All About the D

by Lex Martin

  “He was,” my mother insists. “I will not have a son who does pornography.” She hisses the word.

  “I was not doing pornography. Not exactly.”

  “It involves sexual conduct.”

  “Sure, it’s graphic content, but it’s not intended for anyone other than consenting adults.”

  “You should have had the better judgment not to do it in the first place.” She stands and starts pacing. “There is absolutely no excuse for this behavior, and I will not have you admitting to the public it was you. Soon enough it will be a nightmare we can forget. I hope it hasn’t caused permanent damage to the campaign.”

  I leap out of my seat. While I don’t want to hurt her, I’m done living my life by everyone else’s rules.

  “It’s not a nightmare. It’s my goddamn body, a body I’m proud of. I treat it with care. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  She takes a step forward and holds out her hands. Treating me like a child, goddamn it. “You’re a beautiful boy, Joshua, but you don’t need to be so crass about it. We are not nudists.”

  A laugh escapes me. “You go to museums all the time and stare at naked bodies, so I know on some level you appreciate the human form. There are dicks on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for fuck’s sake.”

  “Joshua!” Her eyes widen as though I’ve murdered a family member. “That’s different. That’s art.”

  “There’s not a fucking thing different about it. Several of Rodin’s sculptures feature erotic art, and you and dad not only paid money but probably waited in line to see The Kiss when you were in Paris last year.” I heave a sigh. “I don’t expect you to look at my blog, but please admit you find beauty in the human body.”

  “Stop swearing at your mother.” She puts her head in her hands, tendrils from her dark bob escaping from behind her ears.

  Gently, I take her hands in mine and catch her eyes. “People like what I create, but more importantly, I like what I create. Who cares what the rest of society thinks?”

  “We live in society.” She sniffles. “You know doing the blog wasn’t the smartest thing to do during Spencer’s campaign.”

  “My blog is well-done, popular, and lucrative. I love you, and I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced, but I’m not going to apologize for who I am.”

  From behind me, my grandma lets out a chuckle. “Looks like he’s just like you, Charles.”

  I whip my head to look at him, then back to her. “What are you talking about?”

  Mother rolls her eyes, and Grandma points to my dad. “He was arrested in college for streaking.”

  “What?” How have I never heard this story? I want to burst out laughing, but I need to hear this.

  “That was a very long time ago—” my mother starts, but Dad interrupts.

  “My fraternity used to have contests where we’d streak across campus. I only got caught a few times.”

  Now I laugh out loud. “You?”

  He shrugs. “The Cartwrights don’t have a perfect reputation, even though your mother wants us to. Which means we don’t talk about how your Uncle David spent the night in jail for indecent exposure.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Urinated in a flower pot after a concert.”

  “Sounds like something Drew would do,” I mutter.

  “Well, the retractions are out,” my mother says, interrupting. “I don’t think you should now issue a statement changing it.”

  “I think I should tell the truth,” I say. But then I pause, realizing how that would out Evie. And as much as I want to tell everyone to fuck off and mind their own business, I really don’t want to hurt my brother’s campaign. “Actually—”

  “Honestly, Joshua. This is childish.”

  But I’m not feeling ashamed. “Telling the truth is childish?”

  “You know what I mean,” she says, clearly fed up now that she’s outnumbered three-to-one. “If you weren’t my own son—” She turns and glares at my dad. “You. You’re the corrupting influence here. This is your DNA at work.”

  “I think it’s both of ours, Mitzy,” he says with a laugh, waggling his eyebrows. “You were there when it happened too. On that cold night when we took the trip to Boston.”

  “Not sure I want to hear this,” I mutter.

  “Me neither,” says my grandmother, who inspects her rings with a suppressed smile.

  My father stands up and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You needed to sow some wild oats or prove yourself or whatever. I’m sorry you felt so pressured. I know we can’t always do everything perfectly.”

  “Yes. We can. We do. It’s our way.” My mother picks up a glass of water and takes a careful sip. “This is not right. I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid.” She gestures at us.

  I snort. “When was the last time you had Kool-Aid?”

  “I had it. Once.” She waves dismissively. “It was the eighties.”

  Settling back in my chair, I wait for my parents to process everything. Finally, my mom pushes her hair behind her ear and sighs. “I refuse to think the worst of you, Joshua, but I’ll need some time to absorb this. Just… please behave until your brother’s election is over. I don’t want to have to lock you in the basement.”

  Laughing, I nod. That basement is creepy as fuck. “A reasonable request.”

  My dad settles back on the couch. “We’d like to meet your girl.”

  “You already met her. At the Waller party.” I smile when I think of how beautiful she looked that night. “I’m in love with Evie, and I hope you extend the same kind of hospitality to her that you would to anyone else. If you give her a chance, I think you’ll find her to be smart and warm and rather adorable.”

  My mother shakes her head. “You really need to give Tiffany another chance.”

  A weary sigh leaves me. “Why? So she can cheat on me again?”

  That gets her attention. “No! She cheated?”

  I scrub my face, exhausted. “You all keep pushing her on me, but she treated me like shit. Think about that. Think about how much you really care for me to foist someone like that on me.”

  “I always knew she wasn’t right for you,” quips my grandmother.

  I can see my mother’s mode turn from anger directed toward me to mama bear warrior. Her eyes widen as she sputters, “That little bitch.”

  “Mother! Don’t swear,” I joke.

  “She doesn’t deserve you. And I will have a long talk with her mother.” She starts scribbling on a pad, scratching out names. “She is not included to any of our events from here on out.”

  I laugh, all anger now out. “Thank God.”

  “And we’ll have your little friend over for tea.”

  I picture poor Evie uncomfortable in one of our stuffy drawing rooms. I don’t want her to turn into my family. I want my family to learn who she is and why I love her.

  “Why don’t you come over to her house, so you can learn what she’s all about?”

  My mom nods, distracted by the notes she is taking. “Very well. But Joshua?”

  “Yes.”

  She looks up. “I’m serious about that basement if you do this again.”

  I smile, grateful to be a part of this crazy family. “Understood.”

  36

  Evie

  The street is dark, slick with rain and glassy, yesterday’s sunshine long gone. It’s too early for anyone to be out yet. Kendall offered to stay last night, but I wanted to be alone to think.

  Because now, more than anything, I need to figure out what I really want out of life.

  I click my tongue and get Chauncey settled in the front seat of my car before I go around to the driver’s side and get in.

  “Sorry, Damon,” I whisper in the rearview mirror.

  He’s slouched in a lawn chair on my front porch, snoring and oblivious to the world. I almost feel bad ditching him, but then I remember he’s just a proxy for Josh, who never called.

  Sipping on coffee in my to-go mug, I jump
on the highway and drive, not particularly worried about my destination.

  As the sun rises behind me, I allow my mind to wander, back to the first time I met Josh, and my eyes sting. I let myself cry because once I get home, I’m not doing this again. When I get home, I’ll be strong and tell everyone to go to hell, but right now I need to feel the bittersweet sting of losing what could’ve been.

  Maybe it’s foolish, because in the big scheme of things, Josh and I haven’t known each other that long—only a couple of months—but I could already see a future with him. One with kids and sweet whispered words at night. One where we came home to an old farmhouse and our shaggy dog. One where we laughed often and loved hard.

  Chauncey nuzzles his wet snout under my hand, and I smile through my tears.

  “I love him,” I tell my dog. “I love him, and this is breaking my heart.”

  He whines like he understands and rests his head on my leg.

  About an hour outside of the city, I finally pull over to a gas station to use the bathroom and get more coffee.

  When I reach for the door handle of the car, I stare down at my ratty jeans and fluffy hot-pink house slippers and lament that I didn’t really think this through before I tore out of town. Except I’m too into this fuck-the-world mode to stop me from heading into the small convenience store.

  Ten minutes later, I’m back in the car, and I blast the heater and roll down the windows. My dog thinks this is a great idea, and he leans his head out of the window, letting his tongue loll to the side.

  By the time I hit the beach, I’m all cried out. I’m done crying about my job and being humiliated in front of my friends and colleagues. I’m done hiding like I’ve committed some heinous crime. And I’m done crying about Josh. Because his silence has been worse than the controversy of the last two days or even having my career in the shitter.

  I park my car by the water and stare at the waves crashing along the beach.

  That’s when it hits me. How much I’ve hated my job.

  And this gives me pause.

  I mean, what the hell am I doing with my life if I hate my damn job?

  While I loathe that I’m going to be fired—I’m sure it’s only a matter of time—I’m not heartbroken over the job itself. I don’t particularly like my coworkers or the work. I don’t like being stressed out all day, every day, or worrying that I won’t have enough billable hours or that I won’t bring in enough top-tier clients.

  You know that saying, that when you love what you do, it doesn’t feel like work? Well, my job has felt like work every day since I started at Waller, Goldman & Associates.

  Sure, I can fight, hope I’m not disbarred for sleeping with a client, and be a cog in the machine the rest of my life, or I can find something else.

  I tap on my steering wheel, wishing I had taken more time when I was younger to figure out what I wanted to do instead of what I thought I should do. That’s the problem with always having your head in your textbooks. You forget that you’re supposed to live too.

  I wasn’t always so indecisive. Before, I thought I knew what I wanted: to use my brain. Between the body shaming I got from boys growing up and my mom leaving us, studying was my escape. It helped me deal with my dad always looking so devastated when he came home from work, devastated to see just me. He never had to say it, but the look in his eyes was clear—he was hoping she would return, but she never did.

  My poor dad. I remember wanting him to be proud of me. And yes, a part of me, that injured little girl who missed her mom, thought maybe she’d think I was good enough for her too.

  Wiping a fresh round of tears, I realize I can’t live in the past anymore.

  Why can’t life be like fixing up my old house? A little elbow grease here, some extra sanding and varnish, and voilà. Good as fucking new.

  The salty air whooshes through the open windows, whipping my hair around me. It feels good to let all of this go and breathe.

  After a long walk on the beach with Chauncey, I’m ready to go back home, but this time, it’s on my terms. Reaching for my phone, I make the call I’ve been dreading.

  My poofy, pink house slippers make a whoosh-whoosh sound along WGA’s low-pile carpet, and people stop mid-conversation to stare at me and my crazy dog. I smile back, not giving two fucks. When you reach the bottom of the barrel, you can only float up, right? I mean, if you don’t drown.

  My cynical, slightly unhinged internal voice chuckles.

  As I turn the corner, I see Angela at Penny’s desk and grit my teeth.

  Angela takes one look at my dog and shoes and raises her eyebrow.

  “I have questions about a few of your cases. Why haven’t you returned my calls?” she asks like it’s a drudgery to speak to me.

  “Because I have a life.”

  Her mouth drops open, and I ignore her to talk to Penny. “Is Malcolm in his office?”

  “Yes, but he’s with a client.” Her eyes bug out like she wants to say more, except I’m too worked up to worry about the corporate douchebag Malcolm’s probably courting.

  “Great. Thanks, Penny.” I start to walk away, but pause and turn back to her. “Don’t let these assholes get you down, okay? You’re awesome, and if I had my own firm, I’d hire you.”

  That gets me a big grin, and I smile back before I trek up to Malcolm’s office. I toss open his door, not bothering to knock. He’s leaning over his desk, going through a file, when I burst in.

  “Malcolm, I need to speak with you.”

  Out of my peripheral vision, I see a client at his conference desk off to the right, but I’m in no mood to wait.

  “Evelyn.” Malcolm frowns, probably because my dog is freaking out and jumping around like a lunatic. “We’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “So you can fire me or so I can be humiliated again in front of the whole staff?” Anger and embarrassment sting my eyes, and I blink them back. Do not fucking cry, Evie! Be strong.

  He glances to the client at the conference table and clears this throat. “Look, I know it got ugly in there on Monday, but the partners were furious about how this reflects on the firm.”

  “Well, I’m going to spare their self-righteous asses and give you my notice.”

  Worst-case scenario, maybe I can move back East for a while. I called one of my law school mentors on the way back to Portland this afternoon and explained my situation. Professor Taylor told me that since I only negotiated one contract for Josh and completed those negotiations prior to our sexual relationship commencing, she thought it was likely I’d only get a censure from the bar at worst. Best-case scenario, since my firm declined his case and we began seeing each other in the interim, I might be able to get away with it altogether.

  “Evie, if I had a dollar for every attorney I knew who had an ill-conceived dalliance with a client, I’d be rich,” she told me in her sharp New York accent. “I’m not saying you should do it again, but there are worse crimes than falling in love.”

  Those words had both hurt and comforted me. Because, yes, I loved Josh. Even if we were over.

  Then Professor Taylor mentioned that one of her friends, a progressive judge in Manhattan, is looking for a law clerk this winter. She said four months should be enough time to deal with the bar here in Oregon. In the interim, I know Kendall has plenty of temp work she’s offered to help me pay my mortgage.

  My dad will hate that I’m back on the East Coast. Certainly, being a law clerk isn’t my dream job, but until I figure out what I want to do, at least I won’t starve to death.

  Chauncey nearly jerks my arm out of the socket. Jesus, he’s out of control. I grip his leash tighter. “Did you receive a call from June Taylor?”

  Malcolm nods, his frown deepening as his eyes dart behind me to his conference table. “I just got off the phone with her.” He shakes his head like he’s confused. “The East Coast? Are you sure that’s where you want to go?”

  “What can I say? I seem to have endless job opportunities at th
e moment since everyone is clamoring to offer me a position these days,” I say sarcastically.

  I’ve never spoken to him this way, and part of me feels bad that I’m taking everything out on Malcolm, but I am seriously too close to the edge to worry about hurting his feelings. I need to give my notice and get the fuck out before I burn the place down, humiliate myself again, or cry, the latter a very real possibility.

  “What about Mr. Cartwright?” he asks hesitantly. “Because I assumed…”

  It’s my turn to frown. “What about Mr. Cartwright? Do you see him anywhere?” I wave my hands, at least as much as Chauncey’s leash will allow me to flail. “Because I don’t. I don’t see Josh Cartwright. And if you see him, you can tell him to fuck right off.”

  He chuckles. Really?

  “Are you laughing at me?” I ask, aghast that Malcolm’s fucking amused by this.

  What a dick.

  “At my heartbreak or humiliation? Because Josh dumped my sorry ass on Monday. Is that what you wanted to hear? That I risked my career and reputation for nothing? That I fell in love with someone who clearly didn’t give a damn about me?”

  The client at the table clears his throat. “I give a damn.”

  I whirl around, my mouth dropping open.

  Because… Because…

  There he is.

  “I… I…” Words get caught in my throat, and I slap a hand over my mouth, although I can’t stop the tears that tumble down my cheeks or the flutter in my chest at the sight of him. I miss him, but I’m pissed. Except he’s here. And I’m crying before I can process anything else.

  Immediately, Josh—who looks as bad as I do in jeans and a T-shirt and hair that looks like he’s been pulling at it with both hands—is wrapping his arms around me.

  “Baby,” he whispers as he squeezes me tighter. All I can do is bow my head and sob into his chest. His head pulls back. “Malcolm, do you mind? We’d like some privacy.”

  “Certainly.”

  I almost laugh through my hysteria. Of course Josh is kicking Malcolm out of his own office. Chauncey leaps around us like a Douglas-fir tree whipping in the wind.