Tamed (25 page)

Thursday at work, my father stops by my office and informs me my mother is expecting me for dinner that evening. Disappointing my mother is a capital offense, and the last thing I need at the moment is to have my name at the top of the old man’s shit list.

I arrive at five thirty on the button. My parents’ place is a four-bedroom multi-floor brownstone, originally built in the 1920s, with original molding, three ornate fireplaces, a sitting room, den, a music room, a butler’s pantry, and a spacious formal dining room.

Do they really need this much space? No. But they wouldn’t dream of moving. Especially once I was out of the house and, as
my mother used to say, they could finally have “nice things” again.

I figure it’ll only be a few more years before we’ll need to install one of those cool automatic chairs to get them up the staircase.

After the housekeeper, Sarah, who’s worked for my parents for years, answers the door, I find my mom in the sitting room, enjoying a glass of sherry by the lit fireplace.

When she sees me, she smiles, stands up, and hugs me close. “Hello, darling. I’m so glad you could come tonight.” She peers up at my face. “You look tired. You must be working too hard.”

I give her a smile. “No, Mom, I’m really not.”

We sit and she tells me about the mums she’s growing and the latest goings-on at the country club. When my father exits his study, that’s the cue that dinner is served.

The dining room table’s not overly large—six chairs—but my father eats at one end, looking over the newspaper that he’s just getting around to reading, my mother dines at the other end, and I’m in between.

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 fucking 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 fuck 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.

My goddamn down pillow just doesn’t compare.

What I really need is to get laid. You may not like hearing that, but too fucking bad—it’s the truth.

When your car irreparably dies, do you sit inside it, remembering all the times it drove you to work or to a friend’s or on some great road trip? Of course you don’t. That’s stupid. The logical
thing to do—the only thing to do—is go shopping for a new car. That’s the only way you’ll ever be able to move forward.

For a man or a woman—getting laid after a breakup is a lot like that. It feels good—even if just for a few moments—and it reminds you that life doesn’t stop. That the world isn’t ending just because your relationship did. Getting some instills confidence in a brighter tomorrow. In a future not immersed in misery.

But while the idea occurs to me, and I know it’s something I should do . . . I don’t want to. I have no desire to fuck anyone who’s not Delores Warren. And to tell you the truth—there’s a small, admittedly pussy-whipped part of me that’s afraid to. Scared about even trying.

It’s the same part of me that sags with disappointment every time I come home and she’s not here. The part that still thinks there’s a chance she’ll realize how great we are together, that she’s completely in love with me, that she’ll come running back to me. And if any or all that were to happen, I would never want to have to break the news that during our downtime, I screwed another woman. Right or wrong, the trust I’ve worked so hard to build with Delores would be destroyed. So, in the end, it’s just not a risk I’m willing to take—not for some random piece of ass I don’t even want.

Saturday isn’t any better. Jack pleads with me to go out with him—complains that he feels abandoned, that he’s missing his wingman.

But I’m just not up for it.

Instead, I grab a six-pack and a pizza and have a pity picnic outside Drew’s apartment door. I do most of the talking: He only “bams” his answer when I ask if he’s still alive. It sounds like he’s moved on to watching
Blades of Glory.
What’s up with the Will Ferrell fixation, right? Weird.

Anyway, after I’m done with the pizza and making my way to the bottom of the last beer, I lean my head back against his door—a little buzzed. And I get downright philosophical. I talk about the weekend, when we were kids, and my uncle took Drew, Steven, and me camping at his cabin in the Adirondacks.

Steven’s highly allergic to poison oak—he blew up like a tick.

But not even that stopped him from joining us in our search for buried treasure. My uncle had given us a map he and my old man had made when they were kids—to a box of silver dollars they thought would be a brilliant idea to bury.

For the entire first three days up there, all we did was hunt for it. But then . . . as kids tend to do . . . we gave up. We turned our attention to climbing trees, and beating the crap out of each other with sticks, and watching the girls from the local college go skinny-dipping in the lake.

I think about those days and, of course, Delores—always her. And I wonder sadly, “Do you think if we had just held on a little longer, looked a little harder, tried just a little bit more—do you think we could’ve made it to the treasure, Drew?”

He doesn’t answer. And I’m a lot further past buzzed than I thought. So before I knock out here in his hallway, I pack up my stuff and take a cab back to my own bed.

And like every night before, I dream of Dee.

W
hen a guy’s nursing a broken heart, he engages in one of three behaviors: he drinks, he fucks, he fights. Sometimes all three in one night.

It’s been six days since I’ve seen Delores and I haven’t fucked anyone. Drinking has been minimal—but I’m definitely ready to fight. I’ve been going to the gym every day, working out harder than usual, trying to channel the feelings of missing her into something positive.

On Sunday afternoon, when I walk through the gym door, Shawnasee’s is the first face I see. You remember him, right? The prick I mentioned awhile back, who’s in dire need of a good beat down?

Looks like today’s his lucky day.

He grins menacingly. “You wanna go a few rounds, or you gonna pussy out again?”

Something inside me tears—like the Hulk when he shreds his T-shirt—and I answer, “Let’s do this.”

I can’t wait to get in the ring. To hit something—to vent the frustration and guilt and generally bad feelings that have been churning inside me for the last six days. I bounce on my toes, roll my head left to right—cracking my neck. Then I duck under the ropes, tap my gloves together, and walk to the center of the ring.

Shawnasee’s already waiting for me, looking both confident and eager. Ronny stands between us and recites the typical directions about clean fights and good sportsmanship. We hit gloves, go back to our corners, and wait.

Then the bell rings.

I come at him, hard and fast, but my head’s not in it. If you want the truth, I’ve got no fucking business fighting right now. Because my focus isn’t on my opponent at all. It’s on the unfairness of life. The bitterness of wanting something—someone—that doesn’t want me the same way. At the moment, I’m all about pain and heartbreak—feelings I’m hoping punches will purge.

Shawnasee and I dance and dodge in a circle around each other . . . and then movement from the front door distracts me. And I forget all about footwork, defensive postures, jabs, right hooks, and body blows.