Dunkin and Donuts

by Lyons, Daralyse

  “Well, your mom has this weird thing about getting you kids married off. She always said that, the way Gabe loved you, if you were ever out of options, you could do worse than ending up with him.”

  “I’d rather be alone than with the wrong person, Dad.”

  “He’s a nice kid, Shayla. Anyway, we don’t have to worry about a plan B for you. It looks like you’ve found the one.”

  “I didn’t know you cared about getting me married off.”

  “Frankly, I don’t. I want what’s best for you. It just happens to work out incredibly well for me if what makes you happy also makes your mother happy.”

  I smile. As much as I sometimes resent my mother for her insistence on micromanaging my love-life, she and Dad have a good thing going on and I hope one day to find the kind of love that they have.

  The cars outside the Madras’ house stretch all the way down the block so we park on a side street then backtrack, walking toward the blue and white colonial where Gabe grew up.

  Now, I wonder if Gabe’s mother will continue to live in the house or if the memories of her newly-deceased husband will be too much for her. A lifetime of accumulated objects, shared heartache, laughter and joys. I can’t imagine that kind of loss and it is for her that I am here—her and Gabe and the childhood me who used to trick-or-treat in this neighborhood far past the age of adorable when I was too old to be begging for candy but did so anyway because I could. And because I’ve always loved mini candy bars—large sized too, come to think of it.

  When Dad and I enter the foyer, I recognize a lot of faces from my childhood. Gabe and I grew up together, had a lot of the same childhood friends and our parents had been friends with each other. I smile the appropriate sad smile that one wears at funerals and wakes, the smile that says, “I would be happy to see you if the circumstances were different. As it is, know that I am grateful that you and I are alive and that we share a past.”

  The bittersweet smile of the still living. Each person wears his or her upturned frown briefly then passes it to the next, none of us wanting to seem joyous on this somber occasion. People tell Mr. Madras stories. There is some laughter, a few tears. It’s sad but not devastating. At least not for me. I didn’t know Mr. Madras well and I didn’t like him all that much.

  “Shayla, you look great! It’s good to see you.”

  I turn around to see Gabe, standing tall in a black suit with his hair brushed rakishly into a bouffant.

  “Hey Shay.” I’ve always hated being called Shay. I’m not a frigging Stadium. But, the guy’s dad just died so I don’t say anything.

  “Hi Gabe,” my own dad says, taking his hand. “We are so very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Gabe nods.

  “Yeah. I’m really, really sorry. It must be so hard to lose your dad. Was it unexpected?” I ask sympathetically.

  “Yes and no. Dad took piss-poor care of himself and had somewhat of a temper. He’d get himself all riled up about little things. Even watching football, he’d scream at the TV so loud that my mom would yell at him ‘Harry you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack!’ I guess she called it.”

  His sad half-smile is the most heartbreaking smile I’ve ever seen. He’s trying too hard to pretend to be okay, but his performance isn’t convincing. Gabe has never been stoic. He’s the most sensitive straight man I’ve ever known. My heart goes out to him.

  “Come here,” I tell him, wrap my arms around him, and give this man who I knew as a boy a hug.

  He hugs me back and, as he hugs me, he starts to cry. I hold him. He shakes with the weight of his grief.

  When I finally pull away, Gabe turns his eyes on me and whispers, “I love you Shayla.”

  “Thanks. I really do love you too Gabe. I mean, we grew up together.”

  “No. I love you,” he repeats.

  The words hit me like a ton of bricks. It was a mistake to come. I knew it. How do you tell a guy at his father’s funeral that you’re just not that into him? I should’ve listened more closely to Gabe’s Aunt Shirley’s words. The one that got away. Shit. Apparently, not far enough away, that is. I decide that the best tactic is diversion. No way I’m going to kick a man while he’s down by refusing him outright.

  “You’re grieving,” I tell him. “This isn’t the time to worry about all this. Focus on your dad right now. He deserved that much.”

  This seems to quiet him. “You’re right,” he says, misunderstanding me entirely. “There’ll be time for us in the future. After this.”

  I am about to tell him that that’s not what I said—and certainly not what I meant—when my dad intervenes, taking my arm and nudging me toward the door.

  “It was good seeing you Gabe. Sorry about the circumstances. Hang in there. You’ll get through this,” Dad says kindly.

  We’re out the door and heading back to the car before I can say a word.

  “Why’d you drag me outa there?” I ask.

  “Because that poor kid doesn’t need you rejecting him just days after his father has died.”

  I refrain from pointing out that Gabe isn’t a kid anymore, hasn’t been for years.

  “Besides,” Dad says, “that was the grief talking. No one is so desperate as to hold onto a high school crush. I mean, you are incredibly lovable, but you and Gabe were just kids when you dated. He can’t still be in love with you after all these years.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  I felt a bump as I drove over something, offered up a silent prayer that my car would be okay, and continued driving. After a half mile or so, I began to feel the slightly lopsided tilt of my car and knew what had happened. Something must’ve punctured my tire. I’d gotten a flat.

  I hate to admit this, but I’ve admitted a wealth of other embarrassing information so I’ll share this little tidbit too. I don’t know how to change a tire. I never bothered to learn. I should have. My dad even offered to teach me once, but my mother, in her infinite wisdom, pointed out that attractive women could usually find a man to change a flat for them.

  “I’ve never changed a tire in my life, and I’ve gotten a lot of flats,” she’d smiled.

  I wasn’t sure if I had declined my father’s offer to teach me due to my mother’s assertion that good looks are an escape hatch out of manual labor or purely out of laziness. We had, after all, been watching Casablanca for the hundredth time when Dad suggested taking me outside and giving me a lesson. I hadn’t wanted to turn off the movie. Anyway, the fact remains that I don’t know how to change a tire. And here I am with a flat. My solution? Call my dad.

  He answers on the second ring.

  “Hey, Dad. Are you busy?”

  “Shayla? What’s wrong?”

  I never call my dad at the office so the fact that I am phoning him at 3:30 on the way home from work—the sound of passing traffic as background noise in the distance—must be disconcerting for him. Plus, my dad can always read my tone of voice.

  “Are you okay, honey?” From his voice, I can tell that he is worried about me.

  “I got a flat tire.”

  “Where are you? I’ll be right there.”

  I tell him the address, then put on my flashers and sit in the car hoping that I am far enough over on the shoulder that no one will hit me. I just got my car back from the mechanic not too long ago where they fixed the rear bumper from the hit-and-run incident. Another accident will surely be the death sentence for my currently affordable insurance plan. Not to mention the fact that I could be severely injured if someone driving by hits me. I suddenly have a newfound compassion for all of those broken down drivers I went speeding by doing 70 on I-76.

  My dad, my hero! He pulls up behind me fifteen minutes later.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just a little annoyed.”

&
nbsp; He surveys the damage to my left front tire. “What happened?”

  “I drove over some glass,” I say.

  “Okay. Well, pop the trunk. I need to get the spare.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  My dad goes into the trunk. But, instead of emerging with the spare tire, comes out brandishing a bright pink dildo.

  Oh crap! I must’ve forgotten the sex shop paraphernalia in my trunk the other night. I blush the same shade of pink as the artificial penis.

  My dad clears his throat. “Is everything okay?” he asks. “Are you and Dunkin still…?”

  What does he think that I’ve resorted to prostitution, that I’m involved in deviant sexual behavior, that I’m a sexual surrogate or mixed up in some sort of booty on-demand situation?

  “Oh, yeah. Dunkin and I are great,” I say.

  He holds up the dildo, waving it around right there on the side of the road.

  “I haven’t actually used any of that stuff, Daddy,” I say, making excuses for myself even though I really don’t have to explain.

  Suddenly, I am eight years old again, imploring my dad not to be disappointed in me after I’ve done something wrong.

  Then, he surprises me by laughing. “Well, Shayla, I guess we’re long past the birds and the bees discussion, aren’t we?”

  I laugh too. He puts the dildo back in the trunk and pulls out the spare tire.

  “Okay, princess. As you’ve just demonstrated, you’re old enough for… you know. So you’re old enough to learn to change a tire.”

  He rolls up his sleeves and we get to work. It’s good that we have something to talk about other than the bag of goodies in the trunk. I pretend to be enthralled by hubcaps and lug nuts.

  When we’re done, I give my dad a hug of thanks.

  “I love you, Daddy,” I tell him.

  “I love you too, honey.”

  As he gets back into his car, he rolls down the window. “Hey, Shayla, a word of caution.”

  I think he’s going to warn me about the dangers of driving on a flat or caution me about my need to replace the donut sooner than later.

  Instead, he says, “If you’re gonna use something that big, you’ll want to invest in some lube. Your mother and I learned that the hard way.”

  Before I can open my mouth to reply—not that I am capable of a retort—he drives away leaving me with a mental image I can’t easily shake. And I certainly don’t care to relive it again by describing it here. Suffice it to say, I avoid both my parents for the next week.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  I’m not exactly a “gym person.” But, lest I seem like the laziest, most out-of-shape woman on the planet, I should inform you that I do occasionally work out. Not often, but enough to keep my butt from spilling out of my jeans and my arms from jiggling too badly in tank tops. For the most part, I prefer walking, the occasional exercise class, a nice bike ride through the park, or a spirited game of Marco Polo with some friends. Dunkin, on the other hand, has a fitness center in his basement and is possessed of an impressive set of abs and a butt that could crack a walnut. Not that I’ve ever tested this walnut-cracking theory, but you get the idea.

  Deciding that, perhaps, my boyfriend and I should go to the gym together one Sunday morning instead of our usual donut-eating and couch potato-ing rituals (by which I mean lazing around the house and interrupting our lounging with sex), I say on Saturday night, “Dunkin, wanna go to the gym with me tomorrow?”

  “Sure! Sounds fun,” he agrees eagerly.

  It is only after he says this that realization dawns. Working out with my boyfriend will most decidedly not be fun. The gym is never fun. The gym is a virtual minefield of opportunities for self-deprecation. Last time I was at the gym, I had the misfortune of being sandwiched between two obvious athletes on the elliptical machine. As I steadily trudged my way forward at a slow trot, they ran furiously beside me. And, contrary to what I tell my kindergarteners, it is the hare and not the tortoise that, more often than not, ends up winning the race. Not that there was a race. I’d just felt inadequate. If the three of us had been running on a track, they’d have lapped me several times. I left the workout feeling like a complete failure. The last thing I want to do is have my boyfriend see me exercising and judge me.

  Will Dunkin view my athletic performance and conclude that I am lazy? If so, I tell myself, I’m sure he won’t care. Besides, he already knows that I’m lazy. Most times, we lounge around the house napping and eating and making love and he’s absolutely on board with that…

  “I think you’ll look incredibly sexy, all sweaty and whatnot.” Dunkin’s words interrupt my runaway thought train.

  But, rather than reassuring me, they offer yet another cause for anxiety. Dunkin will, indeed, be seeing me in all my sweat hog glory. Oh crap! I hadn’t thought about that, about the layer of sweat that, rather than offering an aphrodisiac, will plaster my hair to my skull, turn my face a bright shade of red, and give off an offensive odor. Sweat is far from sexy. I should have thought this through before extending my invitation. But, it’s too late to back out now so I may as well make the best of it.

  “Let’s make a cool workout playlist,” I suggest. “So we can get pumped up while we pump up.”

  Dunkin wraps an arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head approvingly.

  “You’re adorable,” he tells me. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

  I take a deep breath and decide that Dunkin is a keeper. I tell myself that I have nothing to be insecure about. Even though I don’t understand why, Dunkin adores me. So who cares if he sees me sweaty? I need to stop thinking like my mother. Oh, God, have I become my mother? I look down at the empty pizza box on the coffee table and breathe a sigh of relief. No way I’m anything like my mother. I eat carbs.

  Anyway, Dunkin and I spend the next thirty minutes finding a variety of hip hop and rap songs guaranteed to put some pep in our respective steps. I drift off to sleep with Sir-Mix-A-Lot on the brain.

  “My anaconda don’t want none unless you’ve got buns, hon.”

  “Wake up, sleepyhead!” Dunkin shakes me awake. It’s 8:30 Sunday morning. “Time to work out!”

  “You mean we have to wake up early just to exercise?” I wipe the sleep from my eyes and scowl at him disapprovingly.

  “I made us breakfast smoothies. I figure we’ll work out, come back here, grab a shower, and then I can take you out for brunch.”

  I am barely conscious when he hands me my smoothie. Granted, 8:30 a.m. isn’t exactly early, but I had two glasses of wine with dinner last night and we went to bed around 1:00 a.m. To bed, that is. Not to sleep. So, I’m pretty beat. Still, I don my favorite pair of sneakers, yoga pants, and a T-shirt and tie my hair up into a quick ponytail. Glancing in the mirror, I see that I don’t look half-bad. I could be a real workout fiend. I am no Mindy Lahiri from The Mindy Project in bedazzled workout gear. I’m the real deal.

  The Rocky theme song comes to mind as I sprint down—not up, as in the movie—Dunkin’s steps.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  “Can you grab me a water bottle?”

  “One step ahead of you.” Dunkin holds up two water bottles, two towels, and some gizmo that I guess is either a pedometer or a heart rate monitor.

  I don’t ask for specifics because it’s too early in the morning for an explanation of exercise technology. Instead, I grab one of the water bottles out of his hands and take a sip.

  “Great. Then I’m ready,” I say, even though I’m thinking that I’d give anything for a donut and another hour of sleep.

  Walking out into the cool morning air, the breeze invigorates and motivates me.

  “That’ll wake you up!” I exclaim. “And so will this.” I gesture toward my half-finished smoothie which is pr
etty delicious. Do I detect a hint of pineapple?

  My mood lifts considerably. Dunkin puts on some music and, before long, we’re singing and car dancing together. As we drive to the gym, I’m pretty stoked about this together time with my boyfriend, especially about seeing him in his element. I imagine that Dunkin will become so immersed in his workout that, at some point, he’ll cast off his t-shirt, revealing his chiseled chest, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, take me in his arms and –

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing,” I say guiltily.

  Dunkin finds a parking spot in front of LA Fitness and we walk inside together. I’ve been paying for a gym membership here for years, although I rarely go. I hand the front desk person a guest pass for Dunkin, flash him my ID and we are in. There’s no turning back now.

  “So how do you want to do this?” Dunkin asks. “You wanna workout together-together, as in do the same things or do you wanna each do our own thing?”

  “Well, let’s do cardio together then split up for weights. I’m not exactly a big bench presser.”

  He laughs. “Okay, sounds like a plan.”

  Dunkin finds us two treadmills together. I set mine for a brisk walking pace and he sets his on maximum running speed and we’re off, each grooving out to the soundtrack we made last night. Wow! I hadn’t realized how explicit some of these lyrics were. I hear the c-word used three times in short succession followed by a few f-bombs and hope my ear buds are securely in place and that no music is escaping.

  Dunkin is running beside me—fast—seemingly unaware of the lascivious lyrics. I up my pace a notch to a slow, meandering jog just so I look like I’m actually working out. I smile at him. He winks at me.

  “Great music!” he yells, bobbing his head along to the beat and mouthing a few of the lyrics.

  I am slightly winded so conserve my energy by not responding with words. Instead, I give him two-thumbs up and nod my agreement.