminist in a big way, I’ll tell ya, at least it looks that way because she walked out of her apartment the next day without hair, looking scary crazy and proceeded to go on some healing trip to the Amazon where reports say she’s running around without a bra, living in a village without running water-

But whatever. After I got her ass out of his penthouse and ordered a cleaning service to clean up the damage from her tirade, the great big oaf had turned to me, smiled and asked me why all women couldn’t be as staid and level-headed as me.

Then, oh and this is what made me do it, these very words - ‘oh, Miss Carmichael, if only I was intelligent enough to be attracted to a spinster like yourself. Surely my life would be a lot simpler if I could look at a level-headed woman like you and want…’

He never did finish the statement, despite my need to hear the rest, I just smiled benignly as if he hadn’t insulted me beyond words and shrugged, asking me if I was ready to drive to the office.

Now, I was exhausted. At the end of my tether. Mortally wounded that he could look at me and see…a SPINSTER. Completely enraged at the thought that he just told me in his own superior, insensitive way that I was ugly!

And just plain…unhinged.

What happened after that was as effective a resignation as any that could ever be given. Ever. In history. The stuff of legends. Prosecutable. Glorious.

Maybe it was God given. Perhaps I just look at it that way today because I need to excuse my actions and convince myself that it was the right thing to do. Whatever the case, I insist that the paperweight was there, right beside my hand for a reason.

I also insist that I was momentarily blinded and blacked out-even if I can remember everything in exact detail, from the weight to the shape and feel of that glass boulder.

In any event, I did something along the lines of scream, hurl that paperweight at his retreating back and shriek the vilest things that have ever left my mouth.

To this day, I will testify that he incurred the broken arm not due to the paperweight actually hitting him but rather in his bid to dodge it when he was mid-turn in response to my screaming.

I do believe he tripped over the couch and broke his arm when he somersaulted over it and met the coffee table. And I do believe that it was completely un-sportsman-like when two of his six-hundred-pound body guards rushed in and tackled me to the floor.

I justify it all with the thought that I was hurt, too, and I concede that Lucas had every right to fire me on the spot, press charges against me and have me convicted of assault.

I was counting on it, actually, because at that point I had the eye-opening brain fart that if I went to prison I’d be free to sleep for more than five hours a night, be legally incapable of running after Justin and Shaun and somehow, somehow, forget the words he’d drawled, words that had shredded what was left of my feminine inner confidence.

It almost sent me hysterical when he peeked his head over the couch, frowned and asked, ‘Are you quite alright, Miss Carmichael?’

Do you know what it’s like to be floored, so speechless that even breathing is unmanageable? I do. Even worse, the dratted man then yelled at his security to stop mauling me, helped me up with his uninjured right arm and started tutting about my coffee consumption as if that was to blame for my hysteria.

Slack jawed, I let him lead me out of the building, into the car he’d called and then been taken to the hospital where he insisted they tend to me first while he held my hand, telling the doctor in a matter of fact way that I was suffering from the effects of too much coffee and not enough food, could he please talk to me about the dangers of an unhealthy diet.

By that point I was…

Well, there are no words and to this day I still can’t process that he’d reacted that way. What I can say is I came this close to stabbing him with a scalpel when I finally looked at him and thanked him for helping me.

He’d grinned, shrugged and then ordered me to attend to his medical forms so that they could cast his arm. After that we went into the office, me still firing on less than one full cylinder while he chirped and talked about the upcoming dinner he wanted me to organize.

It was as if nothing happened and I’d have totally snapped out of it and told him to kiss my lily white ass until the school called that very afternoon and asked me to make a donation to the upcoming sports rally in a show of good faith. In other words, pay up or Justin and Shaun can kiss college goodbye.

So I kept my job, stayed the course and pretended that nothing happened, mostly because I was so mortified by then that it was a blessing and also because when I called out to employment agencies, I discovered that Lucas had had me blacklisted.

I got it really fast. It was him or no one, unless I wanted to sling hash or sell my body to men with no dental hygiene and possible genital warts.

Not much of a choice and really, after that calmative the doctor had given me kicked in, I regained my senses enough to remember that I had no qualifications, that this job, as good as I am at it, was given to me by a man who took a gamble on me.

His exact words. On a daily basis. Especially when I eyed the letter opener on my desk a few weeks ago after he told me to buy his latest fling crotch-less panties and nipple jewelry.

I didn’t know those existed either!

Not until said sex toy accompanied me to an exclusive jeweler and demonstrated what it was. With her naked boobs. And nipples and-

But whatever.

That was just six months ago, in which time my brothers had managed to stay in and graduate college and are now touring the world, unwilling to be sensible and look for jobs.

Right now, I am sightseeing. On vacation. Free of all and any thoughts of men who need another paperweight attack, or outright killing. Right now, I am looking at gondolas, smelling food, watching Italians saunter around in stylish clothing with an air of complete and utter ease.

And it sucks! I am alone, I may be a little lost and terrified of going on the gondolas and I had a run in with a kid and his gelato that is evident from the state of my once white shirt.

And I’m crying. Haven’t I mentioned it yet? Well, I am, I think miserably, sniffing loud enough that the couple passing me pause and give me a horrified look.

“Move along! You never seen a woman cry?” I yell, hiccupping as I turn away to stare broodingly at the water again.

I wonder for the umpteenth time whether I should just jump in and let the toxins kill me because surely from the color of that water something will, although hopefully it’ll be quick, unlike the slow death I am suffering now, fooling myself that I am indeed on vacation in freaking Venice when in reality I got to hop on over here with the great Poobah himself and pretend that he’s ‘giving me a break’ instead of just out and out asking the slimy weasel what he wants now.

“Sorry, signorina, you want for me to take you to other place?”

I snap out of visions of drowning Lucas in the water to see a kindly looking man with grey hair smiling at me, punting his empty boat as if I should be at all happy to get on his death trap and by that I mean be the only loser on planet earth to come to this place and take a romantic gondola all on my own.

I am close to sneering and telling him to get his rickety barge out of my face when it hits me that my anger, the boatload I’m carrying around with me is manifesting in every single aspect of my life.

This is not me. I am the girl who smiles and advises the gondola guy to charge more when I discover that he has three kids and a baby on the way, or grandchild, as the case may be.

Unless my imagination is right and Italian men really are supernatural and procreate into their dotage…

But anyway, the point is that this is not me. I am not the girl who sneers at people. I am not mean or unkind, I mean I gave Mindi Delware a tampon one time even after she told the whole senior class I had sex with the crusty old janitor just for a laugh.

I don’t get mad. Hell, the last time I yelled at someone…

Let’s not go there.

Oh Jesus, I am turning into…him. It. My boss. The guy I despise and yet have sexual dreams about because obviously I’m a lunatic and there’s something irreparably wrong with my brain and…

“No!” I wail in horror, my mind racing as it hits upon the guy at the airport I shoved out of the way because he was taking too long and I had to get to the exit before-

That’s not the point! Focus, I yell at myself, my lip trembling when it becomes clear that…I’m becoming a female version of Mr. ‘oh why can’t I be sexually attracted to a troll like you’.

My wail stops passers-by and I only realize I scared the living hell out of the gondolier when he huffs and apologizes for bugging me before rowing away at a frantic pace.

Which makes me aware of the fact that I’m yelling ‘please Jesus, just take me now before the demon takes complete control’.

And let me just say that Italians are a squeamish people because the moment I stop and look around, it’s to see people running. Except one guy, but I soon realize why when he grins and opens his coat, flashing me his naked nuts and something I think should be a penis. Maybe.

And this is all happening, me resuming my wailing, man showing me his soiled fruit and veg, when I hear a drawl from behind and every single nightmare I have ever had in my life culminates into one unfathomable moment.

It’s while I’m crying, begging God to help me and save me from Satan himself that I hear that demon’s hiss and turn to see-

“Have you been drinking coffee again? Mia! You know we decided that you should not ever imbibe in anything that contains caffeine. Scusibella…” he prattles something off in Italian that I don’t even want to understand, to a blonde goddess that is so beautiful I pause mid rant and tilt my head, considering my options because, ya know, when he’s done with her I might consider changing my sexual orientation.

I mean she is smoking, smoking, chimney on fire hot and that’s not even the worst part! I don’t get to hate her because I am utterly convinced she’s an angel and hating an angel will send me to hell. If I manage to get a free pass on the homicidal daydreams I have of Lucas, of course. I hope.

I’m silent now as he blah, blah, blahs to my new crush-have I mentioned that my eyes won’t stray from her boobs, man, I wish God gave me boobs like that-before turning to me with a long-suffering sigh and looking heavenward.

As if he’s got a Goddamn thing to suffer about when the truth is that-

“Why are you here?” I bark suspiciously, a nasty thought occurring to me in that second when I drag my eyes off the angel and my brain starts chugging again.

Lucas smiles, one of those smiles that have had me thinking about dental records and evidence, and shrugs, introducing my wo-I mean the woman to me.

“Mia Carmichael, I would like you to meet Adel.”

Well see, even if I wanted to hate her, now I can’t, I love Adel. No wait! Why is he introducing me to another one of his floozies, I rage inside, instantly attempting to despise her, throw her a glare and not fling myself into the water all at the same time because the dratted man is smiling again. That smile.

Why me, God?

“Hey,” I mumble, giving her a chin nod while not looking at her in the hopes that the spell will be broken.

“Hi.”

Oh great, she’s nice. Just what I always wanted. And maybe while I’m waxing her junk, which is just as likely a request from Lucas as any I have heard thus far, I can ask her how to be this perfect, I think snidely, gritting my teeth.

“I’m on vacation.”

No preliminaries because as much as I want to like Adel-oh, why couldn’t her name just be Britney!-it’s occurring to me, slowly, insidiously, that I didn’t tell him where I was and I chose the opposite direction of the hotel he was going to lunch at and-oh God, did you always plan for me to be a murderer?

“Vacation of sorts,” he argues, the emphasis on the last word setting off alarm bells in my head.

“Nope. No. For real. Vacation for real!” I yell, losing what little calm Jesus granted me when the insinuations become clear and my heart sinks. “You said I had a week off. Off. No work. No making reservations or buying jewelry or dresses or any of the stuff you expect me to do above and beyond my actual job.”

Lucas shrugs, making a hand gesture that imparts the sense that I’m quibbling about something that was implied and never really stated.

“Eh, I never said that it would not entail some time away from the marvels of riding the gondolas by yourself. And really Mia, how sad that you are all alone, without company,” he says sullenly, giving me a pitying look that Adel seconds.

Only her look is real pity which cuts me. Raw. To the point that I actually cringe and feel all ten shades of the humiliation on the Richter scale.

“By choice?” I say, hating that it comes out as a question, which the wretch immediately seizes on, his expression becoming calculating immediately.

“Not possible, for who does not want to ride the gondolas with a lover and share in the joys of this magical place?”

“Me?” I squeak, seeing myself in just that position, smiling and pointing out other lovers while in the arms of-

No! Nope. My blood sugar must have dipped drastically, I think, panicked because a certain set of dark eyes were staring back at me in the vision and just, no!

“But of course you! And why should you not want these things, Mia. You are after all a woman, yes?” He laughs, making it sound like he’s actually questioning my gender and not deriding me softly.

That boils my blood because let me tell you, I may not dress all sexy and girlie and I may not have all that much time to pay attention to whether or not my hair looks just so and yeah, okay, I may not always brush it perfectly or wear make-up and it’s possible that my work clothes are kinda boxy but that’s because I am always working.

Where is the time to go to the salon and have my nails done and shop and, you know, even if I did have the time, you try affording all that when you’re schooling and supporting two of the biggest money drainers on the planet.

My lip trembles slightly, from anger I am sure, and I sniffle at the picture he just painted of me, the unattractive twenty-four-year-old female looking like my late Aunt Graves-her real name I shit you not-and it hits me.

I’m an old lady! Me, the high school cheerleader who loved to party and have fun. The last six years have turned me into an old woman with gross hair, glasses that are huge and unfashionable because my other pair broke and I haven’t had time to replace them.

Suddenly, I know why Lucas looks at me and asks if I am a woman. I know why he called me unattractive in that casual, offhand way. What’s worse, I know that if left up to me, I’d probably never have seen it before I started wearing vein stockings and stuffing my bra to prevent sagging chafe.

I’m…old. I feel old and darn it, I don’t want to. I want to have my brown hair shimmering the way this chick’s is. I want to wear shorts with smooth legs because they’re waxed instead of jeans because I cut all the way up my calf shaving when Lucas called me the day before we were flying out, demanding I help him pack.

I want to wear a bikini and not have to worry about taking an eye out because the last time I had the strength to clean up my area was the last time I had cheer practice.

I don’t want to be the spinster secretary who has wet dreams about her boss and keeps trying to convince herself its hate sex.

“Mia! Mia? See what I told you before, Adel? She’s been sneaking coffee again. The job it is to keep this one from the coffee…” He sighs, making me blink from my stupor with a return of the anger I’ve been trying to push down.

Preeeeetty sure he’ll have me arrested if I assault him this time.

“It’s not the coffee! It’s you.” I hiss, going poker stiff in indignant fury. “Two o’clock in the morning you wake me up to tell me you have a cold and need a doctor! Come over Mia, I need to talk to you and then I get there only to find that your housekeeper quit and you don’t know how to use the oven. Oh Mia, have you handled the HR crisis, oh and by the way go to Blooms and handpick the most expensive flower, let this one down easy. Oh Mia, have you seen my blue silk tie, I am sure it was not I who misplaced it. As if I wear your Goddamned ties! Oh Mia, by the way I know you haven’t slept more than five hours in the last six years but could I trouble you to get me another coffee, I had a late night,” I yell through clenched teeth.

“As if I wouldn’t personally know because I was right there with you taking minutes for a late night unscheduled meeting which I still had to complete paperwork on after you left the office. Coffee! You think my problem is coffee? Coffee keeps me running when you call me yet again. Coffee keeps me alive when my freaking brothers call from a prison in the freaking armpit of the world and need bail money to be wired. Coffee keeps me sane when I have to break up with your girlfriends and one of them starts stalking me and slashes my tires and I have to report it to the police.”

My tirade feels wonderful, great, so freeing that its only when I wind down to breathe and possibly wipe my eyes that I notice him staring at me, not saying a word, that expression of his so un-nerving.

“Soooo, you’re saying you need a nap before you drive Adel out to Florence?”