Funny Feelings (13)

“I’m a tutor and an aide at Brooks Elementary for ASL students there. It’s only a few days a week, which is why I was bartending at the club until fuck-pig Lance canned me.”

“Fuck-pig?” I wince.

She finishes whatever she’s writing and grins at it, biting the tip of her thumb with a quiet laugh, too distracted to answer me.

“If you want, I’ll see if I can put the good word in with Lance. Get you your job back.” Even as I say it, I feel my lips turn down.

“Why do you look like you’re holding in a fart?”

“Because I don’t know why I just keep offering shit.”

“Well, you won’t hear me try to turn you down. I am a twenty-three-year-old woman sleeping on a bunk bed so that I can afford a shared room in L.A. Last night, my bunkmate-slash-roommate, Marissa, woke me up to ask me to move to the top bunk so that she and her boyfriend could have sex in the bottom one.”

I grimace. “That lacks ingenuity. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good floor there they could’ve used.”

“The floor’s the only thing left in that place that hasn’t been tarnished by their sexcapades. They already broke the toilet seat off the hinges, stained the suede couch, and got the cops called on them the last time they did it in the backyard… Besides, Marissa shares her weird sex stories with me, for material, in exchange.”

I laugh through my nose. “Not out there collecting your own weird sex stories, huh?”

“No. You offering to mentor me through some of that, too?” She wags her brows until I rear back, horrified at myself for letting this conversation get away from me, my daughter sleeping next to her lap. Her expression falls.

“You’re just… don’t get me wrong, Jones. You’re fine. There’s nothing wrong with you, or anything.” Good God, man.

“Relax, grandpa. I was kidding.” Oh, thank God. My ego doesn’t have legs to stand on for it to be offended by the grandpa remark. She’s attractive and bright, but outside of my role as a father, I’ve been living in a consistent fog. Without knowing how to—or having any desire to—put it into words to this person I just met, I know, undoubtedly, that my fog would only dull her shine.

“I am interested in you in a professional capacity, though, Farley. Not that my word is gold or anything, but I at least think you’re good enough to make it.”





NOW





“Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.” - Charlie Chaplin





FARLEY


I manage to avoid Meyer for five days.

The way I snuck out of his house the morning after deciding our scheme may as well have been the walk of shame, rather than the neurotic panic-run-after-we-touched-four-times that it was.

He avoids me just as much for the first two days, before he breaks radio silence with texts that seem innocuous, that I still manage to apply a deeply weird vibe to.

3 Days A.D. (After Decision)

Meyer: Jones, we need to talk.

About what, I wonder? My own stream of consciousness sounds obtuse even to myself.

Is he going to want to practice? Jesus, the idea of that makes my cheeks and chest go hot… I’d certainly thought of suggesting it myself, but… Well, I couldn’t claim that my intentions would be entirely innocent. I know myself better than that.

And, no… Meyer never fails to remind me that I am “too young”.

My mind trips on memories of those few occasions over the years, though. The ones where glances lingered and actions were spurred on by some external force or event; a small collection of maybe-almost’s. But outside of those, he’s always responded to my sarcastic flirting with abject horror. I’ve managed to keep the flirting to a minimum since we added the professional element to our relationship. Even when I’ve slipped he’s been tolerant at best. Allowing myself to consider him sharing my attraction would be like pulling on new skin. Like stretching freshly healed chapped lips. Too easy to crack and bleed. Must smother some more, instead.

Still. That night feels like a turning point. A decision was made, and there’s not going to be some Sliding Doors type scenario available to me, for me to see how it will play out, and choose another direction should it all go wrong. If I go through this Decision door, that’s that.

3 Days A.D.

4 Missed Calls from Meyer

Meyer: We should probably establish some rules and guidelines, Fee. And I need to talk to you anyway. About after the tour. So, call or text me back, please.

Marissa: Why does Meyer keep asking me if I’ve talked to you? He seems even more agitated than normal.

4 Days A.D.

Meyer: For real, Jones. Clay just called me, and they want to set up a meeting date. You agreed to this.

Marissa: I have tutoring with Hazel again tonight. What’s the update on the weirdness with you and Meyer? I’d like the heads up if I’m stepping into anything between my boss and my closest friend…

5 Days A.D.

Meyer: Damn it, Fee. Are we in sixth grade? We establish being boyfriend and girlfriend and now we don’t talk? CALL ME BACK.

I screenshot that latest text because that would make a good bit someday—someday when I can look back and laugh at all this. In fact, I specifically remember my sixth-grade boyfriend Nick Farnum, and how we entered our deep relationship via origami folded notes passed between friends. And then we never spoke or made eye contact again.