Tamed(57)

As she slices into her chicken cordon bleu, my mother asks, “Are you still seeing that young lady from the office party? I liked her very much, Matthew. So spirited. Right, Frank?”

“What?”

“The girl Matthew brought to the office party—we liked her, didn’t we? What is her name again? Deanna?”

“Delores,” my dad grunts—proving he actually is aware of what’s going on around him.

Sometimes I think he just acts clueless—and deaf—so he won’t have to participate in conversations that don’t interest him. It’s a handy trick.

I force the food down my suddenly tight throat. “No, Mom, Dee and I . . . we didn’t work out.”

Her tongue clicks in disappointment. “Oh, that’s a shame.” She sips her wine. “I just want to see you settled, dear. None of us is getting any younger.”

Here we go.

My mother is awesome—kind and gentle—but she’s still a mother. Which means any second now, she’s going to start talking about how I need someone to take care of me and about seeing her grandchildren before she dies.

It’s a discussion we’ve had before.

She leans my way, and in a conspiratorial tone whispers, “Was it . . . a sexual problem?”

My bite of chicken gets stuck in my esophagus. I pound my chest and dislodge it—but my voice is scratchy.

“What?”

She straightens back up in her chair. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Matthew. I used to wipe your bottom—there’s no reason we can’t have an adult discussion about your sex life.”

“Used to wipe your bottom” and “sex life” should never, ever, be used in the same sentence. Unless your name’s Woody Fucking Allen.

I clear my throat again. Still burns. “No, Mom. We were fine in that area.”

“Are you sure? Some ladies don’t always feel comfortable expressing their needs . . .”

No way this is happening.

“. . . communicate their desires. My book club is discussing a novel this month on this very subject. Fifty Shades of Grey. Would you like to borrow my copy, Matthew?”

I take a long drink of water. “No, I’m already familiar with it, thanks.”

The fact that my dear, sweet mother is familiar with it, however, will definitely be giving me nightmares.

She pats my hand. “All right. You let me know if you change your mind. That Mr. Grey is certainly creative with a necktie.”

Thankfully, the rest of the dinner conversation revolves around less nauseating topics.

After the plates are cleared, I stand up and kiss my mother’s cheek. “Good night, Mom. And . . . thanks . . . for your advice.”

She smiles. “Good night, darling.”

My father wipes his mouth then throws his napkin on the plate. “I’ll walk you out. Going to have a cigarette.”

My father has smoked my whole life—but he doesn’t know I do. Doesn’t matter if I’m thirteen or thirty—if he ever finds out, he’ll break my frigging fingers.

We walk downstairs and stand in the open doorway where he lights up. The smell of my father’s cologne and the freshly lit cigarette smell familiar. And weirdly . . . comforting.

“What’s the matter with you?” he barks in his rough, old-man voice. “The last few days, you’ve been walking around looking like you did the day we had to put King down.”

See? He may not comment a lot, but it’s only because he’s too busy listening and watching—and pretending like he’s not.

I kick a pebble off the front step. “I’m fine, Dad.”

I feel his eyes on me. Scrutinizing. “No, you’re not.” He snubs out his cigarette in the sand can. “But you will be.”

And then he hugs me.

Strong—like a bear. The same way he’d hug me when I was a kid, just before he left for a business trip.

“You’re a good boy, Matthew. You always were. And if she can’t see that? Then she doesn’t deserve you.”

I hug him back, because . . . I just really f*cking need to. “Thanks, Dad.”

We break apart. I swipe at my nose and he smacks my back.

“See you at the office.”

“Good night, son.” He closes the door behind me.

I don’t go home right away. I walk a dozen blocks trying not to think—or see—Dee’s face in my mind with every step. I walk one street down, to Drew’s building.

The doorman greets me, and when I get to the penthouse, I sit down in the hallway, leaning my back against Drew’s door.

I’m not entirely sure he’s listening, but it feels like he is.

And I laugh. “Dude, I hope you’re sitting the f*ck down—’cause you’re not gonna believe the conversation I just had with my mother . . .”



Friday is a rough one. I just . . . miss her. It’s acute and relentless. The memories, the image of her face, are in my head every second, taunting me. I can’t concentrate; I don’t want to eat. My body feels weighted and heavy; my chest is tight, achy, like the tail end of bronchitis. I miss everything about her. Her laughter, her ridiculous theories, and yes—not gonna lie—I miss her exquisite tits. I’ve gotten used to sleeping next to Dee—or on top of her—skin to skin, with my arms either draped around her or my head nestled on the soft comfort of her breasts.