Mechanic with Benefits

by Mickey Miller

  Andrea sat down on the couch next to me. “Do you trust him?”

  I bit my lip. “I think I do. That’s the crazy thing. I do trust him but part of me thinks I shouldn’t. He hasn’t even asked to make our relationship Facebook official.”

  “Really?” she said, dryly. “Facebook official? That’s what you’re worried about?”

  “Well, he doesn’t have a Facebook, but still.”

  She shook her head. “You are a little off-kilter right now. I have never, ever seen you this worked up about a boy—not even David and you were really into him. Are you going to make it?”

  “I don’t know.” I smiled and hung my head in an exaggerated fashion, drawing out the syllables. “I just want him to live here, or me to live in Barcelona and we can be happy and I can have lots of Chandler babies.”

  Andrea’s eyes grew wide. “Holy shit. I thought you told me that you weren’t sure if he wanted babies.”

  I leaned my head back. “That might still be true but we never went into that since a lot of other stuff came up first. In any case, I do want babies, and lots of them. Specifically ones that look a lot like him, and me a little. And I feel like I’m taking crazy pills, because all this happened after just one week!”

  “You know, it is a little crazy.”

  “So you think I should break up with him?” I was suddenly on edge.

  “No. Actually, I was going to say to trust your instincts.”

  I looked over at her. “I can do that.”

  “So do it,” she ordered. “And stop moping like you don’t have choices.”

  I smiled, sitting up in my seat and feeling better. “Thanks, Andrea. I needed that.”

  “Happy to help.” She grinned, standing up and holding out her hand to help me up. “Now let’s get the heck to happy hour so I can have a virgin daiquiri or two,” she said, hand on her baby bump.

  **

  Every time I fired up my computer to talk to Chandler, a surge of dopamine went through me and I suddenly felt a sense of calm wash over my body. He was still my go-to drug. My nicotine patch. And a very sexy one at that.

  A nagging feeling of dread seemed to always permeate through me in spite of this new found happiness. For me, it was greater than anything I’d ever experienced. However, there were days and nights—mostly when I let my thoughts wander too far off shore—where I felt lonely, and wanted to desperately text him in the middle of the night just to have him text back ‘yes, I’m thinking about you.’

  We tried our best to make plans in the immediate future but not address the far future. I worried what would happen if one of us asked the other to come live with them, and it turned out that the other didn’t want to come? Our connection would be severed forever.

  As it was, the Skype sex was hot. Chandler had the uncanny ability to make me wet with just a few words. It was truly an incredible feat. My body was addicted to him. My heart loved him.

  My mind however—oh, how my mind loved to play tricks on me.

  One night I was at the office. Andrea had just left, and I was wrapping up some paperwork that was tedious but instrumental in clearing the red tape out of the way for our PR company to do business. It had been a ridiculously busy day where I’d gotten lost in my work and forgotten to go to lunch.

  A Skype Mobile call showed up on my phone from Chandler, which perplexed me a little, because we had decided we wouldn’t be Skyping tonight. Either way, I picked it up and answered.

  “Hola, Señor sexy,” I spoke in a low, sultry voice.

  There was no immediate answer and there was no picture. Instead, I heard riotous laughter. Some of it was Chandler’s and some of it was a woman’s.

  My heart sunk through my stomach and all the way down to my feet.

  “Chandler? Chandler!” I yelled, this time as loud as I possibly could. No answer.

  As a butt dial, I had two choices, hang up right now, or listen intently to the dialogue and try to piece together what the hell was going on.

  No way in hell was I ending this call. I turned the volume up on my receiver and put the phone to my ear as best I could.

  “Muy, muy lindo,” I heard Chandler say. Very very pretty? What the fuck?

  The female voice spoke. “Sí, lindo como tú. Siempre sabia que pasarará.” My damn Spanish was still a little rusty, so I had to look up the last part of the phrase on my desktop computer. Phone pressed to my shoulder, I quickly Google translated the part I didn’t understand. Yes, pretty like you. I always knew this would happen.

  My blood ran cold, and then even colder when I heard glasses clink and a salud get said. There was silence, and a low rumbling of voices in the background. Were they at…a restaurant? A bar? Who the hell was this girl?

  Suddenly, I heard a baby crying in the background, and then Chandler’s unmistakeable voice. “Ohhh mi hijo!” The baby’s cries stopped as someone—Chandler?—picked it up and patted it on the back.

  “No pensé que era posible para mi tener un bebé. Es todo gracias a ti, Chandler. Todo por ti.”

  I translated as fast as I could, writing down anything I couldn’t understand immediately so I wouldn’t forget.

  I didn’t think it was possible for me to have a baby. It’s all thanks to you, Chandler. Everything because of you.

  My pulse sped up to ramming speed and my heart tried to break out of my chest. I could not believe my ears. It was like a movie or something. My worst nightmare: Chandler, cheating on me and all the while playing me. I was such a fool, a damn hopeless fool.

  Chandler chuckled. “Gracias,” came his reply.

  I felt faint. Ill. My heart beating so fast in my chest that it made breathing normally difficult. I was past angry or heartbroken. I was just numb from shock, and I felt my knees give out. My eyelids fluttered, and then everything went black.

  Twenty-Eight

  Chandler

  I loved the Spanish style of eating out late at night, even with a recently born baby. It was the middle of the week and the hole-in-the-wall restaurant was fairly sedate. Doña Maria's son, Mateo, was just three months old and she wanted some air from her baby daddy, so we arranged a meet up after my flight back from my game in France earlier in the evening.

  The meet up with Doña Maria was unexpected, but appreciated. I’d felt off for the last couple of weeks, partially due to Amy’s absence. I no longer felt like going out every night. Maybe my party lifestyle was coming to an end? Surprisingly, I felt at ease about that.

  I didn’t feel at ease, however, about the envelope that I’d been carrying around with me since the night Amy had given it to me. I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to know who my father was. Maybe it could help my psyche to know him, sure. Maybe I’d learn how he had a hard life, wanted to be there for me but couldn’t.

  Somehow, though, I didn’t see a tender moment happening to us. I had a feeling that it would be rather anticlimactic.

  I blocked my own issues out of my mind as I sat on the patio with Maria. She somehow attributed the fact that she was able to have a child in her forties to Amy and me. In between news about her newborn boy, I had gushed about my whirlwind week.

  I’d known all along that would happen, she had said, in so many words. In fact, she went as far as to say that the spark between Amy and I had been evident, even when we were in college and living abroad together. She insisted that she thought we were hooking up constantly, and was actually surprised when I told her that no, we had never hooked up until just a few weeks ago after our chance encounter on the plane.

  And she said that, she and her boyfriend, now fiancé, had been inspired by Amy and me in a way she couldn't quite put into words. Looking at us, she just knew we were bound for love, and, as she kept joking, marriage.

  "It was only for a week and a half that we were together. I feel like this conversation may not be appropriate." I stopped myself short of going into detail about my sex life with Amy.

  "Por favor, Chandler. Dime los detalles. Quiero detalles.
Details."

  "You want details? Well, the details are, I’m fucking in love. And I’m also fucked. What am I going to do, convince her to uproot everything she’s built in her twenties and move here? Her life is in Chicago. My life is in Barcelona."

  "So why no do not start life a new, the two of you, together in one place?"

  Her grammar wasn't perfect, but in spite of that she sounded wise as hell. In fact, maybe her slightly improper grammar made her sound smarter, like a Spanish Yoda of sorts. Was it really that simple? I stared at Maria’s son, who stared right back at me with a mischievous look in his eyes.

  Kids. A family. Marriage. Being a husband. A father…all things I’d sworn off without even a second thought. My decision had been made as a teenager but they’d been my motto for over a decade. Sitting here, I was thinking that I was running away for reasons I wasn’t even sure of anymore. I had told Amy we had to stop running or we’d repeat ourselves. And we had, but this time, knowingly. And I knew that was mostly on me. Amy wasn’t going to put herself out there if she already sensed I wouldn’t.

  When Mateo gurgled-giggled, I snapped out of it, and found Maria watching me just like she always has. "I just…I don’t know,” I said, helplessly. “I have no friends in Chicago. I’m a country boy everywhere but in Barcelona."

  "You make friends easily," she said, knowingly. “Excuses.”

  I grinned, agreeing. "Good point, on both accounts. But I would have to do something else besides basketball. And I like basketball."

  "No understand. United States not play basketball?"

  I hedged. "Well, yes, we do. But I'm not good enough to play in that league."

  "Not good enough?" she repeated. Then, rocking her baby, she asked me a question that sent me reeling: "Why not good enough?"

  I laughed awkwardly, thinking back to the time when Amy had similarly tried to convince me I was good enough to play in the U.S. Some people just didn’t understand how tough it was to even be a bench warmer in the NBA. There were millions of kids who grew up with the dream, when in reality, there were only thirty teams times twelve players on each of those teams. And only six of those players really got any playing time. So the odds of me making it were not good. I spared Doña Maria the complicated math.

  "Trust me, I'm better off here," I summarized.

  "Why you not at least try? Que vas a perder? What will you lose, mi hijo?"

  I sipped my drink and nodded. My gaze drifted off into the street. What did I have to lose by putting a few feelers out to the NBA? Nothing, really.

  “Yo no pensé que iba a tener un hijo a los cuarenta. Pero ahora sí. Y es mi vida.”

  “And I’m so glad you did have a son, Maria,” I said, watching the boy stare at me. “And he’s a beautiful boy.”

  She smiled warmly as she bounced the baby boy on her knee. For almost midnight, the boy was pretty damn playful. A Spanish night owl in the making.

  “Anda, Chandler. You are distressed. Maybe you and Amy will be together, maybe not. But you must try.”

  Fuck. Yes. I must try. Maybe it wouldn’t work out. Just like maybe the NBA wouldn’t work. But if I didn’t at least give it a fair shot, I’d be kicking myself forever.

  “Dammit Doña Maria, you and Le Ral with your love advice—how did you get to be so wise?”

  ***

  When I got home that night, I did something I hadn’t done in ages: I Googled the standings for the NBA and did a little research. Normally, I didn’t give two shits about professional basketball in the United States because I was too busy doing my own damn thing. February was the month that teams who were trying to make a run at the playoffs typically looked for last second additions to their roster. Generally, there were two types of players they looked to add: big men and three point shooters. "Big" in the NBA meant seven feet or taller, so at 6’3” I was basically a midget by professional basketball standards. Everyone always laughed when I told them this. I would always remind them that even Steph Curry was only 6’4”. So naturally, I fell into the bucket of three-point shooters.

  I knew I wouldn't get a starting spot right away, but I might come in late in the game and nail a key shot or two. The point was that I'd have the opportunity to work my way into the lineup for a team that might want me. If I kept improving, I’d get my shot, that much I knew.

  Truthfully, the only reason I was even giving myself a chance at being in the NBA was my recent hot shooting streak, which had only begun since Amy arrived. Once it had continued after she left, it became less of a streak and instead just the way I played every day. All of the players and coaches had noticed my new and improved focus on the court. Maybe part of it was due to the fact that I had cut back on the drinking and the partying and was putting in extra time in the gym; instead, I was getting at least five hundred extra shots a day in. My logic was strange but made sense to me: what was the point of partying if Amy wasn’t there? I couldn’t have fun anymore unless I was with her, or going home to talk to her on Skype, which was getting old. I missed her presence, doing stuff with her, doing everything with her. I think even Jessica was sad when Amy didn’t come back with me the day she’d left.

  Only Le Ral really knew the truth about what to attribute it to, but since we had taken down Serbia's squad of stars—most of them had NBA interest—now we were the favorites to win the EuroBasket. And I was the reason.

  According to Bleacher Report, there were a few teams in the NBA who desperately were in need of a late season sharp shooter who could hit key shots late in games. I noted the teams, and then fired off an email to a college buddy of mine who was an intern for an agency. I included links to a couple of my highlight reels and press releases from recent games. Hopeful those would state my case to perhaps at least get a team to look at me, or maybe fly me in for a tryout. I had no agent so I had to do all the legwork myself.

  When I pressed ‘send’, I felt something I hadn't in quite some time: anxiety over basketball. For the last four years, I'd stayed in my comfort zone in a lot of ways. I'd played in the league that was easiest for me, where I’d be a big deal. I'd run away from my family, who I never really got along with fully. And last but not least, I'd dated in my comfort zone. I stuck to superficial relationships that were a mile long and an inch deep. One-night stands and ten-night stands that I knew weren’t going anywhere.

  On the surface, I probably looked like I had everything going for me. But the truth was, for the past year, I’d had a nagging feeling that something was missing. That I wasn’t fulfilling my potential. Things that used to seem fun—staying up all night drinking, beating an opponent by fifty points—weren’t fun anymore. Amy reentering my life had made that even more obvious. My thoughts on family and the long-term future still scared me but Amy was the one woman that I could see that life with and it could be a great life.

  Slowly, through our Skype calls, I’d finally started working out my issues with my family, at my disconnection from them and had even thought about rebuilding those relationships, aside from my birth father, who I still didn’t care to look up. The envelope she’d gotten me on him remained on my kitchen counter, where I’d tossed it after our final dinner. Still, Amy’s encouragement and her telling me about her relationships with her own family made me think that I hadn’t tried hard enough. That I’d taken the easy route instead of accepting that even a little effort could go a long way. I’d also never tried to understand my mom and the choices she’d made. I guess a part of me had taken up psychology as my major for that reason on top of learning how to get into my opponent’s head.

  I was seeing my life in ways I’d never ever thought of. Since Amy’s departure, there was this strange void wherever I went. My apartment felt so empty and just…not a home. Amy had made it feel homey with her cooking, just sitting with me at breakfast or watching TV with me. My life was so empty, had been for years. All I’d had that meant a damn thing to me was basketball. That wasn’t enough. Not anymore. I could choose to live the old life and pret
end I didn’t feel hollow and lonely or I could do something about it.

  I took a deep breath, not sure why I felt suddenly stressed. Amy and I hadn't planned to Skype tonight, but I still wanted to talk to her. I texted her to see if she was around, and then logged into my Skype account. There was no answer from my text, but to my surprise her name popped up when I logged in, as she was logged onto her account.

  I smiled as I pressed call, and I realized why I’d felt stressed. It had been two days since I’d talked with her. Her schedule had been packed yesterday, then with my game today in France, I thought I might be at the airport or flying, but we managed to catch an early flight back.

  The call was picked up, but confusion ran through me when someone else answered. When the video came into focus, I recognized the person as Amy’s friend who I had met on Skype a few weeks ago.

  “Uh, hello there,” I said, only able to offer a confused smile. “Andrea?”

  “Yes, Chandler.” She spoke my name like she was spitting venom.

  “Oh. Well…good to see you again. Where is Amy?”

  She shook her head. “Wow. You are really something, aren’t you? You’ve got some fucking nerve. You want to know where I am? I’ll tell you. I’m at Illinois Masonic Hospital in Chicago with Amy. I was trying to figure out what she was last doing on her computer when she passed out cold in the office tonight.”

  My adrenaline skyrocketed. “Amy passed out?! Is she okay?!”

  “Yes, I found her in the office when I came by to pick up a few documents I needed. And thank God I did, because she hit her head as she went to the ground. And wouldn’t you know the only words I could get out of her in her weakened state?”

  I didn’t like where this was going. “What?”

  “Chandler. Cheater.”

  My heart jumped out of my throat and I swallowed, trying to tamp it back town. “Okay. I don’t get it. I’m honestly not quite understanding why she would say that.”