Pull

by Claire Wallis

  “You’re covetous of my dreams?” she says with a laugh. “Yeesh, David. You really do have it bad.”

  “Indeed I do.” I lean over and plant a quick peck on her forehead.

  “Two of the same,” she says as she turns away and climbs out of bed.

  ----------------------------------------------------------

  My first stop of the day is Jackson’s Hardware. I need a few different parts for today’s projects. The place is empty when I get there, save for Clive, who greets me with a hearty handshake. Barbara isn’t in the office today, he tells me. She’s at bridge club with the girls. Clive and I spend some time chatting about life and work. And then we have a discussion about Teflon tape. Pretty dull stuff. After I settle the bill, he asks me about Emma.

  “How’s that sweetheart of yours doing?” he says with a wink.

  “She’s incredible,” I reply with pure honesty. It brings a look of amusement to his face.

  “Sounds like things are pretty good then, huh?” He lifts his hand and pats me on the shoulder blade.

  “Yep. Things are pretty damn good.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. You certainly seem happier since she’s been around.”

  “That’s because I am.” His hand pats me a few more times as he nods his head with understanding. There is a long, silent pause before he adds more.

  “My pops always told me that the best kind of woman is the kind that makes you wanna be a better man. And my pops was the smartest man I ever come across in all my years, so that’s saying something.”

  “He sounds like a very smart man,” I say back. “But it’s even more than that. Emma doesn’t make me want to be a better man. She makes me want to be a new man. The kind of man she deserves. She makes me want to be a grown-up. Know what I mean?”

  Clive takes his hand off my back and drops it down to his side. He looks at me with the chillest little smirk I’ve ever seen. “I know exactly what you mean. And, you know what? You two are right for each other. Barbara and I both believe it. I’m only sorry that neither one of you have family around to share your happiness.” His mention of “family” knots my stomach.

  “Aside from Emma, you and Barbara are the only family I need,” I say. And I mean it.

  “You say that, but don’t you think your pop would want to know you’re happy? Don’t you think he would want to see his boy as a grown-up man?”

  “No, Clive, I don’t. I don’t think he gives a damn about my happiness. He’s never given a damn about anything. Except for beer and whiskey.”

  “I see,” he says with a knowing nod. “Not much of a father then, was he?”

  “No, sir, he was not. And the last thing I’d ever want to do is invite him back into my life.” There’s pity on Clive’s face and sadness in his eyes. But, once again, it doesn’t hurt. It feels good to know that someone cares enough to be sad for me. It feels good to matter.

  “Well then, that’s just a shame,” he adds. “I guess I’ll just have to be proud and happy enough for the both of us then, won’t I?”

  Proud. He said the word proud. The sound of it makes me feel wrong inside. Twisted up and uncomfortable. Ashamed.

  “You might not be so proud if you knew the kind of man I used to be,” I say, my voice strong but quiet. “Before Emma made things right.”

  “But I did know you before Emma, and maybe you were only showing us the good parts of you for all that time, but that doesn’t matter. Because right now, you’re telling me you’ve decided that the good parts are the only ones that count from here on out. You’re choosing the good parts. Not the bad ones. And that’s part of growing up. What’s past is past, boy. My pops told me a long time ago that growing up is moving on, stepping away from whatever bad choices you made yesterday and only making good ones for tomorrow. That’s part of choosing to be a man.”

  I don’t say a word. I just stand there in front of him feeling, for the first time in my life, like I have something close to a father. A real father. The kind that, more than anything else, wants you to be happy. The kind that’s proud of you, even when you’ve made mistakes. The kind that recognizes you’re far from perfect but loves you just the same. So this is what it feels like to be respected by another man, to be valued for who you are. And this is what it feels like to want to make that man proud of you in return.

  I nod my head. “Thanks,” I say, reaching out for his hand. He doesn’t take it. Instead, he grabs me by the shoulders and hugs me tight. I hug him back, thinking about the life he’s led and wondering about the day his father told him the exact same words. Wondering what his bad choices were.

  And hoping I’ve truly stepped away from mine.

  Chapter 40

  David—Age 16

  Jimmy Paxton’s father died last week. Testicular cancer. I went to the funeral on Saturday, even though Jimmy and I aren’t as good of friends as we used to be. I didn’t stop liking him or anything; it’s more like his family stopped liking me. Or rather, they stopped liking my father. And I totally understand why, especially considering I never even liked him in the first place.

  When we were little, Mrs. Paxton was friends with my mother. We used to hang out together sometimes, before my mother got sick. And after she got sick, I spent a lot of time at Jimmy’s house because it was way better than being at mine. Plus, he had that blow-up pool in his backyard.

  Jimmy and I were best friends until last summer. Until my father decided to make a complete ass of himself.

  The Paxtons have always known about my father’s drinking problem; everyone does, really. He stumbles around town all the time, so much so that no one around here will hire him anymore, even though his crew consists of some of the most talented craftsmen around. Most of our work is two towns over. Like everyone else here, the Paxtons learned to ignore my father. But this was different. This was something they couldn’t ignore. This was something Jimmy will probably never forget. I know I never will.

  One night in July, Jimmy and I were on the basketball court at War Memorial Playground. I’d worked for my father all day, and while he headed to the bar, I headed to the court. Mr. Paxton was there, too, watching us shoot hoops and reading his newspaper under the lights. When we were done messing around, Mr. Paxton offered to give me a ride home. It was dark, and he didn’t want me riding my bike on the street. I told him that I was just going to walk my bike home. I told him not to worry about me. I had made that trip a million and one times. I would be fine. But, he wouldn’t listen. He insisted on giving me a ride, even going so far as to load my bike into the back of his SUV. Jimmy and I sat in the backseat together, trading stories about all the weird stuff our ninth-grade science teacher used to say.

  As soon as Mr. Paxton pulled up in front of McMillan’s Grocery, I saw him. He was sitting on the curb, under the streetlight, with his chin in his hands. I could tell before we even pulled up to the curb that Shep was completely blasted. I’ve seen so many levels of blasted over the years that I’ve learned to discern one from the other based solely on body language. Slumping shoulders and listless body, combined with curb- or truck- or sidewalk-sitting, always equals completely blasted. Crooked-eyes, stumbling-feet, hitting-fists, biting-words blasted. I knew if he spotted me getting out of Mr. Paxton’s SUV, shit would hit the fan. And it did.

  I was relieved when Mr. Paxton parked a few yards away from him. I said my goodbyes in the car and tried to get my bike out as quickly and quietly as I could. I thought maybe I could sneak it upstairs and into my room before Shep could even lift his head. But I was wrong. As soon as I shut the tailgate, my father rose to his feet and stumbled over to meet me in the middle of the sidewalk. For a second, I thought he was going to drunk-hug me, as he occasionally does (usually immediately before calling me a loser or a pussy or a crybaby). But when his raised hands wrapped around my throat instead of my body, I knew for sure it wasn’t a drunk-hug. His fingers squeezed around my neck, sharp and tight. I dropped my bike onto the ground and reac
hed up and grabbed his wrists, trying like hell to get him to let go. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets, and he was shouting something about me stealing his credit card. I didn’t say a word because I wanted to save my breath. I didn’t want to waste it on an answer he wouldn’t believe anyway. When he was completely blasted, there was never a right answer and the best thing to be was silent.

  Earlier that year, I surpassed Shep in height. I had a good inch on him by then, and I sure as shit was stronger than him, especially from all the lifting and hauling I did at work. But despite my advantage, I couldn’t get him to let go of my throat. I felt myself starting to gasp for air. And then, I saw Mr. Paxton rushing at us. He struck my father’s arms at elbow level, forcing Shep’s hands off my throat and knocking him a few steps backward. Shep lost his balance for a moment but then he came back at me. Mr. Paxton stepped in between us and screamed for Jimmy to call the cops. Shep took a swing at Jimmy’s dad and knocked him square in the jaw.

  Then, in true asshole fashion, my father started screaming at Mr. Paxton, telling him he had slept with his wife. He said he “fucked her like the whore she was, back when those retarded boys were just little fucking babies. Back when your wife was a hot piece of ass instead of a fat fucking slob.” I kept my mouth closed, even though I wanted to tell my father to go to hell. Even though I wanted to tell Mr. Paxton that my father was a liar. Even though I wanted to scream out and beg for someone, anyone, to see all this and rescue me from this life.

  Next thing I knew, Jimmy came out of nowhere and jumped on Shep, nailing him on the head with his fist over and over again, knocking him to the ground. My best friend was beating on my father, calling him a liar and telling him to go to hell. Jimmy was saying all the things I always wanted to say but couldn’t. He was doing exactly what I’ve always wanted to do. He was hurting my father, bashing his fists against Shep’s head and knocking him senseless. When Mr. Paxton was finally able to pull Jimmy away, I looked down at my father, now lying in a quiet, bruised heap on the sidewalk. It made me smile.

  Mr. Paxton told Jimmy to get the hell in the car. When the car door closed behind his son, Mr. Paxton turned to me and opened his mouth. I was sure he was going to tell me to get into the car, too. I was sure he was going to tell me that I could live with them now. That I deserved a better father than Shep Calgaro. But he didn’t. Instead, he told me that I’d better get my father inside before the cops arrived. Then he wished me good luck.

  Good luck.

  Again.

  I stared down at Shep, wanting more than anything to leave him on the sidewalk. Wanting to let the cops find him there, completely blasted, and haul him to the drunk tank for strike number three. But when I heard the sirens, I lifted Shep’s body and slung him up over my shoulder instead. I carried him up the stairs and into our apartment, laying him down on his bed. I took off his shoes and dug through his pockets until I found his credit card. I took it out and put it in his hand, closing his fingers over the plastic. Then I went back downstairs and got my bike.

  At the funeral on Saturday, I told Jimmy that he was lucky to have such a great dad. I told him I had always wished that his father was mine. I told him that sixteen years with a great father are worth more than a lifetime with a shitty one.

  Chapter 41

  Matt—Present Day

  It’s eleven o’clock on Friday morning, and I’m sitting in my cubicle staring down at the words on my phone. It can’t be for real. It has to be a joke. Because there is no way this is happening. No way.

  But there’s a smiley face there. An emoticon. At the end of the text. It’s so tiny that I pull my phone right up to my eyes just to be sure the little face is actually smiling. When I see that it really is, I smile back. Right into the phone. As if she could see me or something.

  Before I do anything else, I touch the phone number at the top of the screen and save it to my list of contacts. “Hadley.” As I type her name, Jennifer Lawrence crosses her arms over her chest and turns her back on me. I don’t care, though, because this one is real. Not just a dream. And she texted me. Only three days after we met. That’s good, right? That means she thought about it. She considered how long to wait.

  And it’s eleven in the morning, so chances are she’s totally sober, and that, my friend, is stellar. Stellar.

  I’m smiling down at my phone and thinking about what I’m going to say in my return text when I hear a voice behind me. It’s Emma.

  “Hey, Matt.” I turn my head to look at her. “Do you have the specs for Waterson? He needs them for the meeting.” Her eyes glance from my smile down to the phone in my hand and back again. “What?” she adds. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I say, grabbing the file off my desk and extending my arm out for her to take it.

  “Uh, yeah, it’s something. You don’t wear a smile like that for nothing. ’Fess up. Oh my God…were you just watching porn on your phone?”

  “No, I wasn’t watching porn on my phone!” I say, my voice a squeaky mess. “I was reading a text.”

  “Must be a good one,” she says with a smirk. “Is it from a girl?” She holds the file folder over her chest and bats her eyelashes, acting all fake-swoony.

  “As a matter of fact it is from a girl. A woman, actually.” Ha! So there!

  “Seriously? That’s awesome. Who is she?” She’s ridiculously excited about it. I can hear it in her voice.

  “She’s a bartender. One of David’s bartenders, actually. But she’s new. Tuesday was her first night.”

  “No way,” she says. Jesus. Does she have to sound so surprised? “That’s crazy. And she just gave you her number?”

  “No. I gave her mine,” I say with more confidence than I actually feel.

  “Wow. Good for you. Brave man.”

  “Drunk man was more like it.”

  “Whatever it takes,” she says with a shrug. “So, did you ask her out?”

  “Well, considering I just got her text like a minute ago, no, I didn’t.”

  “But you’re going to, right?”

  “I hope to. But first I have to get up the nerve to return her text. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Just say it’s nice to hear from her.”

  I pick up the phone and do just that, pressing Send before I can change my mind.

  “See?” Emma says, “that was easy.” She’s smiling at me so hard. It’s embarrassing. “You know what you should do? You should ask her out for dinner. Or a movie.”

  “I don’t know. Isn’t that a little much? Shouldn’t there be some kind of an icebreaker or something first?” She can see that I’m nervous. I know she can. Hell, who couldn’t at this point?

  “Really? An icebreaker? What is this, 1952?” she says with sass. I shrug my shoulders at her, but I don’t say a word. “Okay…well…so then invite her over to my place for a drink tomorrow night,” she continues. “David and I can be your icebreakers. Just tell her we’re all going to meet up for a drink before going out. That way she’ll have her own car if she decides she wants to escape.”

  “Escape?” I ask tartly.

  “Yeah. You know. If you tell too many bad jokes or something.” Emma has no idea what a real possibility that actually is. “Seriously. That’s a totally non-intimidating first date if I ever saw one.”

  “Except for that it’s with David. Who happens to be kind of intimidating. Plus, he’s her boss.”

  “He’s not her boss,” she says with a smile. “Not really. And don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of him. I’ll make sure he minds his manners. It’ll be great! Come on. Do it.”

  “I don’t know…” I say, thinking that this could be a very bad idea. Or a very good one.

  “Just ask her. The worst she could do is say no, right? I mean, she contacted you, so that has to mean she’s interested. Just see what she says.”

  While Emma and I are talking, I get another text from Hadley. It says, It was nice to meet you, too.

  I te
xt the following back to her at Emma’s prompting.

  If u don’t have plans for tomorrow night, do u want to meet me at David’s girl’s place? Say 8:00? Gonna have a quick drink there, then head out with them.

  I shouldn’t be doing this at work. We’re not supposed to be on our phones at work. I should probably put my phone back in my desk drawer right now and not take it out again until the end of the day.

  Sure. What’s the address?

  I can’t believe this is happening. What the hell am I thinking? What’s wrong with me? This is nuts. And also great.

  I text Emma’s address to Hadley and tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her again. She types, me too! and ends it with a different emoticon. This one is winking at me. It makes me think that maybe everything is going to be all right.

  -----------------------------------------------------

  An hour later, in the cafeteria, Emma finds me and tells me she talked to David about tomorrow night. He’s cool with everything, she says, and he promised to be on his best, non-intimidating behavior. He even said he would find out where his friends’ band was playing so we could all go watch them together, if we want. When she’s finished telling me everything, Emma walks away to get a sandwich. I pull out my phone and send David a text.

  You sure?

  Sure, I’m sure. I’ve been wanting to wear my Batman costume for something special. Now’s my chance.

  Dude…

  He can’t be serious. Can he?

  U wanna wear your Robin suit? That way the ladies can fully appreciate the theme of our double date.

  Why do I have a feeling I just made a really big mistake…

  Nah. Seriously, I’ll go easy on u. If u promise to go easy on me.

  Will do.

  No worries. I got your back.

  Thanks, man.

  U bet.

  Chapter 42

  After Lucia

  I look down into the water at Lucia’s ripples, and I scream. The sound is thunderous and angry and bitter. And it is loud enough for the entire world to hear. Because I want them to. None of this was supposed to happen. She was not supposed to happen. Lucia was nothing more than a diversion, a little bit of fun. I didn’t care about her. She didn’t need me, and I didn’t need her. And we were both okay with that. She told me more times than I can count that love is for pussies, and she didn’t want anything more from me than what she was already getting. For seven months, Lucia and I were two completely separate people, both satisfied and unsatisfied all at once. Neither expecting anything more from the other, and both happy to have something in our lives that was free of pressure and expectations. Free of promise. I knew it and so did she. It felt good to never see her as something—someone—with a deeper meaning. But then, last night, when I saw her screwing Robbie, everything changed. Because I got angry. Really fucking angry. And I never get angry. Never.