Like You Mean It

by Jillian Liota

  She says it like it’s one question that only has one answer. But what no one else would know is that there isn’t one answer because there isn’t just one question. There are at least ten questions in what she just said, but unfortunately for the busybody she is, she won’t be getting the answers to any of them this evening.

  “As I said outside, Mrs. McAllister, Annie and I got to talking and I offered to cook us dinner as a welcome-to-the-neighborhood,” he says, giving me a wink. “Where should we put the good stuff?”

  I get up as ungracefully as I’m sure can be imagined from my place sprawled on the shitty linoleum in my kitchen and motion to the table.

  “Here’s great,” I say with a small smile, still unbelieving that Cole is here and he brought food. How does begging for food turn into a sit-down dinner for us and our new neighbor?

  Cole seems immune to the laser eyes my mom is observing him with as he sets a ridiculous amount of stuff on the table. A stack of paper plates, red solo cups, a box of plastic forks and knives, a bunch of baked potatoes – I knew it! – buns, cheese, and various burger toppings. I don’t know how he managed to carry it all. I would have had to make at least three trips.

  Then my mom walks over and sets the most delicious looking, amazing smelling plate full of burger patties down on the table with a plop.

  My mouth is watering so hard, I’m surprised I’m not drooling.

  Cole turns then and looks down at my Jones, giving him that same warm smile that disarmed me in seconds. He has his arms wrapped around my thigh and he’s positioned slightly behind me, as if he’s using my thigh as a temporary shield. I place a hand on his head and go to introduce Jones to Cole, but the man beats me to it.

  “Hey mister,” he says, crouching down to Jones’ level. “I brought over some burgers for you and me to eat. But before we dig in, I wanted to check with you and see if it’s cool if your mom has some too?”

  He says it as if he and Jones are already friends, like they’ve been talking about burgers on a regular basis. It’s one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen, especially because it works.

  Jones isn’t a big fan of strangers, and I could tell he was startled when Cole just seemed to waltz into our house unannounced. But those big eyes of his seemed to ignite with excitement when Cole leaned down to get his permission to let me join in for dinner.

  I was crying earlier today, feeling like a completely lost and miserable mess, and now I’m ready to break into laughter. This day has seen quite the range of emotions.

  I see Jones look up at me, mull it over, then glance at my tummy briefly before looking back to Cole.

  “She has the guppy in her tummy. I think she needs food,” he finally replies.

  Cole gives him a stern look.

  “Makes total sense, man. I like your thinking.” Then Cole sticks his hand out and Jones gives him a low five.

  I glance at my mom, who is watching the two interact with bemusement on her face. Then, the nosiest busybody I know does something completely unexpected.

  “Well, it looks like everything is under control. I’ll just head off to dinner with the girls.” She leans forward and gives me a peck on the cheek. “Bye Jonesie,” she adds, giving him a smooch on his cheek that he immediately wipes away. “Cole, I’m assuming I’ll be seeing you around,” she adds, wiggling her fingers at him in a wave before strutting off to the front of the house.

  When I hear the front door open and then close, I let out a sigh. I should have given her a better goodbye – you know, given her a hug, a really big one, and a kiss, made plans to do something soon – but I can’t seem to be anything other than thankful that she’s not hovering like a bee. It’s what she does most nights, just making sure everything is okay Annie Bananie, even as I’m trying to shoo her out the door. I’m glad to be back near my mom, but we’ve only been here a week and I’m already desperate for some space.

  I look back at Cole, who is taking charge, walking Jones around the table so he can take what he wants before getting him settled into his chair. Jones looks so comfortable with him, so happy and calm, even though he’s never seen the man before in his life.

  There’s a part of me that enjoys seeing Jones like this. But there’s another part of me that’s dying inside. How can I enjoy seeing another man with my son? Andrew has been gone for barely 3 months. Even though every day is torture and feels like it lasts too long, 3 months is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Am I being disloyal to his memory by allowing someone else into my home? To bond with our son?

  My thought process doesn’t feel like there’s a lot of logic to it, mostly because Cole is obviously not trying to be Jones’ dad, just a friendly adult. But I can’t help the bunny trail my brain is doing right now. I have a smile on my face but there are literal tears streaming down my cheeks. It’s safe to say that logical, rational thought processes aren’t really my forte right now.

  Cole glances over and sees me standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, being a total mess, and he gives me that sympathetic smile again.

  Get your shit together, Annie. You have a human child that relies on you for things. And a very nice neighbor here that’s feeding you and your son. Stop being a creeper.

  I wipe my face off on my shirtsleeve, because I’m classy like that, and step forward with a smile, grabbing a paper plate from the stack Cole brought over.

  “Thanks for bringing plates,” I say, even though the ceramic plates I rinsed off are still out on the table.

  “Easier cleanup,” he replies with a little shoulder shrug as he takes a seat to the right of Jones at the table. He moves the ceramic plates into a pile and sets them off to the side, then places Jones’ paper plate in front of him.

  I just nod and put together my burger, then sit down on the seat that has a special pad for my pregnant butt to sit on. I let out an internal sigh, thankful that I kept this after my pregnancy with Jones. I don’t know about all the other pregnant ladies in the world, but damn do I have a sore ass. All. The. Time. Like, seriously all the time. How are pregnant women around the world sitting anywhere all day, everyday? It would be torture.

  I take a decent size bite of my burger, proud of myself for not shoving the whole thing in my mouth at once, and watch Jones and Cole interact. Jones is telling Cole about his trip to the zoo, and Cole is looking at Jones like he is telling the most interesting story he’s ever heard. Which is both wonderful and heartbreaking at the same time, because even as I search through my deepest memories, I can’t once remember Andrew giving Jones this type of undivided attention.

  When Jones gets to the part about the monkey poo, I know I should say something to him about mentioning literal feces at the dinner table, but it feels so good to see him ramble on and on and have someone other than me give him the attention he deserves, that I let it slide.

  “Lets ask your mom,” is the phrase that yanks me out of my zoned out state.

  My eyes lift from Jones to Cole, my brow furrowing.

  “Wha..?” I ask.

  And I shit you not, the entire half-chewed bite of burger falls out of my mouth and onto my plate.

  I. Am. Fucking. Mortified.

  I immediately slap my hand over my mouth, as if that will erase the past five seconds.

  This Cole guy has got to be questioning his life right now. Or at least questioning whether I’m fit to be a parent, or wondering how I’ve survived this long in life.

  My cheeks are so warm that they must be glowing, and it doesn’t help that both Jones and Cole are giggling and smiling at me.

  Suddenly it’s all too much, and I burst into tears.

  But I’m laughing too.

  I feel like a crazy person.

  Absolutely nuts.

  Today has been a rough day.

  I can’t remember the last time I laughed and cried so much in a 20 minute period of time.

  I rest my elbows on the table and plant my wet, sobby face in my palms and continue to cry and laugh
and let it all out on the table.

  I feel like I’ve given the term airing your dirty laundry for the neighbors a bountiful new meaning.

  When I finally manage to part my fingers and peek at the two boys at the table, I see that Jones is happily dipping French fries into mayonnaise – he learned that disgusting habit from his father – and Cole is watching me, a small smile still on his face.

  The fact he hasn’t left a Cole-shaped hole in the wall as he high tails it back to his own house is a flat out miracle.

  I close my fingers back up and hide behind my hands for a second longer. Then I stand from the table, go to the kitchen sink, rinse off my face, pat it dry with a paper towel, and return to my seat.

  “So,” I say, lifting up my burger. “What were you talking about?” And I take a new bite. That I chew fully. And swallow. In it’s entirety.

  Cole grins at me, then looks to Jones.

  “You wanna ask?”

  Jones nods his little bobble head a million times then looks to me.

  “Can I go swimming at Cole’s after dinner?” he asks.

  My heart breaks a tiny bit. We had a pool at our old house outside of Chicago. I’ve always considered it completely impractical to have a pool when you live somewhere that freezes the earwax in your ear so quickly it feels like you have an ear infection. But when Andrew and I were looking for houses, he mentioned that he’d always wanted a pool growing up, but his parents didn’t want to deal with the upkeep. It was one of those random facts you learn about someone that you think you’ll forget, but for some reason I’ve always remembered.

  When our realtor took us to the beautiful yellow house on Maple Street in Winnetka – the house we moved into when I was pregnant, the house we lived in when Jones was born, the house we lived in when everything fell apart and I was left trying to figure out all of the pieces – I knew immediately that the pool was going to seal the deal.

  Jones has asked a few times about getting a pool since we moved here last week. California seems like a more realistic place to have a pool, with the desert and beach weather, but he doesn’t understand that I can’t just add a pool to a rental. He doesn’t understand what a rental is. He just knows this is our new home, and that he misses swimming and his old house and his dad.

  So when Jones asks if he can go swimming, I feel the guilt. The guilt that comes with being a single parent, the guilt that comes when you try to alleviate the pain of losing someone by giving in to what your kid wants.

  And even though we don’t know Cole at all, and it’s a little too chilly outside to go swimming, I smile at my sweet boy and say yes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  COLE

  If you would have asked me what my plans were two hours ago, to say I would have responded with something different than how the evening ended up would be an incredibly large understatement.

  I’m pretty strict about my Sundays. It’s my only completely free day each week, and because I’m not big on variety, I usually wind up doing what has essentially become my Sunday routine.

  I wake up early and go for a run. Rosemead – a suburb city that sits about 30 minutes outside of Los Angeles, depending on traffic – isn’t really conducive to running along the residential streets. So I stick to the track at the high school that’s around the corner from my house. I run early so I don’t interfere with the cross-country team in the fall and the track team in the spring.

  But I’ve never had an issue getting up at five because I am definitely a morning person. I love the crispness in the air, the empty streets and the dawn that’s barely breaking. Being an early riser also means you deal with less people in general, which is perfect for me.

  After I get back from my run, I typically eat breakfast and start working on my yard. When I bought this house a few years ago, it was a complete dump. Most of my focus has been on the inside – renovating most of the rooms, including the kitchen, and creating a workspace that expands off my garage - but I wrapped up the interior work at the end of last year. So my focus since then has been to rehab the exterior. I’ve fixed up the pool, planted new trees, repainted the panels, lined the edges of the yard with mulch, put in new grass, and even planted some Alaska Shasta Daisies out front that my sister said would look perfect. Of course, those are also her favorite flower, so I’m not surprised she thinks they’ll work.

  The good news is that there isn’t a lot of work left to do, but that still leaves mowing the lawn, watering the bushes and trees and flowers, cleaning out the pool, and trimming things back.

  After lunch, I’ll turn on ESPN radio and stay out of the sharp LA sun by working on my baby in my garage for the rest of the afternoon. Chloe is my 1969 Chevy El Camino. I found her at an auction in South LA a few months ago, and got her for a steal. The only problem? She is an absolute mess.

  She overheats, the brakes are jacked, the paint is chipped and fading, and the engine mounts are rusted to within an inch of death. The overheating, the brakes and the paint are all things I can fix, no problem. I mean, I’ve been working on cars since I was in elementary school, and I own a pretty successful auto shop, The Garage. So I like to think I know what I’m doing.

  But the knocking engine? That’s a different story. I basically have to do an entire rebuild if I want her to purr in that sexy way a car like her is supposed to. And finding original parts to a classic car is no easy feat. I’ve completed the work that I can, now, so sometimes ‘working on Chloe’ is just me fucking around on a computer looking for parts that end up needing to be shipped to me from Alabama or Minnesota.

  It’s a slow process, which is why my best friend Alex (his real name is Alejandro, but he says only his tia Rosa is allowed to call him by his full name) is helping me with the rebuild. He’s my shop manager at The Garage, though, which has him working administrative duties on Sundays when we’re closed. So on my day off, he’s working, which is incredibly inconvenient since a full engine rebuild is a bitch to do all by yourself.

  At the end of the day, I usually light up the BBQ for dinner, put on a game or a movie, and veg out for a little relaxation. And once a month, we have Second Sunday, which is a guy’s night, if you want to call it that. Although, my sister and I get into arguments about my guy’s night regularly.

  My parents are pretty hippie and Callie and I were raised in an environment that drilled into our heads that women can do anything they want. And I agree. But that doesn’t mean I have to invite every female I know to Second Sunday.

  My sister doesn’t see it that way. I argue that it isn’t a guy’s night just because the only people who currently come over are guys. I even tell her that if I knew any women who would fit with our group, I would invite them.

  But Callie just rolls her eyes and threatens to show up and put a female stamp on the evening, even though she lives in Northern California. I’d be all for her hitching a plane down for a weekend if I didn’t worry about her swimming topless in my pool. I don’t think her husband would be too pleased about that, although I’m sure Callie would say it isn’t up to Ted if she wants to show off her tits.

  So, Second Sunday is currently a handful of guys, BBQ-ing, shooting the shit, maybe swimming in my pool or watching a game if it’s on. And we’re all pretty different from each other. Which is cool. I don’t need to have best friends who are like me in every way. I just need them to agree with me on the important things.

  Dodgers, Lakers, Kings.

  And so far, our Sunday group is a pretty good mix.

  Alex and his brother Rod (short for Rodrigo) were raised by their aunt, tia Rosa, who fled to the US from Guadalajara back in the 70s. They have a younger sister, Lucia, who comes around the shop all the time. They have been trying to get me into watching futbol, specifically Chivas, their tia’s hometown team, or even Mexico’s national team. Last year, they even took me to an LA Galaxy game to try and get me excited about soccer, but I just can’t get into it. Regardless, I humor them by putting a game on the TV here and there.
But when the World Cup comes around, and especially if Mexico is playing, you better believe that’s all they’re watching.

  Derek and Patrick are two guys I play basketball with every so often at a park a few blocks from the house. Derek is an accountant, and Patrick is a high school teacher and coach. They rarely bitch about their personal lives, which is great, and they’re really into sports, which is also great.

  Keegan works for the government. He misses Second Sunday on a pretty regular basis because he’s always going on ‘work trips,’ which the rest of us think is a code word for ‘missions.’ He’s the newest addition to our Sunday nights, and even though I like him, I razz him as often as possible about his team loyalty. He’s a New England guy, with the accent and obsession with Dunkin Donuts to boot, so the playoffs are always full of trash-talk.

  The last member of the group is Marcus, who I’ve known since middle school. We grew up together in El Monte, which is considered a little bit of a rougher area. Even though Marcus and I have known each other a long time, and at one point were fairly close, I wonder if it might be time to snip the cord on our friendship.

  Marcus Batahn and his wife Lanie are in the middle of the nastiest, angriest, most hateful divorce I’ve ever seen. Thank god they don’t have any kids, because who knows how messed up they would be. I met Lanie a few times back before everything blew up, and she didn’t seem like the worst person in the world, which is pretty much how I determine whether someone is worth my time. Are you horrible? No? Then, sure. I’m happy to be in the same pub as you.

  But Marcus talks about her like she’s Jeffrey Dahmer. His arguments about how horrible she is are downright depressing, borderline obsessive, and literally the only thing he wants to talk about every time I see him. And then he lets all of that lead him down the dark trail of talking shit about women in general, which is typically when someone in the group changes the subject. But I swear, I’m thisclose to telling him he needs to cool the fuck out if he wants to keep coming to Second Sunday. There are only so many women are whores who need to be put in their place comments that a man can take before he introduces his fist to a face.