by Tami Lund
The toddlers are his grandkids. And I’m not even going there on who their grandmother is.
“Now you don’t want to know?” he asks, pulling me out of one hell of a scary daydream.
“What?”
“You’re shaking your head, like you don’t want me to answer your question.”
I focus on preparing an oyster and mumble, “Sorry. Thinking about something else. Go ahead, tell me your story.”
He does that Rock impression again before shaking it off. “Well, let’s see. I started high school, without a best friend or a father, by the way.”
“Not my fault,” I remind him. “And it can’t possibly have been any worse than starting high school on the other side of the country from where you grew up.”
Frowning, he says, “You’re right. I’m sorry. At least I had my other friends. But you—you literally had to start over from scratch.”
And I never did figure out how to fit in. But I don’t think he’s ready for that story yet. And even if he is, I’m not ready to tell it.
“That’s all right. So, high school?”
Before he can continue his life story, our server appears, clearly relieved to finally walk up on a normal conversation, and scoops up the platter of empty oyster shells before placing our dinner on the table and leaving us alone once again. Instead of entrees, we’d opted to share the “grand plate,” an assortment of mouthwatering seafood appetizers I cannot wait to dive into. Even more bonus points to Alex for suggesting this meal when he isn’t much of a fan of fish.
I pluck out a chunk of chilled lobster while Alex selects a lobster deviled egg and pops it into his mouth. After chasing it with sparkling wine, he says, “It was hard, actually. Mostly because Mom was pretty screwed up after my dad left. She clung to me like a life vest or something, and I felt so bad for her that I didn’t resist like a normal teenager.”
“Ugh. More guilt to add to my plate.”
“I’m not telling you this because I want you to feel bad, Vicks. It’s just my story. You and I had no control over what our parents did back then. Hell, we don’t really have control even now.”
“Someday we will though.” I wave a shrimp at him. “And when that day comes, I, for one, am sticking mine in a home. I’ll pay someone else to take on that problem.”
“You don’t mean that.”
His voice is quiet. But he doesn’t know. I most certainly do mean it. I am not callous enough to abandon her—I am not entirely her daughter, apparently—but I will not burden myself with that responsibility when I have already taken on more than I should. Call me a terrible child, but if you knew my mother…
“As off her rocker as my mother sometimes can be,” he says, “I can’t imagine abandoning her like that.”
“Your situation is different. Your mom didn’t abandon you.”
“Yours did?” His mouth falls open. “Is that how you ended up back in Chicago?”
Well, not exactly, but close enough. And, possibly, worse.
“When did you come back, anyway?”
“I left Washington the day after I graduated high school.” I would have left that very day, but I’d been fucking a guy named Hank at the time, and he wanted one last hookup before we went our separate ways. Funny, he was the first in a long line of not-legit relationships, and he was probably the best of the lot.
Until now. But then again, this isn’t exactly a not-legit relationship, is it?
“What would you say,” I abruptly shift topics, “if we’re in a situation where you have to introduce me? How would you do it?”
“Is this a trick question? Are you wondering if I’ll introduce you as Vicks or Victoria? Because I’m not going to call you Tori, for the record.”
What the hell is his issue with my chosen nickname, anyway?
“No, I mean, what I am to you?”
He sips his drink. “You want to know if I’ll refer to you as my girlfriend.”
“Yeah…kinda.”
“Do you want me to?”
“Don’t turn this around on me. Just answer the question.”
“Well, I guess it depends. On whether you want me to.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. And then I toss a shrimp tail at him. “You’re impossible.”
“No, I’m not. I’m actually quite possible. This is possible, Vicks.” He waves his finger back and forth between us. “I really think we can make this work. A relationship that isn’t destined to fail.”
My smile is sad, because I know the truth, and no prescription for a pair of rose-colored glasses can change it.
Chapter Seven
ALEX
The world’s most romantic date, as Vicks put it, did not end with us horizontal together, naked, in the same bed. And date number five will not occur today, because Sundays are reserved for my mother, per her directive.
As soon as I finally convince myself to roll out of bed instead of lying here all day fantasizing about Vicks, I throw on an old, ratty T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, toss more respectable clothing into a backpack, fill a Thermos with coffee, and head out to the ‘burbs where my mother lives.
She’s in the kitchen when I arrive, drinking her own coffee, probably debating with herself over what to make for breakfast. I walk in through the sliding glass door off the back patio, toe off my sneakers, and drop my bag onto the bench that doubles as storage for her winter gear.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, giving her a one-armed hug and kissing her temple before rinsing out my Thermos and refilling it with water and ice.
“Morning, sweetie. You’re later than usual today. Did you have a date last night?”
Yes, but why the hell would she immediately jump to that conclusion? And the fact that I was with Vicks last night has nothing to do with my tardiness this morning. I’m not even late; we’ve never set a precise time for this weekly ritual. It’s just that I tend to be a routine kind of guy, so I’m usually here around nine, every single week.
When Vicks realizes I’m so fucking routine, will it be a turn off?
“Uh, I did, actually.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding surprised. “How was it?”
“Really fun.” So much so, I wish I could have blown off my mother this morning so Vicks and I could commence date number five. But she’s my mom, and given everything she’s done to set me up for success in life, the very least I can do is mow her lawn once a week.
Mom twists the tea towel in her hands. “What’s she like?”
It’s the first time we’ve ever had a conversation about my dating life. In truth, I’ve always been a little nervous about telling her if I met a girl I might be interested in, because I have the impression Mom would be jealous of my time. Plus, she’s been telling me for twelve years that she doesn’t believe in happily ever after.
Oh, and let’s not forget the date was with Vicks, the daughter of the woman who stole her husband, thus altering her life forever in a way she had not expected and undoubtedly had not wanted.
I turn away from the sink and take a swig of ice water. “Um, she’s…” I can think of a thousand ways to describe Vicks, but what will Mom want to hear? Vicks is nothing like her mother, but I can’t say that because I’m not ready to admit to my mom that she and I have reconnected. What we have is still too uncertain. I need time to convince Vicks that our relationship could be more than just sex. No point in potentially upsetting Mom until I know Vicks is in it for the long term.
“It’s still early,” I finally say. “One date.” Four, actually, plus we spent the night together on Friday, even if we didn’t have sex.
Not details Mom needs to hear.
“Okay,” she says, and her shoulders appear to relax.
“Well, I’d better tackle the lawn.” I head for the door.
“I’m thinking about making a quiche.”
“Sounds great. I’ll be done in about an hour.” Even in the ’burbs, lawns aren’t very big in the Chicago area.
I pop in my ear
buds and dial up my iTunes playlist, and then I get to work, mowing and trimming and edging. By the time I’m done, I’m dripping with sweat and my stomach is grumbling. When I step back into the house, Mom is sliding the quiche into the oven. I’m pretty sure she watches my progress from the kitchen window and times the meal accordingly.
“Taking a shower,” I say, and I grab my backpack and head to bathroom. This time, when I return to the kitchen, the quiche is on the table, which is set for two, and she’s pouring orange juice into a glass for me.
“Thanks, Mom.”
While I love the city, I wouldn’t mind someday having a home of my own with a yard I can tend to each week. I’d love to not have neighbors so close I can hear them when they stomp across the ceiling above my head. And while Vicks commented that it was nice to have a dog to force her to walk every day, it would be equally cool to be able to adopt a dog and simply let it out into the backyard whenever it needed to pee.
And yes, I’m grateful for my mother, even though I don’t sound like it. I mean, she is neurotic, and, yes, I’m a little afraid of the day I’ll have to introduce her to the one. But she’s still my mom; she raised me, helped develop me into the man I am today. And she loves me unconditionally. At least, I think it’s unconditional.
“So, speaking of me dating,” I say between bites of spinach and bacon quiche,
“What if you don’t like the girl I pick?”
“Oh nonsense. If you like her, I will too.”
I gotta wonder about that. She once threatened Vicks’s mom with a cleaver, for fuck’s sake.
“So, weird question. You haven’t heard from Dad lately, have you?” I ask.
She furrows her brow and then blinks rapidly. “That is a weird question.”
“Sorry. I know it brings back bad memories.” But I’m curious. Does she know that his relationship with Vicks’s mom was short-lived? Would that make her feel any better, maybe vindicated in some way?
I never considered trying to track him down. If he didn’t want anything to do with me, I sure as hell didn’t want anything to do with him.
Not to mention what he put my mom through with cheating, leaving in the middle of the night, with literally no contact except through lawyers ever since.
I vividly remember being in high school and heading to bed and Mom would be sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. I’d ask if she was okay, and she’d always answer, “I’ll be fine.”
At the time, I didn’t understand. I’d lie in bed and my mind would take over, all the memories of when they argued, and I’d wonder who was at fault. And then I’d wake up the next morning and walk into the living room, and Mom would still be on the couch, asleep, her mouth hanging out, an empty glass clutched in her hand. I’d nudge her awake and she’d blink open her eyes and say, “Oh, is it morning already? Are you ready for school?” And I’d nod, and help her up, and take her back to her bedroom and tuck her into bed so she’d be more comfortable while she slept off another hangover, before I headed off to catch the bus.
This went on for months, until one day, I woke for school and she was standing in front of the stove, a perfectly cooked omelet in the pan clutched in her hand, and she smiled and said, “Good morning. Do you have time for breakfast before you leave?”
I’m pretty sure she’s still attempting to make up for those first few months, despite my reassurance she doesn’t have to.
Now she’s toying with her juice glass, twisting it around between her fingers, and I let the silence drag on while I devour my breakfast.
“He reached out to me maybe ten years ago,” she says, so abruptly, I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth. “Called, out of the blue. Said he was sorry for cheating on me. And then he hung up and wouldn’t pick up again when I kept calling back.” She’s staring at the tablecloth now, tracing the pattern with her pointer finger.
“You never told me that.”
She glances up, catches my eye, and then drops her gaze to the table again. “He didn’t ask about you. Not a word about his son. Whether or not I can forgive him for stepping out on me is irrelevant. I cannot forgive him for walking away from his child.”
Wow, my father really is a piece of work.
Oh, and guess who’s walking around with half those genes floating around in his body? That’s right. This guy.
I reach across the table and place my hand on my mother’s arm. “Thanks, Mom. Thanks for being all the parent I need.”
Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and she blinks rapidly. After a moment, she clears her throat and stands and begins clearing the table. I start to vacate my seat, but she motions for me to stay seated, and I know she wants to collect herself, so I finish off my orange juice while she cleans the kitchen.
***
As usual, my weekly visit to mow the lawn turns into half the day spent tending to odd jobs around the house that I’m pretty sure my mother saves just for me. I don’t know if she thinks I enjoy changing the oil in her car or fixing the leak in her kitchen sink or if she’s one who likes her son to do these things versus calling on a family friend or a paid handyman.
I don’t really mind doing it. It’s good practice for when I own my own home someday. And it makes her happy, so it’s a win-win, right?
The first text from Vicks vibrates my phone while I’m loading the jugs of used oil into the trunk of Mom’s car so she can take them to be recycled.
I’m bored. What are you doing?
I smile. Last night, we stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, necking like lust-crazed teenagers while our individual Uber drivers waited impatiently for us to separate.
Half an hour later, she texted, asking when we were doing date number five, and I’d told her to plan for Monday.
Changing the oil in my mother’s car, I text back.
So manly. You know she’s using you, right? You should come over here. I promise you’ll like the way I use you better.
I laugh. She’s definitely right. I suspect her idea of using me would be far more enjoyable.
My handyman skills can’t make your apartment big enough to be considered actual living space, unfortunately.
I’m more concerned whether another skill of yours is too big for me. Want to come over and find out?
Jesus, she is relentless.
Hey, wait a minute. Are we switching roles again? I thought you wanted to date now.
I did. I also had an incredibly erotic dream about you last night, and for some reason, my vibrator is just not cutting it anymore.
I close my eyes and will my body not to react. Not in the middle of my mom’s driveway, for Christ’s sake. But, damn, the woman gets to me.
To be honest, I’m done with today’s to-do list. I could use another shower, but otherwise, I’m free to do whatever the hell I want now. And I don’t have to work tomorrow, which means whatever I want could last all night long.
On the other hand, this—the byplay, the dates—it’s all too much fun. I’m not ready for it to end.
I snap my fingers and shoot off another text.
Meet me at Wrigley Field in an hour.
A baseball game? This is your idea of a date?
Sure. Why not? It’s America’s pastime.
It’s not sexy.
Exactly.
The next text from her is a row of eye-rolling emojis that makes me chuckle.
Are you coming? I text.
Much to my own regret, no. But I suppose this means we’re halfway there.
That’s the spirit. I’ll see you in a bit.
I turn to head into the house and let my mother know I’m leaving, but she’s standing in the driveway with her gardening gloves on and a trowel in her hand, watching me. Motioning at my phone, she says, “Last night’s date?”
I nod. “We’re going to catch the baseball game.”
Her lips turn down as they thin. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
She flaps her
hand at the car. “What about the oil?”
“All done.”
“Did you finish the edging?” She glances down at the sharp, clean line of grass running the length of her driveway. I’d even pulled out the blower to make sure there weren’t piles of grass littering the cement.
What is this about? I study her features until she turns her head to the side. Wait a minute—
“Are you saying you don’t want me to go out on this date?”
“No, no. That’s not what I’m saying at all,” she blusters.
“Then what?”
“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “It’s just… It doesn’t matter. Go. Have fun.”
Great, here comes the self-inflicted guilt. “Is there something else you need me to do, Mom?”
Her laugh is hollow. “There’s always something. But it can wait until next week.” She’s saying the words, but that’s not what her tone indicates.
Should I cancel with Vicks? I really don’t want to, but if Mom needs me…
“Go,” she says again, now shooing me away. “Just-just protect your heart, okay?”
Ah. That’s what this is about. Impulsively, I stride over and pull her into a hug. “I will. I promise.”
And then I take off down the driveway. It’s time for date number five.
***
Vicks is waiting for me at the entrance of Wrigley Field. Her multi-colored hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and there’s a baseball cap on her head. She’s wearing a blue Chicago Cubs henley tank top with no bra and a pair of cutoffs that are almost illegally short.
“And you thought baseball wasn’t sexy,” I say by way of greeting.
“What?” she says, and I’m pretty sure she’s batting her eyelashes behind her sunglasses.
With a shake of my head, I swing my arm around her shoulders—hell yeah, I’m going to act protective and jealous as all get-out while we’re at this game—and guide her toward the will call booth.
