Playing Chase (Against The Wall) (8 page)

My shoes are just where I left them, but when I go to reach for them, I can’t believe my eyes.

And if the first protests about something happening between us weren’t reason enough, this last one sure is.

Her cats. They. Shit. In. My. Shoes.

Another date closer to my sentence being served. How many more of these do I have to go on, I wonder. I just left my shoes on her floor and got the hell out of there, not saying a word because shit…I didn’t know what the hell to say. After enduring cat piss in my nose and cat hair in my throat, I just couldn’t deal with cat turds in my fucking shoes.

Channel surfing isn’t taking my mind off my date gone bad. It’s just pissing me off.
There isn’t shit on TV on a Saturday night. Most people are out having a good time, that’s why. Not at home watching paid programs for shampoo that’s supposed to revolutionize your hair. What the hell does that even mean?

My phone vibrates.

How was it? We know you love pussy so we thought you’d really like Lucy.

Not funny Shel. You guys owe me a pair of shoes.

We don’t owe you shit.

What can I say to that? She’s right. They don’t owe me anything. I’m the one who owes them. I wonder how many fucked
-up dates will make us square. I doubt there’s a number. I’ll be in debt to them forever because of all my bullshit stunts. I’m surprised they talk to me long enough to torment me. Especially Shelly. I’ve been a total jackass to her since high school.

I toss my phone onto the coffee table, put my feet up and continue surfing the tube. Another Saturday night at home. Alone. My dad is out again. Surprise, surprise. I’m just glad he left before I got back. He might have tried to convince me to go with him again. Being my dad’s wingman isn’t ranked high on my list of things I want to do in my life. In fact, it doesn’t rank on any list at all.

Fathers and sons are supposed to go to ball games together. Fishing. Searching for a car. Barbecue. Golf. Watch the Super Bowl. Not hang out at bars to find “dolls.” Then what? We find some girls to hook up with and bring them back to my place? I can slap skins with my girl in my room while he and his chick go at in my spare bedroom? How can he not find that disgusting? Or just plain weird?

But my dad and I have never done normal. Even when I was little, he wasn’t the typical dad. Not the type to say, “Good job, son.” I don’t need two hands to count how many times I’ve heard that phrase over the years. In fact, I don’t even need one. I was always yelled at for not doing my best, for getting a 92% in class when I could have gotten a hundred.

And that was just with academics.

When I got into high school, my dad only got worse. Especially after he and my mom divorced. He thought of himself as the ultimate player and couldn’t believe I was committing myself to one girl. I hated to visit him on the weekends, knowing full well that he was going to talk shit about Shelly
, and encourage me to screw around on the side, to try to find someone better—his words, not mine. There wasn’t anyone better. But I never had the balls to tell him that.

If only my seventeen
-year-old ass could have known what I know now: Shelly would be married to a great guy and have the cutest little boy I’ve ever seen, whereas, I’m sitting at home at nine o’clock on a Saturday night all by my lonesome. If my teenage ass could see into the future, maybe I would’ve told my dad to fuck himself, and stop badgering me with the worst advice any father could give a son.

Seriously.

What man tells his son to cheat on his girlfriend?

But then again…what kind of man listens when his father tells him to cheat on his girlfriend?

In my mind, I raise my hand. This one. This. Fucking. Dumbass. Right. Here.

“Hey, Chase. Get up.”

I awake to my dad slapping me on the head. I must have fallen asleep on the couch. The TV is still on and an infomercial about acne medication fills the screen. I try ignoring him and the advertisement, but it doesn’t work.

“Come on, lazyass. I said, get up.”

With a loud deep sigh, I push myself up to a seated position and glare at my father. “What?”

“I saw your girl tonight.” He wears a sly grin that scares me.

To wake myself up, I rub the sleep from my eyes and scrub my hands over my face. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, that girl from the other night? Gorgeous legs in cowboy boots. Bright smile. Hot as hell. But you were too much of a fucking pansy to do anything about it.”

It finally registers who
m he is referring to and my blood starts to boil. “You didn’t talk to her, did you?” The thought of my dad coming on to Tiffany makes me so angry, that I can feel my ears heat up and my heart pound in my chest.

He smiles wickedly, prolonging my agony. “I sure did. I know how to talk to a woman. She sure is a sweet thing.” He juts his brows up and down and I’m about to lose it. It takes every ounce of self-control to keep myself from punching my dad in the face.

I try calming myself. There is only one thing he loves more than women, and that’s pissing me off. If he knows he’s getting me riled, he’ll keep prodding me until I can’t take it anymore and leave. And then he’ll kindly remind me of how I’m such a wimp because I let him get to me.

Forcing myself to sit back and relax into the couch, my emotions are under control
, so I ask, “So what did you say?”

He leaves me hanging, goes into the kitchen and comes back with a beer
, one for each of us. “Not much. She seemed content to talk about work, which bored the shit out of me. Who gives a shit about lesson plans and how Timmy got a good grade on a test?”

I do
, I want to tell him. I care.

It makes me smile inside to know Tiffany is still happy about Timmy doing well on his last test. The poor kid is dealing with the loss of his mother and his attendance has turned to shit. We both sat him down, offering our condolences and letting him know that we would do anything we could to support him for as long as he needed.

“That’s it. She just talked about work?” Something tells me there is more to this story.

“Yeah, I guess so. I wasn’t paying all that much attention once she started talking.” He gulps his beer. “Other than her short skirt and a nice pair of tits, I didn’t really care.”

I slam my beer on the table, some spilling out of the top of the bottle. “Don’t you fucking dare talk about her like that.” I stand, shaking like crazy. “Just fucking don’t.”

When Tiffany doesn’t come into work the following Monday, my brain starts filtering through a million scenarios. All of them have to do with my dad doing or saying something so highly inappropriate
, that she felt too uncomfortable to come to work and confront me.

The first chance I get
, I call her. Her voice is shallow and groggy. “Hey,” is all she says.

“Good morning,” I say. “How are you doing? You’re not here and I’m a little worried.” A lot worried, but I don’t want to sound like a creeper.

She coughs into the phone. “I’m sick. I feel like shit.”

It surprises me to hear her curse. I kind of like it. Little by little, I’m breaking down that old
-fashioned teacher facade and coming to know the real Tiffany Gutierrez. I love when she lets her guard down a little and lets me see the real her. It’s been happening more and more often over PB and Js during lunch.

“Can I do anything for you? Get you anything? Medicine? Food?” I ramble on.

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want you to get sick.” She coughs again. Her nose sounds stuffy too. “It’s probably just an overnight bug. I’m never sick for long.” A yawn comes loud and clear through the phone lines. “Thanks for calling to check on me, but I gotta go. I’m really sleepy.”

My chest squeezes thinking about her at home and sick in bed alone. I wish there was something I could do. “Okay. Get some rest. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thanks,” she replies before the line goes dead.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Class after class, I taught what Tiff and I had planned. Our students asked about their new teacher and I took that as a compliment to her. If they didn’t like her, they wouldn’t care. They did seem genuinely concerned and some even asked me to tell her to get well soon. I thought that was really nice of them.

“You should take her some flowers, sunflowers or daisies. Girls like that stuff when they’re sick,” one of our female students instructs me on her way out.

I take her paper, feeling a bit confused. But a lot intrigued. “You think so?”

“Definitely,” she says.

“Hmm
…” Considering it, I nod my head. “Thanks.”

She smirks at me knowingly before leaving.

On my way home, I can’t stop thinking about the advice I was given. Damn, I really want to see Tiffany. I want to make sure she has everything she needs to get back into good health. I bet her mom is there to help. But what if she isn’t?

As I pass the local grocery store, I know what I have to do. At the next light, I flip a bitch and head right into the parking lot. I get a cart on the way in and make a beeline straight to the
medicine aisle. I toss a variety of cold and flu remedies inside before looking for the soup. Tiff is a classic girl, so I think I’m safe with a few cans of chicken noodle and a few of creamy tomato. Next, I get some crackers followed by a bag of Popsicles—just in case she has a sore throat. Finally, I search the prepackaged bundles of flowers for the perfect bunch for Tiffany. Roses are out, even the yellow ones. White daisies seem cheap. I settle on a bouquet of wild flowers in deep reds and purples. I would’ve liked something brighter but I guess we’re in the fall season and I should just be happy I don’t have to buy her a cornucopia. That would be weird. The damn things remind me of The Hunger Games.

The bags are in my trunk and I’m sitting in my car sifting through work emails for Tiffany’s contact information. I could call Shelly and ask her how to get to her place
, since she took Tiffany home that one morning, but I’d rather shoot myself in the eye than give her ammunition to taunt me more. I keep getting texts about the cat-shit incident. Apparently, Lucy has been emailing me—my fake email that the girls’ control—apologizing about the warm smelly present her felines left in my shoes. The girls think it’s hilarious. Mel even left a piece of fake plastic shit on my chair at work this morning. I have to give them credit for their pranks. If I wasn’t the target, I would think all this shit—no pun intended—is frickin’ funny. But I am the target, and I have better things to worry about right now.

Like a small brunette with wavy curls and gorgeous brown eyes
, who’s under the weather.

Tiffany lives in a small cottage
-style house in a nice quiet neighborhood. It’s in an historic district. Most of the residents are retirees. Many of them are currently sitting on their porches giving me the evil eye for invading their street.

Slowly, I get out of my car and gather the grocery bags. I start up the walkway to Tiffany’s front door
, when one of her neighbors calls out to me.

“Hey there, young man.” An older woman peers at me over her romance novel
: One that has a bare-chested faceless man on the cover. “Are you here to see our Tiffany?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I hold up the groceries. “She’s not feeling well so I brought her some soup and some cold medicine.”

She flashes me a pleased grin. “Well isn’t that nice of you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“Thank you. You have a nice day.” I give her a nod and a wink and she smiles back at me.

Tiffany’s door is in front of me and I suddenly feel like I should run. How many times have I told myself this can’t happen? And yet, here I am standing on her doorstep dying to see her beautiful eyes peer back at me, so I can see that she is okay.

What the hell. I knock loudly and wait for an answer. Shit. She’s probably still asleep. What am I thinking? She said she wanted to rest
, and now here I am waking her ass up. Could I be any more insensitive?

I must raise my hand and stop myself from knocking on her door about five more times before I turn to walk away. Then, I realize I still have all the things I bought for her so I turn back to leave them on the big outdoor chair sitting on her porch.

I’m just about to set the flowers down when I hear the door open.

“Mr. Marino?” She glances my way with her brows furrowed. “Chase?”

I must look like one of those old cartoons, standing here with stars in my eyes just from looking at her. She’s wearing a big hoodie, sweatpants and furry purple socks. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail on the top of her head. Her eyes have dark circles underneath them. And she still looks gorgeous.

“Hey,” is all that will come out of my mouth.

Tiffany soaks in the sight of me, her eyes traveling to the bags on her chair and the flowers in my hand. “Want to come in?”