You Love Me(You #3)(19)
The fecal-eyed family barges onto the street and none of them say hello—FUCK YOU, FAMILY—and I look down at my phone and what the hell, Mary Kay? There’s a bottle of beer on the end table that makes my blistered toes pound. You don’t drink beer, you don’t like the taste and you don’t let Nomi drink beer and the bottle is open, half empty. Whose is it, Mary Kay? Who the fuck is drinking beer in your house? I send a text to Shortus.
Hey Seamus! That gym kicked my ass today. Beer?
I wait and I walk. My toes are never going to speak to me again.
No can do, New Guy. Doing a ten day dry out. Remember: That voice in your head that says you can’t do it is a liar.
Ugh. I hate gym culture and the beer isn’t his, but whose is it? I reach the beginning of your street and your house is close but if I walk down that street and look in your window… I can’t. I promised I would be good and being good means believing in you, in us, and hey, it’s just one beer. You did look bad today. I don’t know everything about you and it’s possible that you drink a half a beer to take the edge off when you’re hungover and I go home and watch more Succession and you don’t call, you don’t text and Shortus hits me up to tell me that we can get a beer next week maybe and phones have made it so easy to be friends without ever having to see your friends and that’s one good thing about today. One.
* * *
I did it. I survived the longest most mind-fuckiest day of the year and my mind is clear again. I’m calm. I’m not gonna let one stupid bottle of beer get in our way. All that matters is the kiss, Mary Kay. You broke a rule for me. You swore that you would never get involved with some guy while your daughter lives at home and you did.
And you know what? I need to bend a rule too.
This is a scenic island and I’ve barely done any exploring—I will not go to Fort Fucking Ward without you—and okay, yeah. I went on a couple of nature walks in the Grand Forest when I first moved here, but I was too raw to really breathe any of it in.
I tie the laces on my running shoes—my toes won’t hate me today—and I zip up my hoodie and I put on my headphones—Hello, Sam Cooke—and I lock up the house and do what all the well-rounded motherfucking men around here do every day, some of them twice a day: run.
I could run on one of the beaches but the coast is rocky and mottled by McMansions. I could run on the sidewalks but why should I waste my time on pavement when I can run in the woods? I didn’t design the island, Mary Kay. And it’s not my fault that your house is in a development. It’s not my fault that you chose to live in a waterfront home where the only thing that separates your backyard from the sea is a two-foot-wide trail that is open to the public.
Your choice, not mine.
I didn’t know you when I moved here and you’re the one who told me that you live right around the corner. You’ve said it a dozen times and you weren’t lying and I’m here, not on your street, but on the trail by the water and Jesus Christ, Mary Kay. There’s something almost perverse about this trail, about you and your neighbors in Wesley Landing. You’re all fearless exhibitionists, aren’t you? You all choose to live on land that is the opposite of private. You don’t have fences because fences would block your access to the trail, your view of the foliage, the rocky coast, the water and I would never live like this.
But you do.
I stop to stretch, as all runners must do to keep the muscles loose. Healthy.
There’s a large rock on the property line of your house, engraved with the name of your community. It’s wider than the trunks of the trees and this is the perfect place for me to stretch my calves. I plant my feet against the back and lean over and it feels good to stretch and as luck would have it—and at some point my luck did have to turn around—I have a view of your deck. Who knew?
Your sliding glass door is open and you sit on your deck with a half-empty bottle of Diet Coke. See that, Mary Kay? You do need me. You sure as fuck don’t need any more sugar substitutes. You’re on the phone, no doubt with Melanda, and I turn off Sam Cooke and remove my headphones the way a lot of people do when they stretch. I can’t hear you and I’m no botanist, but I think there might be poison ivy where I am, so to be safe, I move to another tree. You’re used to the people in the woods, on the trails, and you don’t flinch at the leaves crunching beneath my feet. I can hear you now. You don’t know what to make for dinner. You have salmon steaks in the freezer but they’re frostbitten—you need a new freezer, you need to see my freezer—and now you’re back to counseling Melanda. Don’t text him. You know how it is. If he likes you, he’ll text you, and if he doesn’t like you, then it’s his loss. She’s arguing—can’t hear her, don’t need to hear her—and the Meerkat is in the kitchen, slamming cabinets. Annoyed. You ask Melanda to hold on and you turn your head.
“Nomi, honey, do you want salmon?”
“Do I ever want salmon? It’s like a hundred years old. And before you say it, no, I don’t want Mexican chicken.”
You laugh—you’re sick of your own chicken too—and sigh. Oh, to be a mother and cook every day for thousands of days and be tired of your own Mexican chicken.
The Meerkat slams another cabinet. “Can we cook out on the grill?”
“Well, I guess so… Are you already hungry?”