by Clare James
That’s when I learned that nice guys finish last and became a cynical POS. Forget the chick flicks where the nerd triumphs and gets the girl – all that Michael Cera bullshit. Doesn’t happen. Unless you’re Mark Zuckerberg or Jack Dorsey, and are on your way to making billions.
I’m ashamed to admit that’s where my motivation for the new improved Tristan Green came from. I thought I could erase Aria with a new life, with other women maybe. But I knew I needed to make some serious changes to do that. I needed money, success, and some freaking confidence. It’s why I went away to MIT. It’s also why I started my own company. And why I worked around the clock and spent every cent I had on my latest idea.
At least that’s how it started out.
It worked. Once I got out of Dodge, my lanky body filled out, my social anxiety began to dissolve, and I started acing all of my classes. Soon after, women were no longer an issue.
Not that you’d know that now. As the clock ticks closer to seven, I’m coming undone and clearly losing my cool.
Confidence? Out the window.
Upper lip? Beaded in sweat.
Nails? Chewed down to the quick.
Hair? A big, kinky 1970s bush, after continuously running my hands through it.
Balls? Blue, as they have been since she came back into town.
Yep, in the span of ten minutes, I’ve gone from Magic Mike to Jonah Hill.
Where are the assless chaps when you need them?
Pacing around the room, I listen as the waves crash on the beach outside the door. The door I’m willing to open with my Jedi mind tricks. Forget everything I’ve done over the past three years: the start-ups; the research; the hours behind the computer. None of it matters now because I’ve become a pathetic shell of the new improved man, like the kid I was in high school. The dorky computer geek who always landed in the fucking friend zone.
In less than a month, I’ve morphed back into that guy. Waiting on that girl. My mind races on an endless loop of insecurities. Will she do it again? Will she stand me up? Will she leave?
I know I shouldn’t care. I have options a-plenty these days. Still, I want her. A few hours is all I’m asking for. It’s all we need. One day a week. Four days each month. Fifty-two goddamn times a year.
On the other three-hundred-fourteen days, we could go back to business as usual. She would pretend not to notice me in town and I’d pretend that I hate her sweet little ass. But for a few glorious hours, we could be free of all that. No more lies, or games, or playing pretend.
All she has to do is…say yes.
Aria
We’ve been driving for almost two days now, stopping only for bathroom breaks and one short night at Super 8 so we could get some decent sleep. The car smells like fast food. I smell like fast food. And quite possibly sweat. I move my hands from ten and two and rest them at five and seven to keep the odor at bay. I left my deodorant in our rush to get out. I left a lot of things.
My phone buzzes and I snag it from the dash so I don’t wake Caden in the backseat.
“Hello,” I whisper, not even bothering to check the caller ID. There’s only one person who’d be calling me. Only one person who cares.
“Aria,” my mother says. A dramatic exhale follows. “How’s the drive going? I’ve been so worried.”
“We’re doing okay,” I tell her. “We’ll be home by evening.”
“Oh, honey,” she says. “I’m so sorry for everything, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t out of my mind happy to have you coming home. I even set up a room for Cade. You’ll be very comfortable, I promise.”
“You didn’t have to do that, Mom. We can share a room. It’s okay, really.”
“Nonsense. It’s only right that he has his own room.”
I know she doesn’t have the space for it. After all, my childhood home is the rented apartment above our family’s diner. But there’s no point in arguing with her. There never is.
“Did you have time to pick up the material I need for school?” I change the subject.
I decided that if I was moving back home, I’d at least better myself while I was here. Not that I had a choice in the move. I hope to get into classes at K.U. in St. Petersburg. I’m thinking nursing makes the most sense, if I can overcome my aversion to blood and pain. Thankfully, there’s still time to get into the summer courses – if I get all the material in this week.
“Everything is ready,” Mom says. “You just get home.”
“I’m trying,” I say with a lump in my throat. “I’m really trying.”
The drive south has been achingly long. My neck is stiff and my butt is sore, so I shift my weight from cheek to cheek. Outside the car, it grows warmer and greener with each passing mile and it is such a welcome sight. We are finally making it into the light. Not like Iowa was Siberia or anything. The change of seasons was beautiful to experience, but the winters seemed to drag on for months. The first snowfall would come by Thanksgiving and often stay until Easter. It was nothing like I thought it’d be. But I guess that’s what happens when you live for someone else’s dream instead of your own.
Still, I wouldn’t take it back. Not for anything.
I stop for gas once we cross the border into Florida. Shedding my coat, I let the spring sun warm my bare arms. I can almost feel my skin soaking in the vitamin D. The other customers look at me like I’m crazy because sixty degrees is jacket weather down here. But my blood has thickened over the past three and a half years, and it feels like a heat wave to me. I practically skip inside the station to pay, keeping an eye on the car, and grab some M&Ms – Cade’s favorite. Then, I begin the last leg of our journey home.
I actually release a cleansing breath when I see the sign that reads: Clearwater 30 miles. My home is just a few miles past the city in the sleepy beach village of Gulf Bay. Our home now. My taut frame sinks into the seat in relief, and for the first time in weeks, my lips turn up in a smile.
Soon, the stirring in the backseat has me taking peeks at the review mirror. My everything is in that backseat – the only thing I need to be okay. He’s finally waking up.
“Mommy,” he says, his voice groggy with sleep.
“Hi, Peanut Butter,” I answer, taking another look in the mirror. My little man with his wide brown eyes. He’s got my dark features, but his father’s killer smile.
“Are we at Grandma’s yet?” he asks in a yawn.
“Almost,” I tell him. “But remember, it’s going to be our house too.”
“Daddy too?” he asks.
“I don’t think so, buddy.”
“Because of the bevorce?”
“Yeah baby, because of the bevorce. But don’t worry. We have Grandma, Auntie Serena, Uncle Jack and Auntie Philly, and your cousins all waiting for us. You’re going to love it in Florida.”
Cade doesn’t cry or ask about his dad again, he just gets quiet. That’s almost worse. I’d do anything to take away his pain and his confusion, anything to keep him safe and happy. It’s what I’ve always done.
Since I found out I was pregnant at the end of senior year, every choice I’ve made has been for Cade. I thought Alex was on the same page; I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Alex Anders. Captain of the high school football team. Gorgeous. Top college prospect. One night stand. Father of my child.
It was a shock at first, of course. The kind of shock that has you taking twenty different pregnancy tests and praying to any God who will listen, but in the end, it was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Once the realization set in, I made the most of it and did what I had to do. I never looked back. Well maybe once or twice, though that had to do more with Alex than Cade.
I found out I was pregnant in the spring; Alex and I married in the summer; we moved to Iowa for his football scholarship in the fall. By Christmas, Cade was born and we were a happy family of three.
Until we weren’t.
Since I didn’t work, I was responsible for Cade one hundr
ed percent of the time. As in everything, every second of the day. Alex needed his rest and his workouts. He had to study and do important things – like most of the cheer team, apparently.
Cade and I were too loud, too annoying, too… there. Soon, Alex wasn’t. He began spending his days and nights and weekends away from us. This past year, since he declared for the draft, has been the worst – we’ve hardly seen him. It’s been workouts and interviews and traveling all over the country. I should’ve known it was coming, seen the writing on the wall, but I couldn’t let go.
I’d like to say I hung on just for Cade, but it was for me too. I held onto the hope that Alex’s change of heart was a phase or adjustment because I couldn’t stand the thought of breaking up our family. But when Alex was confident he’d be drafted by an NFL team, something that was questionable after a wrist injury last season, he decided he’d make our new separate living situation permanent.
It was all very orchestrated. He must’ve been planning it for quite some time. The papers were delivered well before the draft and before he signed any paperwork with the Packers, before I’d be entitled to any of the money. It hurt that he’d even think any of that mattered to me.
I signed the papers forfeiting my right to any compensation – for myself or for Cade. But at least that way, I would have full custody and permission to take Cade across state lines.
So at the ripe old age of twenty-one – when most girls are in school, going to parties, and sowing their oats (wild and otherwise) – I’m going home to rebuild my life after my failed marriage, while caring for a toddler on my own. And that would be just fine, if I could be sure I wasn’t leaving one set of bad memories for another.
Fucking bevorce.
Tristan
She came to town on a Wednesday. More like floated in with the breeze. No fanfare. No welcome wagon. One day she was a distant memory. And the next? She’s at the supermarket buying fruit like it was no big deal. She slid in under the radar, like an annoying little mosquito you don’t notice until it’s draining your blood.
Aria Prince, or was it Anders? I made it my business not to know. Once she left town with him, after I poured my fucking heart out to her and tried to stop the wedding, I left too. I didn’t want to be close to anything that reminded me of her.
Yet here I am, almost four years later, with absolutely no idea what I’m in for.
I curse the uncomfortable pull-out couch and take a few gulps of coffee before I gather all the pill bottles. I have to be alert for this job. This is how I begin each day now. Forget about work and the excitement of creating the next big thing. Forget about the weekends celebrating with a wide array of women knocking down my door. I’m now a glorified pill pusher.
I wish I had a better attitude about the whole thing, but I don’t. A selfish bastard is what I am and I want to go back to my selfish ways. I want it bad.
Alas, my twenty-one-year-old bachelor life is a thing of the past. Instead, I’m back in my hometown – with its ghosts and memories and heartache. My life at a standstill.
“Hey, Pops,” I say, bringing Dad his daily drugs. “How are you feeling today?”
Dad makes his usual morning grumbling sound.
I’ve been back home for a few months, but I’ve managed to stay on the down low. There are plenty of people I went to high school with who never left this place. The lazy beach vibe has been known to suck away ambition of even the best and brightest. When I first got into town, I heard from everyone. I was new blood, gossip fodder, and to some, a promising hook-up option. I hate to say I used Dad’s condition as an excuse to keep my distance, but it was easier that way.
Okay, maybe I stumbled a few times. After all, it was no secret that I had a healthy appetite when it came to women. But those little trip-ups were completely unfulfilling. One situation, in particular, continued to bring about waves of guilt. This wasn’t LA anymore, and a random hook-up around here was sure to come back to bite you in the ass. A piss in the wind, no doubt.
Everyone thinks I’m all noble coming back home, but I admit I’m only doing it out of obligation and for the money. Dad was always a son of a bitch. Always. But he had a stroke and has long since drained the goodwill out of anyone he’s ever known. No real friends; no close family; even Mom packed up and took off in the night when I was in junior high — and old enough to care for myself, as she put it.
It’s just me and Heddy, Dad’s assistant, left.
Before the stroke, things weren’t going all that well for me in California. I had once again exhausted all my money on an idea that didn’t work and I was back to square one. That’s the thing about technology – she’s a finicky bitch. Dad had cut me off once I dropped out of school to start my first company, so I was more than surprised when Heddy called asking me to come home. Dad had a proposition for me: take care of him, and his business, until he was back on his feet and I would get half the profits when he sold it off next year.
It’s an investment I couldn’t pass up. One year of service and I’d be several hundred thousand dollars richer. Sounded like a no-brainer at the time, but so far, it’s proving to be more difficult than I thought. There’s more to his window supply company than I initially anticipated, and Dad’s health is far worse than Heddy let on. He’s basically bed-ridden and I seriously wonder if he’ll ever fully recover. Plus, the accommodations aren’t exactly the most comfortable. Though Pop has a healthy bank account, you’d never know it by his possessions. After I moved out, he bought a small townhome near the industrial park. It’s a tiny, old one-bedroom space, which means I take residence in the living room on the sofa bed. And that’s more than depressing.
Would I have done it without the payment? Probably. I’m a sucker, and despite Dad’s knack for being the world’s biggest asshole, he always made sure I had everything I needed. I feel like I owe the guy one. I don’t know, maybe I also want a second chance with him and make up for lost time.
But will I take my cut at the end of the term? Abso-fucking-lutely. One year. Not like I’ll notice anyway. In addition to Dad’s company, I’m an adjunct professor at the small university close by, and I continue to keep my feet in the tech world, working with VCs on ideas for my next start-up. I basically work around the clock and hardly have a moment to myself.
After I have Dad’s meds taken care of, we go through his exercises. Then I turn on his TV program and go to work.
The next two hours fly by as I calculate commissions for the sales people, sign off on payroll, and order supplies. Most entrepreneurs that I know hate day-to-day business – they can’t focus. They are big picture people. For me, I don’t mind it. I can do both, which is an asset when trying to get companies to invest in my ideas. I speak their language. One reason why I had already created and sold three companies before I hit twenty-one. Too bad, I continue to sink my profits into the next best thing. It’s an addiction that doesn’t provide stability, something that drives my father insane, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stop. Or that I want to.
After finishing with all the tactical work, I work on our exit strategy – without Dad’s permission – listing potential buyers to take over the business as well as the option of selling it off in parts. I’m open to all and have to make sure Dad is too. He does well for himself, but it’s time to let the business go. Time for payback and, I’m not going to lie, I’m so ready to cash in. The money will help fund my new project – a social media idea I’ve been working on since high school, actually. A niggling idea that was always in the back of my mind, even when I was neck-deep in other ventures.
“Tristan,” Heddy says, jarring me from my daydream. “How’s the old buzzard doing today?” she asks.
Heddy is always a wonderful sight – plump, warm, and cheerful. Not to mention she smells like cookies. After Mom left, she was so good to us, bringing over dinner, baking my birthday cakes, dropping off presents at Christmas. I don’t know why she stood by my dad, but I’m so thankful she did.
/> These days, she’ll check in on him several times a week. We also have nurses who stop by, but only for a short time. That’s the thing. Dad doesn’t want to be in the care of strangers. That’s the whole purpose of our deal.
But on Wednesday, thank all that’s holy for Wednesday, Heddy gives me the night off. The entire night. She insists on it. She’ll arrive before dinner and stay until breakfast the next day. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought Pops was getting a little on the side, but who was I kidding? Poor guy needs help making it to the bathroom.
The first thing I do after Heddy takes over every Wednesday is go to the grocery store. I pick up the biggest steak I can find, grab a growler of craft beer from the local brewery, and head to the beach house. I tried to talk Dad into moving out there for the summer, but the place wasn’t really set up for someone with medical needs.
Sometimes I work, but mostly I enjoy the entire evening off. Free from any obligations, I run on the beach, watch movies, and read.
This particular Wednesday, however, the air is sucked from my lungs and I spend the rest of the night wound tighter than Heddy’s girdle.
When I first spot her, I can’t help but appreciate the view. I make my way past the produce to the butcher when a petite brunette with long, silky hair in a pair of low-slung yoga pants, that hug all her curves to perfection, catches my attention.
She is spectacular.
I actually stop right then and there and pretend to select apples, so I can enjoy the view a little longer. Jesus, I’m pathetic. It might actually be time to consider a local hook-up, just so I can get my head on right.
She turns around and my eyes go straight to her two ripe melons. Seriously. She’s holding two cantaloupes, judging which one is better. Cheesy jokes and lame pick-up lines run through my head. It’s so ridiculous, I laugh. A booming chuckle that has her looking up, curious about the racket I’m making. Once her eyes meet mine, the laughter comes to an abrupt halt and one of the melons drops to the floor.
