by C. Spencer
“They always do,” I say, reflecting on their crumble toppings and coffees on an early morning deck at sunrise.
“I’d like to get something,” she says, “a thank-you of sorts.”
But I’m only half listening to the rest as I load bags, wishing I could maybe shelve this for another day when there’s more space than a compact car to contain an argument. I’d rather talk than argue. But even still.
“Is something wrong?” she says.
I have stewed all weekend as we fried pancakes and poured syrup all over the top, swam, and laughed with one another. And since this had to wait until our drive home, our first truly alone moment in how many days? It’s all going to sound so blown up and out of context. Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
Since where does one seemingly minor irritation morph into this enormous kitchen sink variety of grievances? Why, too, I’m wondering, could I have not opened my mouth and thought to say a word or two before it did—back a month or so ago when she didn’t even offer me the time of day when I met Aline, as I introduced myself in their disregard. During Tylenol was packed and homework and maybe you can get her to do this?
After all, I still don’t even know if Madisen wanted to come to this.
“You just seem unusually quiet today,” she says, “that’s all.” And I can feel my muscles flex as I rub my neck, shrug it off, gaze mindlessly out the car window.
“Maybe we could just get home,” I say.
Or maybe had she offered me a simple that kid or nothing, accompanied by, I don’t know, annoyance over that major disruption of a call, it would’ve sufficed. But of course she couldn’t. Which is why I’m not about to talk, not now at least—after good-byes and hugs and those bing-bing warnings your car gives—even miles into our return trip.
“So what’d I say?”
“You didn’t say anything,” I tell her.
“Then what’d I do?”
Can we not start on this?
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Yet you had no qualms coming up with a million things to say to your ex? It’s fine, really,” I add, “you two ducking away.”
“Is that what this is about?” she says.
“Why would I care?” I say. But the kitchen sink. So I guess I go off. “You put off how many calls this weekend—at the table, during that way too fucking long movie. And yet one call from her and you’re ducking away?”
“And you couldn’t bring this up when it happened?” she says.
“What was it?” I say.
“I literally don’t remember. Her random stuff,” she says, shaking her head, then laughing in that nervous way. “Nothing.”
“What random stuff?” I say. “Because I’d like to know.”
“Can we not talk about this? Please. Don’t let that ruin our trip. This is how she is.” But the fake smile, the sudden amnesia. More laughter, even. I literally don’t remember.
As if just anyone could get her talking like that.
“I really can’t talk about this,” she says. “And not for the reason you’re thinking. Why are you being like this?”
“Being like what?” I say.
“Jealous,” she says, chuckling.
Should I be? I think I should. And besides, what would anyone else do in this situation? “So, what?” I say. “Is the kid hurt or something?”
“Don’t you think I’d tell you that?”
“Who knows,” I say. “I’m not exactly involved, am I?”
“Did you want to be?”
“Do I?” I say. “I believe we’ve already determined that we’re not quite there yet. I mean, I’m hardly competent to take on that role. I would, however, appreciate knowing why your ex seems to think she can just call, knowing you’re off with me.”
“So this is our entire drive home?”
Perhaps.
“Great. I cannot believe this,” she says. And the whole out-the-window thing flips into a blur of warehouse after warehouse, backyards and mile markers and concrete walls, but even still, I can’t look at her. I can’t face her. It’s as if her smiling like that, her everything just pisses me off. It takes everything I said away or mocks it somehow or simplifies it. Erases it. Minimizes it. Minimizes me.
“Look, I don’t know,” she says. “I didn’t tell her the whole story.”
“You didn’t tell her what story?”
“The part about us being together,” she says.
“I think she’s well aware.”
“No, I mean the part where you came,” she says, “here, on this trip.”
“You didn’t tell her that?”
“Like I said, she’s complicated.”
“What does that mean exactly, complicated? What, does she think that we’re friends or something? Is that what you’ve told her?”
“I wouldn’t know what she thinks.”
“Do you want her to?” I say. “Do you want her to think you’re…Wait a minute. Do you want her to want you still?”
But she’s shifting in her seat now, watching the mirror. And who knows what that means. Maybe I’ve made her uncomfortable. Maybe it’s traffic. I glance back. It’s all so pointless. And afterward, I get the reluctant, “No. Of course not.”
Until more radio silence through a few more cramped and painful miles when we pass a sign that says Rest Area Next Exit and I lower my window, drop an arm. “Hey,” I say, “let’s get off.”
“Why?” she says. Then her phone again.
“I need something to eat.”
“We’re late as it is,” she says, but that phone.
“For what? Just pull off,” I say. “Aren’t you getting that?”
“I’m driving,” she says as she veers toward the exit.
But it keeps on. Christ. Glancing at her screen. “Your wife needs you.”
As we pull off and she takes it and I get out, slam the car door, eavesdrop.
Madisen: “I’m busy. Can’t this—”
And the car’s still giving off that heated smell. I lean against it, following her, aloof as she strolls the length of a rutted sidewalk.
Madisen: “Put her on.” (The kid, she mouths.) “What’d they do?…What about? You know.”
Before she’s leaning against me. So I pull her in—and the wind…
Madisen: “Health Ed, you mean?…I’m not sure about that.”
Amid flags whipping overhead.
Madisen: “Really…let me help. I might next weekend. Just bring it along, or better yet, why don’t I call once I’m home? The coast…yeah, super warm. Weird, right? For your birthday? What do you want?…She said she would…I know…I will…”
Until their dangling good-bye that ends with, “Love you, too,” and to me, “God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
And I motion her down the walk. “Don’t be,” I say, stifling a grin because, sure, that was sort of cute.
Once we get to the food court, I slip my hand in hers, pull the handle. And isn’t this always how it goes, the glares. The craned necks making me appreciate home, where being gay isn’t such a spectacle.
As we split, me filing into the line at Cinnabon and her heading clear across the way for Subway. So I text Avery.
Me: Hey
Avery: Where are you
Me: Never mind. Busy tonight?
Avery: Aren’t you on vacay
Me: Heading home
Avery: How’d it go?
Me: Shitty
Me again: Well sort of
Which for some reason I find centering because…well, Avery. I have no desire to top her in the drama department.
Avery: We need adult beverages
Me: That I do
Me again: ;)
Avery: Where?
Me: You tell me
Avery: Elements at seven?
Me: Affirmative
Avery: Yo
u can meet Erin!
I send off a thumbs-up, a smirking emoji, a hugging face emoji. She blows a kiss emoji. I grin (no emoji) and roll my eyes, glancing up to realize I’m conversing with a screen. And, besides, I’ve reached the register. So I order—adding a Double Chocolate Mocha Chillatta to my BonBites. Pay. While the next person in line orders multiple CinnaPacks as gifts, and she’s struggling to wrangle kids as I contemplate why an order this large couldn’t have been phoned in in advance.
Before weaving back through an obstacle course of tables and chairs, a straw at my lips as I take a seat paces back, to pick her up near the pickup line.
And all the while, it’s like a levee as I hold everything back, or at least try. This whole day, like a flood. But she doesn’t even catch me watching her.
We eat in the car on wrappers, not talking. People watching. Wad trash. Top the tank at the pump. And afterward, converse even less the rest of the drive home.
Which means by seven I’m squeezing into a dimly lit pub where I order a drink at the bar. And I’m checking my phone when I hear, “Waiting long?” from Avery, in her singsong freaking me the hell out way. Then she adds, “Hey, girl.”
“Just let me grab my drink,” I say.
“I saw you walk up,” she says. “They gave us a seat upstairs on the patio.” And I’m thinking this is the only girl who could carry off a dress like this and still make it look queer despite its plunging neckline, which is where my eye naturally tends to go. “You like?” she’s saying.
“How cute,” I say, lifting a necklace, “she bought you jewelry.”
“Sexual favors,” she says. “They reap magnificent rewards.”
“You must be a rather good bottom,” I say.
“Wouldn’t you love to know?”
I shake my head, grab my drink.
“It’s been too long,” she’s telling me with this gaze that sort of floats up to mine.
“It’s been a week,” I say.
“A week of having no one to talk to,” she says. “Isn’t that so awful?”
“But your girlfriend,” I say.
“I hate that you’re not single.”
“As if I’ve ever not been single,” I say.
“As if you’ve ever fallen in love.”
“Yeah,” I say as we make our way up a flight of stairs, “forget I ever said that.”
Which is where I meet Carhartt or firefighter—or Erin, I should say—at a table with a drink, and she stands and I take a seat and Avery jumps in with Château de Fontainebleau (which she mispronounces) and speaking of and that conversation spirals into the Panthéon.
Because that’s the sort of monotony you get with Avery when she’s not brooding but, instead, putting on airs, hoping to impress. It’s the safe, undamaged, politically correct side before she forgets and slips into her more characteristic risqué. Before all we’re hearing about are her favorite sexual positions and how she does it best and who really knows what else.
So I grab my beer. “It’s good to see you,” I say, noting sunglasses folded on the table, a couple of quarters piled up, and that braided leather tie around Erin’s wrist. She’s twisting it.
“Possibly in five years,” Avery’s telling her. And they talk amongst themselves as I marvel again at how Madisen was able to connive her way out of this. The way she’s deflected, sidetracked the issue because, what, I finally called her out on it? Because it bothered me? And shouldn’t she already know that?
I’m so done with this.
Because really, she hasn’t even so much as offered an ounce of consideration for what I might be going through. Which means, now what? We carry on like this indefinitely? Me being treated like her doormat. When there are fundamental differences we’re having. Not the compromising kind—they’re essential. Like listen to me. Think about me. Consider what you’re putting me through. It’s not as if I’m asking for the unreasonable, just that she acknowledge occasionally that yeah, yeah, it’s shitty. It’s hard. I’m sorry. Step out of yourself. When she won’t talk, won’t listen.
So what am I to do, get upset every time she gets a call? Every time we have to see Aline? When it didn’t so much as faze me a couple of weeks ago—and now, that laugh, that Don’t be ridiculous.
“What don’t you like about it?” Erin’s saying.
“What is there to like?” Avery says before going on in that long-winded way until we’re so far off-topic that I’ll never catch up.
“What about you?” Erin’s saying.
“What about me?” I say.
“Did you have a nice weekend?” she says.
“What happened to the Panthéon?”
“Aren’t you even listening?” Avery says.
“I do little else but listen with you,” I say.
“So where’s your better half?” Avery says. “I thought you’d bring her.”
“Unpacking,” I say.
Then she turns to Erin, “They can’t come up for air,” chuckling.
“You’re so funny,” I say.
“Which reminds me, that bookshop, did I tell you about that? Erin and I go up to this clerk and ask about their newest titles, you know, under LGBT, and she leads us down into this corner on sexuality, and I kid you not, they had instruction manuals on how to get off. I guess all we do is—” What’d I say? “And to top it off, they were more akin to guides or sex manuals, and did you know that there are certain foods that can actually improve your orgasm?”
“And you ran off to the grocer?” I say.
“Are we ready to order?” Erin says.
“Please,” I say. “This drink is so overrated.”
“Give this red a try,” Erin says.
“I just might,” I say.
“It’s what she always gets,” Avery says before hitting me with, “So?”
“No,” I say. “Not now.”
“Why?” she says.
“Look, why do you even care so much?”
“Do I look to you like an uncaring person?” Avery says.
“That’s debatable,” I say, turning to Erin. “So, has she told you about Bernadette?”
“Stop!” Avery says.
“Who’s this?” I hear.
“So, Bernadette was this cat she leash trained.”
“This is why I knew,” Avery says, “that I shouldn’t put the two of you together.”
“Bernadette wore pearls and lace.”
“She was a gift,” Avery says, “that I lost in a tragic breakup. So let’s not talk about her.”
“You loved Bernadette,” I say.
When Erin chimes in with, “What else should I know about you?”
“Oh,” I say, “I could tell you a few things.” Until Avery gives me this death glare. “Speaking of gifts, there happens to be one I need to get.”
“As in?”
“As in a birthday gift,” I say, “for this kid.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Pink Polish and PJ’s
Madisen
The thing about me is, I’ve never been able to lie.
I can still recall that time in the third grade after taking that pencil out of Olivia’s unzipped case, the cool glitter kind with the twist-up lead as opposed to my boring yellow No. 2s. And even with a handful of identical others in that case, she still noticed one was gone. And that I was the one who took it.
All right so, I admit, that wasn’t too hard to figure out, given I sat right beside her and now gripped an identical pencil complete with glitter design. But that guilt hit right away along with a rush of panic the moment she caught me red-handed—when she asked if it’s hers. And, of course, I said no.
It’s the same feeling I have as I break the news to Rae. As I stumble over my words. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” The only odd part being, this is not a lie. But she’s acting as if it is.
That said, I have officially uninvited my girlfriend.
My reason being, Jordan turns nine this weekend, so I’ll be p
laying mom and faking cheesy grins all afternoon while hanging hot pink balloons and slicing pink cake and piling that on to pink paper plates. Finger-raking all the wrapping that scatters across my otherwise pristine living room floor.
Not to mention, Aline being there. Which is…look, it’s not even that. And I’m not saying I don’t want my girlfriend playing a role. It’s just that I’m not ready for that level of involvement. Something I’ve tried to explain to her—that birthdays aren’t an aspect of parenting I personally enjoy, so why burden her as well?
Besides, let’s dig a little deeper. Let’s not blindly jump into a situation without first examining how it might pan out. How I’m not only placing my girlfriend within conversing distance of my ex but also her parents, my parents. Cousins, uncles. The general consensus among elders surmised into two simple phrases: Who’s your friend? and your lifestyle.
“So Aline’ll be there?” she says, and just the thought of those two conversing, comparing notes. Which is not to say I’ve done anything wrong. But admittedly I haven’t exactly drawn the clearest line, either. Not intentionally. But who knows how Aline might frame that—frame any of my comments, good or bad.
Plus I just figure my kid’s birthday party is hardly a suitable occasion for…well, those things.
Like I said, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.
Besides, I’ve committed this year to remaining one hundred percent focused on my kid as opposed to Rae or, worse, me, me, me. I don’t want this to become that epic disaster it was last year, when I could scarcely manage to hold it together through gifts, cake, you know.
Because this is Jordan’s day.
And to that end, she’s requested a slumber party, though I guarantee slumber will not be on the agenda. And despite my hopes of raising a skateboard-toting tomboy, guests will be gifted goodie bags complete with little compacts and pink nail polish, pink loofahs, pink sleep masks, pink hairbrushes, and pink nail files. I’ve even stocked our freezer with her favorite strawberry—or as she calls it, pink—ice cream. And this all-nighter just so happens to fall on my visitation weekend, an experience I’m not exactly enthused about sharing with a woman who weakens my soul, my natural ability to mom effectively. I’d just as soon we postpone this episode of Chaperones in the City until, say, next year.
