Losing Control by Jen Frederick Read Free Book Online

was the last one I’ll ever get.
    When I walk into the apartment there’s no sound but the soft snores of my mom and I breathe a sigh of relief as I set my bike down in the hallway. Then I feel guilty. I should want Mom to be awake so that we can talk about how our days went and what we’re going to do this weekend. Monday’s her chemo day, so by Saturday she’s usually up on her feet and ready for an outing.
    I’m thinking we should go to the Central Park Zoo and eat some ice cream. I duck into the bedroom and see that she’s fast asleep, a book spread across her chest. Quietly I tiptoe over to her and lift the book off her chest. I tuck a bookmark to save her last place read and then flick off the lamp. Leaning down I give her a kiss.
    The role reversal is striking. At twenty-five I’m tucking my mom into bed and kissing her sleeping forehead. My throat tightens as I think about this bed being empty and me being alone in the world. Not yet though, I tell myself. She’s still with me.
    I set aside the worry of the apartment situation and just try to hug that thought close.

Chapter 5
    O N MY LUNCH BREAK , I find myself in SoHo. I meant to go straight to Gansevoort to Ian’s place but as I biked down Lexington my front wheel ended up in SoHo, in front of my favorite block of shops. In one store, the Bondoir, they sell hand-made lace lingerie, the likes of which I will never be able to own. Next to it is Urban Adventures, where they sell the Dutch road bike I would sell my left arm to ride, although I’m not sure my arm would cover even the front tire.
    I should be back at Ian’s place instead of here, one neighborhood over, mooning over stuff I won’t ever be able to afford. Every day that Mom is stuck in that damn apartment, she retreats deeper into herself. This morning she refused to get out of bed. But I can’t come up with a reason why he should hire me because I don’t even know what the stupid project is—other than that it requires a good memory and pretending to be someone else.
    Do I need to dress up in a clown suit? Deliver a singing telegram? I’ll do almost anything. This morning was full of bad behavior. In addition to avoidance, I played a game of dodge with the cars. My mother would kill me if she knew I spent fifteen minutes seeing how many intersections I could beat the lights. Maybe I’ll tell her when I get home just to see if I can rile her up.
    Hey Mom, almost got doored by three cars and I lane split between a Mercedes and Bentley today and almost took the mirror off of three cabs. Saw my life flash before my eyes and . . .
    God, what a shithead idea that is. To tell my cancer stricken mother that I intentionally rode like a reckless fool down Manhattan? If she didn’t haul off and slap me, I’d be disappointed.
    Rubbing a hand over my eyes, I try to calm myself. The stuff in the window looks gorgeous—all lace and silk. One of the ladies on the
Real Housewives of New York
name dropped it, and now every time I’m down here I stare at the goods through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows. Don’t know why I torture myself like this; I couldn’t even have afforded a thong from this place when I didn’t have medical bills piling up like a plow-created snowbank, but I like to look. Nothing wrong with looking.
    I swing my bike helmet by its strap, and I’m so wrapped up in my shopping lust that I don’t even notice there’s someone beside me until his shadow looms over me.
    “You have good taste.”
    “Oh my god.” I hold my hand to my swiftly beating heart. It’s Ian. I’d recognize that smell, that voice anywhere. Today his superhero abs are covered in a light gray T-shirt and jeans. He has some heavy brown boots on his feet and a big watch on his wrist. His brown hair is rumpled, like he just rolled out of bed. I bite down on my molars to keep from leaning forward and sniffing him.
    “What are you doing here, stalker?” I sound shrill.
    He’s amused. Again.