by Rowan Massey
“I’ve never met him,” I said. “I’m hoping to soon, though. It’s complicated.”
“How complicated could it be?” His tone was suddenly angry. The mood swings were impossible to keep up with. “You either give a shit and take care of your kids, or you don’t.”
“Uh, look…we’re still sitting here naked,” I gestured at our bodies, keeping a calm approach. “And I barely know you. Do you mind if we don’t talk about my kids?”
Zander crawled over the bed to get the sheets and pull them up to where we sat. As on-edge as he was making me, I still stared at his ass. I was just as nuts as he was just for that. He had to yank on the sheets to get them pulled up far enough to put them over my legs and crotch. Sitting next to me again, he covered himself up. All his motions were irritated.
“Just tell me,” he said, brows lowering with every word. “What kind of excuse do guys like you come up with in your heads? What does it take to make you abandon your family?”
“Look, you obviously have issues with your father-”
“Yeah, I do,” he snapped, “and I just want a clue. Just tell me the gist of your justifications.”
Exasperated and getting further from whatever I’d felt during sex, I could only shake my head and try to think of the best way to get rid of him. He was clearly not alright, and some form of guilt was welling up, but was it my obligation to answer those sorts of questions? The whole thing was supposed to be an easy hook up with a charming younger man.
“Clay…” His angrily gesturing arms turned limp, and his expression turned pleading. “Please. Clay, humor me. Tell me how this story goes on your end.” A warm, slim hand rested on my knee. “I need this. Can you talk to me a minute?”
I didn’t know what to say. My hand automatically rested on his, and he squeezed my knee. The begging had an effect on me, and I wanted to give him whatever he needed. Maybe it would be cathartic to tell him the story, or at least part of it.
“I’m a coward,” I said, voice coming out small. “I’ve always been a complete coward.”
He waited for more, expectant and open to whatever I might say, but my mouth worked uselessly. I didn’t know where to start or what words to use to describe what had happened.
“That’s it?” he asked finally, when it became obvious I was at a loss. “You just didn’t want to?” His shoulders shrugged weakly, and it seemed like he might cry.
“No, that wasn’t all of it. That was all it was in the beginning. I was young and stupid. It was a huge mistake to leave her…but I tried to go back and be a father to my baby. I tried so hard. They—they…” My voice broke. I shook my head, and hid my face in my hands. If I somehow managed to tell the story, I’d end up weeping. Whatever Zander was dealing with, he didn’t need to hear about my past traumas. Anyway, his father had probably just been a selfish deadbeat. Hearing my story wouldn’t help him to understand why he had been abandoned.
He moved to close the few inches of distance between us. He put his arm through mine and cuddled into my side. I hadn’t cuddled with anyone in so long. Even if it was with a crazy guy I’d just met, it was nice.
We sat that way until I got cold and moved to grab the blanket. When I settled next to him again, I saw the gleam of unshed tears in his eyes.
“I don’t think your father would have a story anything like mine,” I told him. “It’s a crazy story. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.” His tired voice told me he didn’t expect me to take his challenge, but I was starting to want to.
“So, she was one of those religious girls. You know, no sex, which suited me just fine, even if I didn’t completely understand my sexuality yet,” I said. He gazed at me, primed to listen to what I had to say. He was hanging onto every word. There was something gratifying in that, and I just kept going. Parts of it were incredibly embarrassing to talk about: our pathetically stupid game plan for birth control, the fact that the decision-making process of leaving her was such a blur of excuses, and then the bender that resulted in Lottie’s conception. It was humiliating to talk about, but his gaze was unwavering as I talked, and he seemed to deeply contemplate each sentence. I’d been right to think it would be cathartic.
We settled into the covers, laying face to face. Now and then in the middle of my story, he’d ask me something. How old were you? Were you still in college? They moved to another state? What state? Why didn’t you tell the police? Why didn’t you file for custody? What about child support? Each question was piercing, and I answered them all honestly, giving up all the control I’d always kept over the painful details. At times, my voice shook, but I was propelled by every piece of the story I divulged. When I got to the end and told him that I’d given up on my child, I started to cry. Not sobbing, but I let tears fall into my pillow.
Zander laced his fingers into mine. Over his shoulder, I could see the sun rising outside the high window.
“Do you feel guilty?” he asked, almost sweetly.
“Every day,” I said, and sighed heavily. “Every single day. Especially when I’m spending time with my daughter. I’m sure he’s just as perfect as she is, but I missed out on everything.”
His face contorted, and he covered his mouth. A sob choked him and shook his body. It seemed like he couldn’t breath. I’d been so wrapped up in my storytelling that I hadn’t seen the pain he was hiding over his own dad while I talked. Maybe he was thinking about his father’s possible stories. Obviously, he hoped his father would say that sort of thing about him.
I put my arm around him and pulled him close to my chest. His crying infected me. I’d always had the urge to join in when other people cried in front of me. A surge of anguish put pressure in my sinuses and started sobbing along with him. He was warm, cuddled up under my chin. Our tears cooled my skin. I didn’t want to calm down, despite being raw with the awareness of how odd the whole scene was. For a moment, I felt half-crazed. How had the night gotten so dramatic and stingingly personal?
Eventually, we had to compose ourselves. His breathing slowed down, and mine matched his until we were quietly petting each other with our fingers, grazing across chest hair, and ribs, and arms.
“Can I keep calling you daddy?” he murmured.
“Yeah, why not?” I kissed his head and smoothed his hair. If it made him feel better, he could call me whatever he wanted.
“Daddy…tell me you love me.” He said it so quietly that I almost didn’t understand what he was saying. I got a sick chill, and suddenly his skin was clammy, not just damp with sexual sweat. It was too strange a request. But I understood on some level that he was young and troubled. He was in just as much pain as I was, maybe a lot more. Who was I to say it was an unacceptable way to receive comfort?
“I love you,” I said, trying with all sincerity to say it the way he needed to hear it. Nervously, I added. “I’ve always loved you.”
We stayed that way for a while, and it became uncomfortable. I needed to blow my nose and I was starving. Despite those things, I was in danger of nodding off. Zander seemed just as tired. He rolled away from me slowly, and started getting his clothes together off the floor. I followed suit. I could give him some breakfast.
I’d felt so good while we were talking in a cocoon of darkness, and the creepiness we’d ended up with in daylight was a stark contrast. The sex had been amazing, and talking about my life had squeezed me dry of emotion until the only thing left was a buzz of self-awareness. It had been rough in between those two things, but it was something I could move on from. Maybe he felt awkward too.
We blew our noses and rinsed our faces together in the bathroom. I found myself smiling shyly at him in the mirror. He smiled back and laughed a little, but stayed silent otherwise.
Ten minutes and we were having toast and coffee at the kitchen table, chattering about how well done we liked our toast, whether we took milk or sugar, and so on. The charged vibe between us was turning into a comfortable respite. The morning was marching on, and I kne
w we had to separate and get on with our lives. Things had been so intense that it would be a relief to be alone and get myself together.
“So…I uh,” he started, but it seemed he couldn’t continue the thought. From his expression, I didn’t know if he was sad or about to start pleading for something again.
“It’s okay,” I said, and rubbed his arm. “Spit it out.”
His lips lifted into a shy smile. “I have a story too,” he said. “Maybe sometime I could tell you.”
I couldn’t help smiling back. After talking his ear off all night, I owed him.
“Yes,” I said. “Absolutely.”
Chapter Sixteen
Clay Age 11
OUR BLUE FAMILY sedan shook underneath me and I woke to the sound of gravel flicking up and making that noise which signaled that we’d arrived at my grandparents’ rural home.
“Clay, Liam, wake up. We’re here,” Mom said from the driver’s seat.
I sat up, thoroughly cranky. My younger brother’s head rested on my lap, and it had put my leg to sleep. I shoved him awake, causing him to squeal loudly and whine. When he sat up and looked out the windows at the big, grassy front lawn, excruciating pins and needles shot down my leg. I gave Liam’s shoulder a backhanded slap for his part in it. I hardly noticed the house rising into view ahead of us—the pain took all the joy out of knowing my grandma would have a special lunch ready. Mom had said maybe pot pie. Ice cream after that.
I could see our grandparents out on the porch, but instead of happy hellos, I heard Grandpa’s booming, angry yells. I’d almost forgotten how terrifying he could be when he yelled. His voice was penetratingly deep under happy circumstances, so when he was angry, it was like an earthquake. My brother and I shrunk in our seats, and my mother, seated at the wheel, tsked.
“Looks like the neighbor,” she said in a hushed tone, as if her father-in-law could already hear them. Her mouth pinched as we pulled in front of the house.
We didn’t rush each other out of the van and run to the porch for hugs like we usually did, even though I was dying to get away from my little brother after being pent up in the car with him. Liam scooted over to my side so he could watch the drama.
“If you want to keep those mutts alive,” Grandpa shouted, drawing himself up, “feel free to find them and shut them up before tonight!”
The neighbor was a short Latino man with permanently squinted eyes. He responded in a voice too quiet for us to hear clearly through the glass.
We almost fell out of the van when Mom opened the door.
“Out,” she said, waving her hand for us to hurry it up.
My leg still hurt enough to make me hiss and grit my teeth, but I climbed out so that Liam wouldn’t go over my lap and make it even worse. I stood precariously on the gravel, keeping my eyes from staring over at the ruckus. I kept my eyes on my green and white sneakers, hopping to keep my weight on one leg.
Grandma was slowly making her way down the porch steps to come get us instead of waiting for us the way she usually did because of her knees. Mom went to the back of the van and started handing Liam his things. We had a backpack and a suitcase each. I went and took my Batman backpack but couldn’t lift the suitcase she dropped to the ground in front of me.
“My leg is asleep,” I hissed, afraid to talk too loudly. The yelling wasn’t letting up.
“I’ll get it, honey.” Grandma hugged me tightly before helping me. She smelled like pie dough and old lady perfume. I tottered for a second and took hold of her arm for balance. Her skin was mottled and thin. It always left me lost between being creeped out or being affectionate and protective. She sometimes talked about her skin getting “torn” as if it were merely tissue paper.
The four of us approached the men at an unnaturally slow pace. If Grandpa stayed mad and didn’t act happy we’d arrived, I thought I might cry. I’d always been a sensitive kid and couldn’t handle it when adults fought. But he gestured at us, then down the road, and lowered his voice to say something to the neighbor to the affect of, “My grandkids are here, now get off my property!”.
He turned to us when we came close and glared down at me and my brother with an angry expression, but he seemed to compose himself. He forced a grin onto his face. We grinned back warily, but ran to him eagerly as soon as he spread out his arms, bending his knees to reach us from his great height. He was a tall and husky man whose face—in our experience—was always red and slick with summer’s sweat. Liam was only seven, still young enough to grab a leg of Grandpa’s baggy blue jeans and squeeze his little eyes shut with hugging effort. I was eleven and long since acquainted with his weirdly hard and round gut. Hugging him around his waist was like glomming onto a fleshy furnace.
Mom embraced them in turn, and Liam opened his mouth, letting forth an endless gush of childish chatter. The adults indulged him for a few seconds before ignoring him so they could get the family into the house. The heat was too unbearable to be hanging around under the sun. Liam didn’t mind—he would never realize he wasn’t the center of attention. He would continue talking about himself all the way into the house until he was handed a soccer ball and kicked out the back door. I was the quiet one and wouldn’t be talking unless I was prompted to.
My leg survived the porch stairs and I made my way through the air conditioned house behind the adults. All our things were left by the stairway, and we congregated in the kitchen, which was decorated exclusively in things that were forest green or had cows on them. Grandma said she didn’t like cooking, but she did it anyway, and she was good at it. Despite the heat, the oven was on and the stove was covered in pots. Mom and I crowded the pots to discover what smelled so mouth watering. It would be too much for us to eat in one sitting: chicken pot pie, pork pot pie, corn on the cob, black eyed peas, and dinner rolls. There would be brownies for dessert. Grandma said she’d overdone it so that we could just eat leftovers for a while.
Liam having run out back to play with his ball, Grandpa and I settled at the kitchen table while the women started setting out plates. We wouldn’t be eating for at least ten minutes, but there was still conversation to be had.
“Jeremy’s not coming?” Grandma asked, and I tensed at the sound of my dad’s name.
“No,” Mom said over the clatter of dishes and cutlery. “Probably not. Maybe after I’m gone. You’d have to talk to him about it.”
I saw my grandparents nod, but disapprovingly, giving each other serious glances. They didn’t think my parents should have considered divorce an option. I’d heard all those discussions way too many times, especially when we’d been left at my grandparents’ for a whole summer so that my parents could each have a long break from family life and each other. That summer had been a shock. I’d never thought of myself as a burden until that year.
The reason we were spending a good chunk of the summer with them this time was that Liam had begged, my best friend was out of town so I didn’t care, and Dad wanted to spend a few weeks with his parents and us boys together. Mom wanted to visit her own relatives, and we wouldn’t see her again for around a month.
I was afraid another argument was about to start, so I quickly and noisily scooted my chair back and left the kitchen in favor of the living room. Behind me, they’d changed topics and were keeping the conversation peaceful, but I’d been spooked and wasn’t going back in.
I loved how dark the living room always was. Its windows were small and angled in the wrong direction for sunlight. The blinds were always down in any case. The room had eclectic decor consisting of endless doilies with dozens of figurines and vases full of fake flowers sitting on top of them. The sofa was enormous and soft, homemade quilts draped over everything. The wallpaper was dark and flowered in a gaudy pattern. Their TV didn’t have a remote, but it was a big monster that sat on the floor, which made changing channels manually kind of fun.
I turned the power dial, but nothing happened. I tried it a few more times. Nothing. No static hum, no burst of light on the scr
een.
“TV isn’t working, bud!” Grandpa called from the kitchen. “It finally went kaput! You should be outside anyway!”
I groaned. Playing outside wasn’t automatically enjoyable anymore. I was too old to play the games that Liam liked, and there were no kids my age in the neighborhood.
Mom poked her head around the doorway and peered into the darkness. “Go on,” she said. “You’ve been sitting still for hours. Go get some exercise.”
I didn’t want to argue with her when we’d just arrived, so I got up, huffing and puffing as if it were a huge effort, and dragged my feet all the way to the mud room, where I opened the back door. I stared through the screen door at my brother for a few seconds before I stepped out, letting the screen slam behind me. The brightness of the sun made me sneeze twice.
