Jock Romeo

by Sara Ney

  But I’m not going to argue with my mother, not when my nerves are in full swing, the knots in my stomach wreaking havoc on a gut that’s also growling from hunger.

  I’m a mess.

  Me: I was kidding, Mom. What’s for dinner?

  Mom: Lasagna, and thank heavens I made a big pan of it—plenty to go around.

  Sweet. Another one of my favorites.

  I grab my keys off the counter and head toward my car, driving in the direction of the address Lilly supplied me with, slowly making my way down street after street—it’s not easy seeing the addresses with this sun setting. Many of the house numbers are hidden by trees or not there at all, not to mention there aren’t a lot of mailboxes along the road.

  If anyone is watching out their window at the slow speed of my car, they’ll definitely think I am a creep.

  Eventually, I find Lilly’s house.

  It’s directly across the street from the fancy administration building with a red brick exterior to match. It looks quite posh for off-campus housing, not so dissimilar from the house I’m living in, although it’s much smaller.

  My mother would describe it as cute.

  As I’m unbuckling my seat belt so I can go to the door and let her know I’ve arrived, that same door in question opens and Lilly steps out into the dark, cold afternoon. She gives me a little wave before shutting the door behind her and locking it with a key. Makes her way down the sidewalk, pulling her jacket tighter around her.

  “Brr!” she says as she climbs inside. “Who knew it was going to be this cold out tonight! I’m freezing.”

  She shivers, strapping herself in.

  “I love this time of year.”

  “Same—except for the cold part.” She laughs. “I love fall and winter, but mostly because of the decorations and pumpkin spice and delicious food.”

  “You always have food on the brain.”

  “I’m hungry!” She laughs again. “Don’t judge me—I burn a lot of calories from working out and practice. It’s a hazard of the beast.”

  Speaking of food… “We’re having lasagna tonight, so I’m glad you brought your appetite.”

  “Lasagna?” She moans. “Oh my god, I hope it’s extra cheesy—lasagna is my favorite.”

  “I thought spaghetti was your favorite.”

  “It is! But so is lasagna…and ravioli…and burgers, and lobster and shrimp and sushi…”

  “You just described everything.”

  “It’s a curse to be non-discriminating.” She glances over at me. “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “No problem. It’ll be fun tonight having someone else for my mom to dote over—all the attention will be on you, and I’ll actually be able to eat.”

  “Ha ha, not funny. Will she mind if I have noodles falling out of my mouth?”

  Yeah, she would mind, but she would never correct a guest for chewing with their mouth open. She would simply purse her own lips and turn her head in a different direction.

  Ha!

  “Also, you know I mentioned my aunt that lives with us? She’ll be home tonight.”

  Lilly studies me in the dim lighting created by the glowing streetlamps that have begun turning on one at a time.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well.” I clear my throat. “She’s practically a hundred years old, but she…er…acts like she’s twenty.”

  Lilly laughs. “And what does that mean?”

  “She’s into online dating and parties.”

  Her eyes damn near bulge out of her skull. “What! What? Wait. Explain.”

  “Which part did you want me to expand upon?”

  “I’m not sure—I have a thirst for both, but start with the online dating part.”

  I grip the wheel, grinning. “Well, let me start by saying her last boyfriend was a catfish. He said he was sixty-nine, but he was actually seventy-eight, which is still five years younger than she is.”

  “Wait—stop. An old dude tried to pass himself off as younger?”

  “Yes, and the thing is, Rich didn’t look like he was even remotely in his sixties. Super seventy.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She caught him because on their first date, he invited her to his place, and when he gave her his address, she reverse-searched it and got his full name. Which pulled up his age.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She chewed his ass out, but…” I pause to be dramatic, turning up the ramp to enter the freeway. “Went on the date.”

  “What happened?” Lilly is hanging on my every word.

  “They had piña coladas followed by dinner and wine, and Aunt Myrtle ended up puking on the carpet.”

  “Stop!” Lilly shouts, laughing. “No she did not! Then what?”

  “Then she passed out.”

  Lilly gasps. “No!”

  “Yes. She woke up and he was gone. He’d gone home.”

  “And left her there?”

  I nod. “Yup.”

  “Ew, what an asshole.”

  “I don’t think there’s an age limit for being a douchebag. So after that, she began trying to make him jealous by dating a surgeon—well, a retired surgeon. Rich didn’t take the bait, so they broke up and she met Dan.”

  “Who is Dan?”

  “Dan is eighty-five and takes Viagra.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told us about it at dinner one night. My ears were bleeding all the next day.”

  “I can’t even believe this. Even I don’t date this much!” Lilly slumps in the passenger seat. “This means dating doesn’t get any better as you get older, which totally sucks!”

  Tell me about it.

  Not that I’ve tried dating, although… “I feel like it’s easier for women than it is for me.”

  She looks at me. “How so?”

  “I don’t know…isn’t it easy for you to get dates? Guys must ask you out all the time, whereas zero people ask me out, ever.”

  Lilly’s snort is unladylike. “There is a huge difference between someone asking you out on an actual date as a possible love match that has long-term potential versus someone asking you out with the intention of sleeping with you. The problem is it’s hard to tell what that intention is until you’re sitting with someone across the table.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, a guy will ask you on a date, but what he actually means is: I’m trying to screw you.”

  “Why would a guy take you on an actual date if he’s only trying to screw you?” That makes no sense to me at all.

  “Because it’s rude to say ‘I want to bang you’ to someone’s face—he pretends he’s asking you out because he actually likes you and might care, when in fact that’s not the case at all. Does that make sense? A guy can be on a dating site with no intention of dating you at all.”

  “Doesn’t it get expensive going on all those dates when you just want to have sex with someone?”

  “I use the term date loosely. Mostly it’s a drink but not food. So is that a date? Maybe, maybe not. Do they want to chug down a beer and then take you back to their place? Almost always.” Her fingers pluck absentmindedly at the strap of her purse. “My cousin is our age—he told me once he doesn’t do actual dates because it’s a waste of money. He will only do coffee or a drink, and sometimes he goes Dutch.”

  “Dutch? On a first date?”

  “Right, because if he goes on three dates in a week—and by dates, I mean ‘sex’—that gets super expensive.”

  “I’m not even sure what to say.”

  “Yeah—same.” She’s looking out the window now at the lake we’re driving alongside, the glowing lights from the shore homes reflecting in the water as we pass. “This is so pretty.”

  “We’re not far, ten more minutes.”

  As if on cue, her stomach growls, and she giggles. “You didn’t hear that.”

  Mine growls too. “My growling stomach cancels out your growling stomach.”r />
  “Agreed.” She pauses. “Man, I hope there’s garlic bread even though I’ll stink for a few days after I eat it.”

  “You’re still stuck on the thought that garlic makes you stink, huh?”

  “Of course I am. Garlic, onions, artichoke, chives—you name it. No amount of deodorant helps, and I have no idea why I’m saying this to you. You’re going to think I’m disgusting.”

  I think Lilly is a lot of things, but disgusting isn’t one of them.

  She probably smells like roses and sunshine most of the time, and nothing can convince me otherwise.

  “I don’t think you’re disgusting,” I tell her with a smirk, entering the city limits of the town where I grew up, stopping at a corner near the high school.

  “Is that where you went to high school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d you like it?”

  “It was fine.” We turn right at the next traffic light. “I did a lot of studying so—not very social. Probably not like you.”

  I’m assuming she was very popular as a cheerleader and all. Lilly is so outgoing compared to my introverted personality. She dances and cheers in front of crowds of thousands of people whereas I spend most of my time in a lab with goggles on.

  Typical nerd.

  “I don’t know about that. I’m one of those introverted extroverts—do you know what I mean? I would rather be home snuggling than out shouting at people, rah, rah, rah, and all that. I’ve been forced to come out of my shell over the years, though not by choice. Not always.”

  “That makes sense. Over the past few years, if I have an exhibit or debate or a championship where I have to defend a thesis to earn a scholarship or grant, I’ve had to force myself to be more outgoing. Occasionally I’ve even practiced in front of the mirror, speeches and the like.”

  “I can see you doing that.” Her smile is warm as she watches me.

  “When I was in Great Britain, I led a study group, and every week I got it going with conversation starters. It was a huge challenge for me because of my shyness—oftentimes I would have to Google questions to ask because I could never come up with any on my own.” I chuckle at the memory.

  It’s not easy being an academic who would rather run tests and experiments than chat with a group of people.

  Luckily those people were in the same boat as I was, not caring to socialize. Our commonalities were what made us enthusiastic—others who were passionate about their thesis or graduate studies would light up like a Christmas tree when discussing whatever scientific breakthrough they’d discovered.

  Otherwise those groups were awkward as hell.

  I clear my throat. “This conversation is way too insightful and deep for a ride to lasagna dinner.” My hands grip the wheel tighter.

  “That’s not true—I love hearing you talk about your experiences. Mine are boring.”

  “Boring? How can you call cheering in a stadium boring?”

  “It’s not as exciting as everyone thinks it is. For example, I’m always worried I’m going to be off count—the only asshole on the field screwing up the routine.”

  “Guess we have that in common then.”

  The grin Lilly gives me from the passenger seat has my stomach flipping, and thank God we’ve finally arrived at my house with its two stories and white picket fence and neatly trimmed hedgerow.

  With the last of my mother’s flowers blooming before going dormant for winter, it’s a scene right out of the movie Father of the Bride. On the stoop are her mums and other fall flowers—I’m sure they’re vibrant and bright during the daylight hours.

  “I’m surprised Mom hasn’t thrown any Halloween decorations out on the lawn for you.”

  “Um, that would be amazing.”

  She loves the holidays and I’m sure she’ll be bringing up Thanksgiving very soon too; planning is her forte, and it’s never too soon to plan. I swear my mother has the next season up before she has the current one taken down—during Christmas, it looks like the living room has barfed up a tree farm.

  I pull up to the overhang on the side of the house, the covered carport with its climbing rose vines and white trellis, parking there so Lilly won’t have to walk far.

  The door to the house swings open, my younger brother silhouetted by the lights inside, hair sticking up every which way.

  The outside light comes on and Alex hollers, “Hurry up, I’m hungry enough to eat a dead rat.”

  Okay then—great first impression, Alex.

  My mother’s voice chastises him from somewhere inside. “Alexander Michael!” She sounds horrified. “Get away from that door!”

  She appears, shooing him away, oven mitt still on her hand, hair in a ponytail that swings when she grabs hold of the door so it doesn’t slam shut.

  “Hello! You made it!”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  Lilly is rounding the front of the car almost bashfully. “Hello Mrs. Whitaker, it’s good to meet you.” She holds out her hand for my mother to shake, but Mom grabs her for a hug.

  Squeezes. “We don’t shake hands here—we’re a hugging family.”

  Oh brother.

  Over Lilly’s shoulder, my mother moves her mouth and has stars in her eyes. “She’s so pretty!”

  I’m in trouble.

  “I hope you’re hungry, there is so much food! Dinner is already on the table.”

  “Good, because I have some studying to do yet tonight and don’t want to get home too late.” I’m all business, drawing boundaries so Mom isn’t under the impression we’ll spend the night or stick around chatting for hours.

  We can talk during the meal. It needn’t continue afterward as she often tries to corral me into doing.

  “You should live a little, sweetie. It won’t kill you to take one night off.”

  She’s not wrong; I’m very regimented when it comes to my education. But then again, I wouldn’t be where I am today if I slacked off.

  “I’ll take that into consideration.” My tone is stiff, mostly because I’m fucking nervous.

  Never have I ever brought a girl home. Well…I mean, I have, but it’s been ages.

  “He’s an old fuddy-duddy,” Mom confides to Lilly, whom she has by the arm and is dragging through the house and into the dining room. If she’s noticed how informally I’m dressed, she hasn’t commented on it.

  “Speaking of fuddy-duddies,” I drawl as we round the corner from one room into another. Aunt Myrtle holds court at the long dinner table, sparkling like a jewel on her throne. Gray hair coifed into a puffy confection, decorative hair pin stabbed through the side. She’s got on what’s likely a housecoat—or caftan—long billowy sleeves and buttoned to the neck.

  No idea how this woman gets more dates than I do.

  She’s short, tabletop meeting her mid-chest, shoulders slightly slouched from old age.

  Her wrinkled hot pink lips part. “There he is. Finally. Thought I was going to die of old age from waiting, not starvation.”

  She cackles and high-fives my brother, wrists jingling with glittery bangles.

  “Yeah,” Alex echoes. “We thought we were going to die from old age.”

  Jeez.

  “Everyone, this is Lilly. Lilly, that’s my dad.” My dad stands and leans over to shake her hand. “And Great Aunt Myrtle, and my brother Alex.”

  Lilly waves around the table, sitting in the chair my mother has pulled out for her. “Hello everyone. Thank you so much for the invitation—I love lasagna.”

  “Well aren’t you a cute little thing,” tiny Aunt Myrtle begins. “Please tell me you’re up to no good with my nephew. We were beginning to worry he’d never have another girlfriend.”

  “First of all, it hardly matters if I ever have another girlfriend. Or a relationship—that’s not—”

  My mother cuts me off. “Please, Auntie, we’re here to have a nice dinner. It’s too soon to be harassing him before we’ve even had one bite.” She picks up the bread from the table and begins passing
the basket to the right. “Are you trying to scare her away?”

  My great aunt harumphs, giving both Lilly and me the stink eye. “In my day, you would have been married by now with an ankle biter on the way.”

  “Auntie. Please.” Mom clenches her teeth.

  “I’m just saying,” she says as my brother politely sets a slice of garlic bread on her plate then passes the basket along to Dad. “I had plenty of beaus when I was your age.” She slurps water from her glass, arms shaking a little as she adds, “Even let a few dip their wick before tying the knot with my first husband, Ralph—which wasn’t done.” She winks. “I was sex positive even back in the day.”

  Dad coughs.

  My mother groans.

  Beside me, Lilly starts laughing. “That’s a phrase I’ve never heard of—dipping their wick.” Her head bows, and she laughs some more. “I’m sure I’ll be using that in a sentence later.”

  Aunt Myrtle nods with approval. “Finally. Someone who appreciates my wisdom.”

  “I wouldn’t call that wisdom,” Dad says good-naturedly.

  He’s usually super chill where my aunt is concerned; I mean, what choice does he have? The petite powerhouse of a woman lives in his guestroom and commands the attention of everyone twenty-four hours a day.

  The man has the patience of a saint.

  “I hope you like lasagna. There’s enough of it for an entire family.” Mom heaves the pan and begins cutting thick, ginormous slices of the baked pasta dish.

  “This is an entire family,” my brother sarcastically reminds her.

  “Alex, don’t talk back to your mother,” my father says sternly, shooting him a warning glance across the table, not missing a beat.

  For some reason my brother thinks he’s above the law when he is seated next to Aunt Myrtle, like the pint-size elderly pixie is going to protect him from getting in trouble when he runs his mouth. Which I guess is true a lot of times? But only when it involves my mother—Dad is a completely different story and doesn’t mind grounding the kid when he deserves it, regardless of where the offense happens. Like at the dinner table with a complete stranger.