Push(20)

“Yes,” I say, “other than that.”
“What are you having?” he asks.
“You mean other than a good-looking, cocky bastard?”
“Yes,” he chuckles, “other than that.”
“I’m having a glass of red. But I have beer, too, if you’d rather have that.”
“Yeah, um, about that, Emma,” he says, sheepishly, “you actually don’t have the beer anymore.”
I put down the corkscrew and peek around the corner into the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa again, just like he was before. He looks over at me, and I put on my best ‘what are you talking about?’ face.
“I had to get two of my guys to help me finish your kitchen today, and I gave them those two six-packs when they left,” he says.
“Oh. Well, I guess this fine-ass kitchen was worth a couple of six-packs. Were they some of your friends from Saturday night, then?”
“Yes. But, don’t worry, I made them go up to my place to use the bathroom. I don’t want them looking at your stuff,” he says. “Ever.”
“I’m not worried one bit,” I say sarcastically, “especially now that I know we aren’t spending any energy on all that jealousy bullshit.”
“Very funny,” he says. “Seriously, I was just as worried about them stealing something as I was about them looking in your bathroom drawers.”
“I’m sure the tampons would have thrilled them,” I tease.
“That’s the truth, Emma.” He is teasing me back now. “After seeing what you did on Saturday night, those f*ckers probably would have jacked off in there if they could have.”
“Someday I will have to meet these gentlemen,” I mock. “It’s a rare breed that is willing to jack off to a box of tampons. They sound like people I might like.”
“Maybe you could introduce them to your grandma,” David says in complete deadpan.
“Now there’s an idea!” I carry the full plates out of the kitchen. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m completely famished now. And my grandma died a long time ago, so your friends are out of luck. Unless they are into that, too....” I cannot believe I just said that.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” David says, in jest—I hope, anyway.
When he gets to the table, he adds, “This looks great, Emma. Thanks.”
I open the bottle of red and pour us each a glass. We sit down opposite each other and start to eat.
“So, if you weren’t here eating with me, where would you be?” I ask him out of pure curiosity.
“Probably upstairs eating a sandwich or something. I’m not much of a cook. My mom died when I was eight, and my dad pretty much raised me—if you wanna call it that. He didn’t even know how to turn on the oven, let alone cook something in it. We ate a lot of fast food.” I can’t tell if he looks sad or if it’s merely resignation on his face.
“Oh. I’m sorry about your mom. Mine’s gone, too. She died when I was eighteen, a few months after I went to college. Car accident,” I say quietly. “Is your dad still around?”
“Yeah, but he lives in Illinois, where I grew up. I haven’t seen him in years. We didn’t get along so well. Actually, he might remind you of your stepdad.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” I say, pouring on the inflection. “Michael is one hell of a f*cked-up *. I don’t think anyone is rotten enough to deserve that comparison.” I sigh softly, then I quietly add, “I don’t know what kind of man your dad is, but he can’t possibly be like Michael.” I am hanging my head now. For some reason I can’t put my finger on, I feel ashamed of myself. Ashamed that Michael is—was—part of my life.
“What did he do, Emma?” I can hear the apprehension in David’s voice, but I can’t bring myself to look up at him. “What happened?”
There is no way in this f*cking world I am going to tell David about Michael. Frankly, I have never told anyone about the extent of Michael’s depravity. About all the crap he’s done. I don’t want David’s pity. I don’t want anyone’s pity.
“He’s just a f*cked-up *,” I say again emphatically, looking up at David. “That’s all.” He’s staring at me now, and I can tell that he wants to ask me more, but he doesn’t. He just cocks his head to the side and takes another bite of dinner.
“Well, my * dad was a drinker. He probably still is. And the trouble with Pops is that he was never a nice drunk. Rather belligerent, actually. Things at my house were usually completely out of hand. I just tried to stay the hell out of his way,” David says. “The only good thing he ever did for me was make me his apprentice. He’s a master carpenter and has his own construction business. Eventually I became a journeyman, and I worked for him for a couple of years before I moved to New Orleans when I was twenty-one.”
“How long did you live there?” I ask, thankful that the subject is no longer Michael.
“Almost three years,” he says, “then I moved here because I needed to get the hell out of New Orleans.”
“The f*cked-up girlfriend?” I ask.
“Yeah, pretty much,” he says with a shrug, not offering anything more.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, eating and drinking. I admit that I am almost relieved to hear that his family is nearly as messed up as mine. I feel as if he’s less likely to judge me because of it, and that makes me happy.
“So, you’ve got a couple of brothers, huh?” he asks. Michael’s words from the other night bite into me. “Older or younger?”