Must Love Jogs

by Xavier Neal

  The sound of Blake’s voice calling my name barely breaks through.

  When he moves into my view, the look of irritation on his face deepens. “Are you ignorin’ me?”

  I try to shake away the weight of the thoughts plaguing my mind. “No. Sorry. Just…distracted.” Rather than go down the road I’m in no way prepared to, I ask, “How is Ollie? Is everything alright?”

  He drops down onto the edge of the couch directly across from where me and my cello are stationed in my practice chair. “Yes and no. She did need to go the hospital. She was dangerously dehydrated. They’re going to keep her for a couple hours to get her vitals back to something respectable, but she should be released tonight.”

  There’s a small ache in my chest. “I’m glad he took her. I’m glad he didn’t ignore it.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Blake offers me a small smile.

  Silence begins to settle and my brain returns to racing.

  Are we okay? How horrible did they treat him when I wasn’t around? Will it be too much for him to put up with? Am I already too much for him to put up with?

  “How was the rest of lunch, Angel?”

  My eyes briefly cut away from his. I do everything I can to swallow the dread of having to answer his question. “How was the event? Everything go okay there?”

  He angles his head at me in curiosity. “Yeah. Traffic was a bit slower while I was there, but Runt said it was steady at the beginning.” Blake doesn’t take the presented opportunity for our conversation to be derailed twice. “How was the rest of lunch?”

  I subconsciously begin fidgeting with my bow.

  “What don’t you wanna tell me?”

  The fidgeting gets faster.

  “Abby.”

  “It was awful.”

  My confession doesn’t seem to stun him. At least not yet.

  “They were…as they always are.”

  “Cold and callous? The exact opposite things good parents should be?”

  No argument here. They’ve never been warm or fuzzy, but their constant chastising reached extreme levels today and cut much deeper than I was prepared for.

  “They don’t like me,” Blake announces with certainty.

  “No.”

  “’Cause they don’t think I’m good enough for you, right? ‘Cause I haven’t been playin’ the oboe since I was two? ‘Cause I didn’t go to Harvard or Yale? Because I don’t drink wine that has six goddamn names to it?”

  His own annoyance over the situation grips me by the neck.

  “What is it they hate most about me, Angel?”

  I force my mouth to answer despite my brain’s demand we avoid continuing. “That you’re white.”

  Horror and appall shakes his entire body. “What?!”

  The death grip I have on my bow tightens to the point of breaking. “They…They basically think you’re toxic for me-”

  “Because I’m white?”

  “They think you’re purposely trying to have a negative effect on my playing, so that one of the white cellist can have my chair.”

  “That’s fucking insane!”

  If only he heard the rest of the hate filled lecture…

  “If anything it’s them who have the negative effect on your playin’! They’re overly critical!”

  Instinctively, I defend, “They only want me at my best.”

  “They want to be the only ones who get to decide what that is!”

  “Stop yelling at me.”

  “Did they tell you to end things between us?” He bypasses my command. “Did they offer to set you up with someone they thought would be a better match?”

  My teeth gnash into my tongue.

  “They did, didn’t they?!” Blake flies to his feet as more outrage pours from him. “Fuckin’ ridiculous, Abby! What kind of parents treat their daughter like shit, constantly, then have the balls to demand she breaks up with the man who not only loves her devotedly, but wants to marry her?” He shakes his head and meets my gaze. “Did you tell them to go to hell?”

  “Of course not, they’re my parents,” I weakly reply.

  “Did you tell them they were out of line?” His body swiftly approaches closer and my vocals tighten. “Did you tell them it’s none of their goddamn business?” Blake’s large body constricts under his own consternation. “Did you say anything?! Did you defend us at all?!”

  Truthfully, no. I was so blindsided by the entire thing, I didn’t know what to say or when. It was like being gut punched with a string bass then repeatedly beaten with it until you’re on the ground a shaking mess and all you can hear are out of tune echoes bouncing around your brain. I know I need to say something to them. I just…I don’t know what.

  “Abby!”

  The attempt to explain comes out in a jumble and the only thing I successfully manage to say is, “…they’re my parents.”

  He doesn’t hesitate to bite back. “And you’re a grown fucking adult. Act like it.”

  Disbelief darts my eyebrows down. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a grown ass woman, Abby. You’re not some little sixteen-year-old girl who needs her parents’ approval to date or fuck whoever it is she wants. You don’t need them to sign off on your date to prom or for them to hand you a cookie because they think you did a job well done during your performance. You are old enough to make your own choices! And I shouldn’t have to fucking remind you of that!”

  I shove down every possible combination of responses festering in hopes of being spoken. “Get out of my house.”

  “What?”

  Without hesitation, I repeat, “Get. Out.”

  The magnitude of his response finally slaps him. “Angel I’m-”

  “Out!” My voice screeches louder than it ever has before. “As a grown ass woman, who pays her grown ass bills including the very grown ass mortgage on this goddamn house, I am telling you to get. Out.”

  Like a puppy who has been turned away for the first time, he sulks his head, turns around, and exits the living room. I keep my eyes glared and pasted onto his actions. Blake grabs his keys from the island, but stops to plead once more. His mouth cracks open, which is when I use the bow to point the direction of the front door. He accepts his punishment with a nod and proceeds to leave.

  As soon as the front door shuts, the objects in my hand fumble to the ground, and my throat clogs with tears.

  I expected this situation to be difficult, but I never saw it going this direction.

  There’s a nudge against the couch cushion I’m sprawled across. On a heavy groan, I open my eyes to see Runt peering down at me.

  His head leans to the side as he examines the situation. He folds his arms across his chest. “Breakfast is ready.”

  I give him a slow nod of understanding.

  “And that was Ollie’s whiskey you killed,” he motions his head to the empty bottle on the floor. “She may be pregnant, but she’s going to demand you replace it.”

  A faint smile appears. “I will.”

  “It’s the high dollar shit.”

  “Yup.”

  “Why didn’t you go out drinkin’ last night?”

  “Tried,” my large frame maneuvers so my feet are back on his wooden floors, “but ended up at the same bar as Chastity and took that as a sign it would better to drink at home.”

  “You mean my home.”

  “Same shit.”

  Runt doesn’t push the subject of why and I’m instantly grateful. It was enough Chastity had a million questions while dangling herself desperately at me for the one beer I made it through. After explaining to her it was never going to happen again, primarily because I have a ring waiting for a hand at home, I left and started drinking on Runt’s couch. Passed out about halfway through A Fistful of Dollars, which I swear is always magically in his DVD player.

  “You’ve got some spare clothes in the baby’s closet upstairs if you wanna change.”

  I give my disheveled suit from yesterday a solid look.


  Didn’t even have time to get out of this before she kicked me out. Fuck, that look on her face when she did still hurts.

  The pang in my chest returns and all I can do is muster up the strength to nod.

  “See you at breakfast…” he quietly states and heads for his front door.

  Once I’m alone, I give my face a hard scrub.

  Did yesterday really happen? Am I over exaggerating or embellishing some of it? Did Abby really kick me out? Was it for good? Was it just a fight that blew up out of proportion?

  I groan again in unhappiness, get off the couch, and head upstairs to change. Afterward, I toss my suit clothes in the back of my truck before crossing the property to our parent’s house.

  Runt’s place being on the property was logical at first. When he started the brewery, it allowed him to be close to it while still maintaining some independence from our parents. I was already in the city and had no interest in moving back out here, but was more than willing to take advantage of his spare room for nights when my fun needed somewhere closer to crash.

  Entering the dining area, I immediately smile at the sight of Ollie shoveling forkfuls of cheesy scrambled eggs into her mouth. “Glad to see you’re feelin’ better.”

  She hums and nods through her chewing from her position beside my brother.

  I drop down in the empty end seat on the other side of Runt.

  “We’re all glad to see she’s feeling better,” Mama agrees, strolling in with two plates in her hand. She places them down in the center of the table at the same time she states, “And she’s never going to give us a scare like that again. Isn’t that right?”

  Ollie nods a second time.

  “Drink up.” Mama points to the very large glass of water in front of Ollie’s plate. “I can’t afford to be riskin’ a heart attack before my next grandchild is born.”

  Ollie and Ford sweetly smile while Pop pours a shot of whiskey into his coffee.

  “What the hell, Pop? It’s breakfast,” I grunt.

  He gives me a sarcastic stare. “And?”

  “And you shouldn’t be drinkin’ before noon on a Sunday.”

  “Or ever, really,” Runt comes to my support.

  “I need the pick me up,” Pop yawns. “Late night.”

  Mama snickers, which causes Runt and I to groan.

  Sometimes I think my parents have more sex than I do.

  “Where’s Abby?” Mama questions, her hand dropping onto her hip. “Still sleepin’?”

  Just hearing her name slumps my shoulders. “She’s not here.”

  The tension in the room rises, but Mama wades through it effortlessly. “And why not? I wanted to make her a cappuccino with the machine she got me.”

  A wave of annoyance rushes through me. “Why’d she get you a cappuccino machine? What’s wrong with regular fuckin’ coffee? Since when is good ol’ fashion, Folgers coffee not good enough?”

  All eyes dart to me with precision and perplexity.

  Mama doesn’t bother proceeding with caution. “She got me one because she knows how much Oliver and his girlfriend love them, not to mention how she loves them and you. She got me one so when you’re all over, everyone can enjoy their favorite. She was contributing to this family because she loves it.”

  I swallow the realization the outburst wasn’t about Abby, so much as the bitter taste her parents left in my mouth. Just because they don’t think someone like me is good enough, doesn’t mean Abby has secretly been believing the same about my family and trying to change us.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Pop questions.

  “Why’s Abby not here?” Mama folds her arms across her chest. “What did you do?”

  “Can I jus’…have breakfast, please?”

  “No,” my parents state in unison.

  Runt stifles the urge to laugh as he reaches for a piece of bacon.

  “Blake Jenkins, why is that lovely girl not at this breakfast table?” Mama’s demand for answers lowers my eyes to the empty spot in front of me. When I don’t reply, she snaps, “I am not a fan of repeating myself.”

  “We had a fight last night. She kicked me out. I slept at Runt’s.” I keep my eyes planted on the area my plate should be. “Can I have breakfast now?”

  “No,” they snap together once more.

  When I look up at Mama, she prods further, “Why’d she kick you out? And I swear as God as my witness Blake Jenkins Shaw if you cheated on that girl-”

  “I didn’t!” I bite instantly. “I would never cheat on Abby.”

  The thought of another woman hasn’t crossed my mind since we met.

  “Was it my fault? Was she pissed you had to leave lunch with her parents early?” Runt sheepishly asks.

  “No. In fact, Abby was relieved to hear everything is alright with you two and the baby.”

  They both offer me a kind smile in return and my mom gives me a soft pat on the shoulder.

  “Did it have something to do with meetin’ her parents?” Mama quickly continues.

  I pause before replying, “Yes.”

  Pop has a sip of his coffee. “What happened?”

  Unsure I can keep avoiding the topic for much longer, I give my forehead a brief rub, and announce, “They hate me.”

  To my surprise no one looks stunned.

  Am I not as loveable as I think I am?

  “Why?” Mama folds her arms tightly across her chest again. “What did you do? Were you rude durin’ lunch?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have your elbows on the table?”

  “No.”

  “Did you slurp like you were a baby hog and your food was fresh feed?”

  My face hardens. “No.”

  “You do that,” Pop defends his wife’s accusation. “A lot.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do,” he argues. “We choose to ignore you.”

  “I-”

  “Did you forget your manners? Did you forget your yes ma’am, no ma’am, yes sir, no sir? Did you not pull out Abby’s chair? Did you-”

  “It’s because I’m white.”

  Silence envelops the whole room.

  My eyes boar deeper into Mama’s. “They have a list of reasons a mile long of why I’m not good enough for Abby and at the top of it, at the very fucking top, is because I’m white.” The knot in my throat begins to return. “Reverse racism. How about that…”

  “It’s not reverse,” Ollie casually interjects grabbing all of our attention. She immediately finishes the bite she was chewing. “Sorry…I didn’t mean for that to come out rude. It’s just…there’s no such thing as ‘reverse racism’. It’s all just racism. Doesn’t matter which race is hating which race, any form of prejudice of that nature, is racism.”

  Her clarification collects more worry about Abby’s parents being right about my lack of knowledge I am sure they accused me of lacking. Did I sound completely moronic while speaking to them yesterday? Should I have used more of my words from the Dictionary app? Lord have mercy, I hate caring this much about what other people think of me.

  Ollie’s voice drops down to just above a whisper. “Can you please pass the toast?”

  Runt reaches over and slides the plate in front of her, making sure to plant a kiss of reassurance on her cheek afterward.

  “And….how did you respond to this?” There’s now caution in Mama’s tone.

  “I was pissed.” I shrug. “She told me and when I asked if she stood up for me or us, she didn’t say yes. So…I…yelled.”

  “And?” Pop pushes knowing I’m holding back.

  “And…I told her she needed to grow up.” All of a sudden, there are two distinct sharp pains in the back of my head from my parents slapping me in unison. “Ou!”

  “The double slap,” Runt chortles. “Haven’t seen that since you got Pop’s truck stuck when you took it mudding.”

  I was fifteen and shouldn’t have been driving anyway. Add that to getting it stuck and dragged home by the lo
cal sheriff? The double slap was a prelude to the punishing of a lifetime.