by Raquel Belle
He signs off, and I’m left slack-jawed. I guess I missed that part of our conversation this afternoon. Between his comment about my inability to dress myself, and his tirade about all the time he has wasted with Eric’s behavior, I must have missed his decision to engage a stranger in Eric’s life for the sake of having male interaction.
I can hardly sleep for being so amped by this afternoon, so I text my best friend, Rob, to see if he’s still awake. He calls me right back.
“What’s up, Buttercup?” he asks.
“Stupid Tate, that’s what,” I say. “He’s such a—“
“Douchebag?”
“Yes!”
“What’s he done now? You want him killed? I know a guy.”
I launch into a recap of the afternoon and evening, feeling lighter just for being able to vent. He listens intently, and when I’m done, says, “Well, Big Brothers Big Sisters might not be such a bad thing, really. At the least, it will get Eric out of the house for a few hours here and there.”
“With a stranger, Rob? I mean, he’s around you all the time. You’re a consistent, positive male figure, last I checked.”
He inhales deeply, exhales. “I know he’s a jerk. I’m not disputing that, but maybe Tate is really trying to help?”
I make a sound that’s kind of a half-groan, half-growl. “Tate does not help. Tate judges. Tate comments. Tate thinks he’s God. He’s such an ass-clown. Why in the hell would a man who clearly hates kids run a program for kids?”
Rob laughs. “Well, I don’t have an answer to that question, but I’m sorry you had a bad day. Can I bring pizza tomorrow night?”
“You can because you’re watching the kids. I have to work at the bar.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “That’s me, best friend and hired help. Oh wait, you don’t pay me, so I’m like best friend and indentured servant.”
“I love you,” I say. “You know that.”
“I know,” he says. “Just not as much as I love you.”
He always says stuff like this. Rob has been my friend since college. We actually met at a fraternity party one night and slept together, completely drunk. The next morning, he offered to take me to breakfast, so we talked for hours over eggs, bacon and coffee, and then he walked me home. A friendship was born, then, and it’s been platonic ever since.
My ex-husband, Alex, never liked Rob. In fact, he ordered me to end our friendship just days before our wedding, at which my best friend was to walk me down the aisle. Rob and I never actually ended our friendship—we just kept it away from Alex. I guess, in hindsight, I should have known that very moment that Alex and I wouldn’t work, but I was pregnant with Amy, and I wanted to believe that he could be my Prince Charming.
Prince Doodoo is more like it. Two years ago, I walked in on him and a very young, very blonde woman doing very naughty things. I told him to take his shit and go, and that’s what he did. I got divorce papers three weeks later, and then he disappeared. He hasn’t checked in on his kids, hasn’t sent one child support payment.
Effing. Deadbeat.
But I’ve had Rob, and I’m thankful for him. He’s sweet and helpful and never makes me feel like I have to give more than I can. Sometimes we snuggle on the couch to watch a movie, and it feels like we might move toward more, but I never let it happen because I simply could not live without him if things went south.
“Hope?” he asks on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, Robbie?”
“Just making sure you’re okay. You went quiet for a minute.”
“I’m good, just thinking. Sorry.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
Do I want him to come over? Hmmm … well, I could use the comfort. I’m wound up like a spring, and he’s really good at helping me settle down. But if he comes over, I’m worried my vulnerability will be the sign he needs to make the move I am quite sure he wants to make. I can’t let that happen.
Still, I really need support right now.
Chapter Two
Rob shows up, and it’s nearly one in the morning. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I don’t have to work until late in the day, but I still need to get to the grocery store, mow the lawn, and take Amy shopping for soccer shoes. Although the latter may need to wait since I now have an unbudgeted $30 to tack onto my after-school bill for the month.
I’m just reading in bed when he arrives, his shaggy mop of blonde hair in his eyes and a wry grin on his stubbled face. He’s such a surfer boy. He pulls off his t-shirt and crawls into bed next to me in his basketball shorts, as if he lives here. He tosses my book on the floor, reaches over to turn off the lamp, and pulls me close, spooning me.
“You act like you belong here or something,” I say.
“I do,” he says. “Now get some sleep.”
I want to sleep, I really do. But it’s now been more than two years since I’ve had sex. Tate McCullough is on my mind, and I’m angry that I find him attractive even though I hate him so much. I find Rob attractive, too, but just not in the way that makes me want to move forward beyond friendship.
“You’re tense,” Rob says. “Settle down. What’s going on?”
“Can I be honest?”
“I’d expect nothing less,” he says.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex.”
“I know,” he says.
“You know? How do you know?”
Rob chuckles. “Hope, I know you. I know your life. If you’d had so much as a one-night-stand, I’d be extremely shocked.”
“I had a one-night-stand with you,” I say.
This gets a full-on belly laugh. “That was twelve years ago.”
“I could do it again.”
He’s still shaking from laughter behind me, his arm wrapped tightly around my midsection. I feel him harden, though, and I know I’ve affected him.
“You don’t want that, and you know it,” he says, his voice a little huskier.
“Why not? I’ve got needs, Rob. And I trust you.”
“Hope …,” he says.
I move my butt back against him, feeling his erection hard against me. I’m wet, now, and I feel like I might burst if I don’t find some release.
“Hope,” he says again, “if I take you, you’ll be mine. There’s no going back because I’ve waited a long time for you.”
What do I do?
“Fine,” I say with a labored sigh. “At least give me a backrub.”
He’s quiet, but I feel him shaking with laughter.
“With your hands, Robbie. Rub my back with your hands, you pervert.”
When he catches his breath, he says, “Okay, roll over, then.”
I roll onto my belly, and he sits on my butt. I make a big show of telling him how fat he is, and he licks my ear in response. When he finally starts manipulating my muscles, I calm right down, though. He teaches sculpture at the local university, so he’s got strong, artful hands.
We talk a little more about Tate, but I can tell he’s over it when he finally tells me not to let Tate McCullough run my life.
“He’s just an after-school provider, Hope. He’s not God. He doesn’t hold your fate in his hands. He’s just a dude, but you give him an awful lot of sway over how you feel. Maybe you should look for another after-school option … just get away from the guy?”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” I say into my pillow, my eyes getting heavy.
He slides onto the bed beside me, pulling me close once more. As I drift off, I hear him whisper, “I love you, Hope.”
***
I wake up as soon as I hear children screaming outside my window. I shoot straight up in bed, barely aware of where the heck I am, and realize the damn dog must be running around the neighborhood again.
Rob’s gone—he always leaves before the kids wake up, lest they ask questions about why Uncle Rob is sleeping in mommy’s bed. I fumble around for my bathrobe and trudge out toward the front door.
As expected, Rigby, the nine-month-old chocolate
lab from Hades, is running around the neighbor, trampling the neighbor’s rhododendron bush, and generally causing an uproar. Amy has a squirt bottle and she’s yelling “Bad dog!” and squirting the dog as he races past her. Eric has the leash in his hand, a look of pure helplessness on his little face.
The whole thing, for whatever reason, just strikes me as hilarious, especially when I catch a glimpse of myself in the car window. My hair is a giant puff of brown curls, my slender frame is lost in billows of blue terrycloth, and my feet are bare. We are absolutely not an impressive-looking clan right now.
I just crack up. I laugh until my belly hurts, and tears stream down my face. The dog, probably unaccustomed to me doing something other than yelling, comes over to investigate, which gives me an opportunity to grab him by the scruff of the neck, so Eric can get his leash on.
“What’s so funny, Mom?” Amy asks. “You usually get mad when Rigby runs off like that.”
“I don’t know, pumpkin,” I say, still wiping the wetness from my eyes. “It was all just really silly to me this morning. But I’m still mad. We can’t keep Rigby if we can’t get him under control.”
The kids protest, loudly, telling me they’ll do better, and all he needs is training and maybe treats would help and blah, blah, blah. Same shit, different day. I just herd everyone inside and set about making chocolate chip pancakes.
We set about our normal day, running errands and cleaning the house. In the late afternoon, Rob brings pizza. I devour a couple of slices before heading in to shower and change for my second job.
When I come out in my black t-shirt, jeans, and boots, hair in a respectable side-braid, Robbie winks at me.
“Losers be emptying their wallets to tip a hottie like your mama,” he says to the kids. They both giggle, and I roll my eyes.
He follows me out to the car. As I get in, I say, “You’re such a flirt. You need a girlfriend.”
“Oh, we know how that would go, honey,” he says with a wicked grin. He’s got perfect teeth save for one. “You’d get all pouty and jealous, and I’d just be using her to get you all pouty and jealous. We should just be together and dispense with the drama.”
“Broken record,” I say, starting the car. “What’s that you said? Oh, the same thing you say all the time? Not gonna happen, buddy. But I do love you. And your babysitting services. Thank you, as always.”
“Not the way I love you,” he says, as I pull out. “And you’re welcome.”
***
Work is crazy busy from the time I walk in to the time I finally get a fourteen-second break to go pee. I work at a bar called Harry’s. Bar food and craft beer draw a lot of people in our little college town.
There are three of us working the bar tonight, including my good friend, Katrina. She’s a curvaceous beauty who is working her way through a Ph.D. program. Tonight she’s ignoring some very assertive suitors at my end of the bar, instead having an ongoing, choppy conversation with one of her professors on ecotourism while serving drink after drink like a drink-making machine.
When her prof leaves, she finally says, “So how’s my buddy Tate?”
“I’m glad he’s your buddy, because he’s certainly not mine,” I say, keying an order into the computer. “He’s horrible, as always.”
“Well he’s here,” she says.
I feel my cheeks go hot. I bite the corner of my lip and look over my shoulder. Sure enough, there he is, all rigid and scowling.
“Can I get a Maiden Pale Ale, please?” he asks.
I give Katrina my best puppy-dog, pleading expression. She looks at her imaginary watch. “Oh, geesh, I think it’s time for my break.”
Evil jerk. She will pay for that. I’m giving her annoying fan club her cell phone number in retribution.
I fill a pint for Tate and hand it to him. “Starting a tab?”
“Sure,” he says, handing me his card. I turn away, start the tab, and head to the next customer.
It goes like that for most of the night. Around one, the crowd starts to dissipate, and things slow down. I’ve refilled Tate’s beer glass three times, but he hasn’t tried to talk to me. He hasn’t tried to talk to anyone.
“It’s weird and creepy,” I say to Katrina. “What the hell’s he doing here? Seriously? Drinking beer and watching sports on the flat screens?”
“Like the other fifteen other people here tonight? What’s weird and creepy about it? You think everything he does is creepy, admit it. He could be delivering food to the hungry, and you’d say it was ‘weird and creepy.’”
“Well …”
She laughs. “It’s pretty quiet now, why don’t you go on home to those angels of yours?”
I nod, closing out my sales for the night and counting out my tips. It was a good night—good enough to make up for my extra day care cost and Amy’s soccer shoes. I consider throwing thirty bucks at Tate but then decide that’s childish, even for me.
Katrina gives me a hug, and I head out toward my car. When I hear footsteps behind me, I turn, my pepper spray in hand.
“No need for that,” Tate says. “It’s just me.”
“Well, one could make an argument that I should keep it out because it’s you,” I say. “Why are you following me?”
“I just feel badly that we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. You seem to think I’m against you, or your son, and I assure that it’s not my intention to make you feel that way.”
“Why did you come to the bar tonight? Did you know I worked there?”
“I did not know,” he says, hands raised in innocence. “I don’t go out much. I was honestly surprised to see you. Nervous, really.”
I feel one half of my mouth quirk, the edge of a sarcastic comment about to escape.
“You make me nervous,” he says. “That’s the beer talking.”
I huff a little laugh, pursing my lips. “Beer does that sometimes.”
“Evil beer,” he says, smiling slightly. He shoves his hands in his pockets. I notice, for the first time, that he’s just in a white t-shirt and dark-wash jeans. He looks rugged, fit. I hate that I find him attractive.
“Look, Tate,” I say, clearing my throat, “I don’t think it will come as a shock when I tell you I don’t really like you that much. I think you’re too rigid. You’re judgmental. You make me feel like a piece of dog shit. And it doesn’t make me want to interact with you.”
“I get that, but …”
“No, there’s no ‘but,’ Tate. I tolerate you because you run my kids’ after-school program. It’s just business. If I can find another option, I’ll get them out of your hair. There’s no reason for us to interact unless it’s related to our business relationship.”
At that, I climb into my sad-sack of a Honda and take off, leaving Tate McCullough in my proverbial dust.
All the way home, though, I feel kind of badly for what I said. He’s tried, twice now, to offer an olive branch. He’s tried to tell me he’s sorry. I’m the one being a jerk.
Dammit.
I turn around and head back to the bar. As I pull into the spot I just left, I see him making his way back inside.
He’s shrugging on his jacket, as I come in. I stand next to him until he notices me, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. “You came back?”
“Obviously,” I say. Katrina passes me a glass of beer I didn’t even order. I grab it and head for an open booth along the wall.
Tate sits. “Are you open to talking, then?”
“I wouldn’t have come back if I wasn’t,” I say, taking a swig. “So talk.”
“Well I …” he sits back in his seat. His body is big, too big for these tight wooden booths. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I haven’t been fair to you or to Eric.”
“Keep talking.”
“He’s a bright kid. He really is. And I know you’re doing this on your own. I didn’t mean to belittle you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
We talk for a few minutes about the incident. He says he r
ead my email, and that he probably should have tried a different tactic. I tell him that Eric is all about justice. He’s a hot-head sometimes, but usually responds better if he feels like what’s happening is fair.
“Maybe he’ll be a lawyer someday,” Tate says.
“Hell no,” I say. “I hate lawyers.”
“Me too,” he says. “Ex-wife was one.”
I raise my glass to that. “So what’s your story? What led you to the glamorous job of an after-school program director?”
Tate shrugs. “I’m ex-military. I came back to a stack of divorce papers and an empty house after my last deployment. I wanted to do something outside, maybe like run a recreation or adventure program. I got offered this job as a stepping stone to maybe taking over the whole rec program when the current director retires.”
“Do you like it? Because you don’t seem to like kids all that much.”
“I do like kids,” he says.
“Do you have any?”
“No, uh … my daughter died when she was a baby.”
“Oh ...” Insert foot in mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, you didn’t know. I just don’t talk about it that much.”
“Was she sick?”
He opens his mouth then shuts it again, looks around the bar. “She had cancer. We only had her for six months. My wife was devastated. We tried again but it just never happened. And things were strained between us. I thought the deployment might be a good thing, like putting some distance might remind us why we should be together. For her, it was the end, I guess.”
I nod. “Well, I understand being left behind.”
“Your husband left you?”
I nod. “He cheated. He wasn’t a good man, anyway, so good riddance.”
He laughs lightly. “Okay, then. Well, thank you for your time tonight. I hope maybe we’ve cleared the air a little?”
“Sure, sure,” I say, grabbing my purse. “Thanks for saying you’re sorry.”
I give him a short wave and head back outside. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. It’s such a stupid feeling, like I’m blushing or something. And I’m actually mad about it. So mad, in fact, that when I feel a hand on my shoulder, I spin around, ready to fight somebody.
