Chapter 10 – Brandon
Somehow,I fucked up between last Saturday and tonight, and I have no idea what I did.
Last week, Angie sat beside me in a booth and laughed her ass off with the kids while I sucked up spaghetti, pretending to be a vacuum cleaner. Because I’m an idiot who will do anything to make those three smile. At the end of the evening, she sent the kids inside to put the leftovers in the fridge, and she whimpered into my mouth when I yanked her to me and kissed her on the porch.
Tonight, she’s sitting across the table at Broyce’s like she expects me to leap over the table and attack her. I can’t get her to say shit, and she won’t meet my eyes, but every time I look away, she sneaks glances at me with this expression I can’t quite make out. It’s like a mixture of gloom and panic and desperation, and it’s not good. It’s not what you want to see on your woman’s face.
If she’s thinking about bailing on me now, I’m gonna throw her over my shoulder and—I don’t know what. But it ain’t happening.
“So what do you think Maddie and the girls are up to right now?” I ask to break the silence.
She blinks and stiffens in her chair like the teacher caught daydreaming in class. Exactly the vibe I’m going for this evening.
“Um. Uh. Probably watching TV?”
“Yeah, they sure do love TV.” It’s not the dumbest thing I’ve said in my life, but it’s up there. My toes curl in my boots.
Hurt flashes in Angie’s eyes. Shit. She thinks I’m criticizing their screen time.
“I do, too,” I rush to add. “I fucking love TV.”
Now she’s looking at me like I’m an idiot. Fair. Very fair. What do I say now?
I’m running out of topics. I’ve brought up the girls, Madison, Mom, her work, my work, Christmas, the restaurant, its décor, my food, her food, other restaurants, football. I’m not good at this. I’m not saying I’m proud of it, but I’m used to women leading the conversation on dates. Until it was all on me, I had no idea how much that sucks.
“So, uh, you think it’s gonna snow this year?” I ask. Inside, I wince. I can’t believe I’ve resorted to talking about the weather.
Angie pushes the fifty-five-dollar steak around her plate. “Yeah. Maybe.” She eyes the king crab legs that I pushed her to get. Is that why she’s mad? Because I was pushy?
My shoulders bunch so tight that my neck aches. I’m sweating. I can’t stop tapping my foot, and despite the excruciating awkwardness, I’ve got a semi. At least she’s not wearing the dress from last week that clung to everything—her tits, her ass, the cute little lower belly pudge she got after Tamblyn that never quite went away. I want to nibble it and blow kisses on it and watch it jiggle while she rides me.
Shit. No. I can’t pop wood right now, full mast, in the middle of a crowded restaurant. We’re seated smack-dab in the center of the dining room, and every table is full.
Is that why she’s on edge? She doesn’t like attention, and people are looking at her. Her outfit isn’t as hot as last week’s—she’s wearing a skirt and the kind of thin, soft sweater that doesn’t show any cleavage but still gives you plenty to look at—but she’s the prettiest woman here. I assume. I haven’t looked around.
“Gonna take the kids sledding at the community college?” They’ve got a great steep hill.
“Yeah. If it snows enough,” she says. It hasn’t snowed much the past few years, and it’s sad. I remember making tunnels and forts with walls higher than my head. Maddie and Angie would play house in there for hours while I stockpiled snowballs, and in my head, I’d pretend Angie was a princess, and I was a World War II soldier defending her. The girls aren’t going to have any memories but snowballs and Mom’s snow cream.
“We should go up to the mountains when it gets colder. You ever been skiing?” I haven’t, but it can’t be that different from water skiing, right?
She shakes her head and frowns at her crab leg. It was a dumb question. Neither of us had ski money coming up, and Tyler sure wasn’t spending his time off taking his family on ski trips during prime hunting season.
“We could go up to Whitetail and take a lesson. Can’t be too hard.”
She gives me a weak smile that says “yeah, never.” Then she picks up the crab leg and cracks it, launching a piece of meat that lands on the back of my hand.
I pop it into my mouth and grin. “You gotta say ‘incoming’ before you shoot it at me.”
She should grin back. She’s Angie. I’m Brandon. We’ve eaten together a hundred times over the years. We’ve both made messes out of many a bushel of crabs. She’s heard me get yelled at for eating like a pig. I’ve watched her dribble basically everything down her front—cornbread crumbs, pasta sauce, taco meat, and very memorably, melted vanilla ice cream.
She doesn’t crack even the slightest smile. She flushes and looks even more miserable than she did before.
My brain races. What is happening? Second thoughts?
My stomach twists into a tight knot, and I set my fork down. A vise tightens on my chest. How do I figure this out when my throat is choking my air off? I chug the rest of my ice water. It doesn’t help.
I thought things were going good. She took my hand in the car last week. She made that sound when I kissed her. She blushes as much looking at me as I do looking at her. I can feel that she’s as excited as I am.
Except right now, she’s not.
An alarm that I’ve been ignoring since that day behind the shed wails a little louder in the back of my mind.
She was excited at the kiddie pool, but behind the shed, all of a sudden, she got scared and basically fought me off. And then when we were dancing in the truck bed and I grabbed her ass, she tensed up until I moved my hand.
She gets excited, and then when we’re touching, something happens, and she pulls away.
A sour taste floods my mouth, and a sick feeling creeps over me.
Is it about sex? Is that why she’s so uptight—because she thinks I expect something to happen tonight?
Did Tyler do something to her?
Under the white linen tablecloth, my hands ball into fists.
I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I should ask.
How the fuck do I ask her something like that?
Behind the shed, she really freaked out. Why didn’t it occur to me then that something might have happened to her?
Because I didn’t want to think that. Because the idea makes me want to puke and hyperventilate and pummel someone.
Was it Tyler?
I’ll fucking kill him.
Across the table, Angie has gotten really still. Her eyes are trained on my face, and they’ve grown really, really wide. I need to relax. Breathe. I don’t know anything except she’s not having a good time.
“Are you done?” I ask. My voice comes out gruffer than I intend.
She nods, and her eyes get shiny. She’s fiddling with something in her lap. Her napkin, probably.
“Do you want dessert?”
“No. Thank you.” She looks miserable.
I can’t get her to talk about whatever the problem is here, in the middle of a packed restaurant. What if she cries? I don’t know why, but I don’t want anyone else to see that. I mean, I don’t want to see it either, but I can’t stand the idea of her breaking down where people can see. It’d be like leaving her in the freezing cold with no coat.
We can go somewhere private, and I’ll figure out how to ask, and I’ll listen to what she says, and I won’t lose my shit. Whatever it is, I’ll handle it. Whatever’s wrong, I can fix it.
Unless she tells me she’s not feeling it, but if she does, it’ll be a lie, and we’ll talk it out. I’m not being cocky. I’ve been working on a gang since I was eighteen, and before that, I played football and lacrosse. I know what it feels like to play on a team, and Angie and I are a team. We’re new in these particular positions, but we can talk just by looking at each other—or not looking—and if I think about it that way, we’ve been having a conversation all night. She’s freaking out about something, and she doesn’t want to tell me.
When I think about it that way, my job is easy. I make it okay. That starts with getting us away from center stage. I catch the waiter’s eye and mouth ‘check.’ Angie is completely out of it as I pull out her chair like a gentleman, help her with her jacket, and lead her between the tables.
After the hot, crowded restaurant, the cool air hits hard, clearing my head. It’s a crisp, clear night. Venus is visible, and so are the navigation lights of a few planes heading toward the airport. Our shoes are loud on the blacktop. I want to pull her close. The impulse feels so natural I have to focus on leaving my arms at my sides.
I hand her up into the truck, get in my side, and then I fuck around. I take my jacket off and toss it into the back. I fiddle with the seat warmers. I let the engine run awhile as if a V8 can’t handle a cold start. I don’t want to take her home. And it’s not just that I’ve been imagining tonight in pornographic details for days. Years, really, if I’m being honest.
I can’t walk away when she’s unhappy. I’ve done that enough. I’d rather pick a fight. If I have to take her home and drive away, I’d rather do it angry, but that’s not a choice I have. I’m not a child to throw a tantrum because someone doesn’t want to play with me. I can take ‘no’ for an answer. It doesn’t feel like it right now, but it’s not going to kill me.
I need to ask her what’s wrong, but what if she says nothing? She probably will. She keeps herself to herself. Always has. Then what do I say? I know something’s wrong? What if she tells me to mind my business and take her home?
I don’t want to do that. I can’t. I won’t.
But I don’t have a fucking choice. I’m easily five times stronger than she is physically, and there is not a damn thing I can do to keep her except say the right thing. Talk. It’s like God’s joke on the working man.
I blow out a slow breath, grip the steering wheel, glare straight through the windshield, and steel myself. “Where to?” I ask.
For the three seconds it takes her to answer, nothing in my body beats or flows or blinks.
“Your place,” she finally says, softly, like we’re on the edge of the Grand Canyon, and I’m about to floor it while we grab each other’s hands and sail into the blue sky. In my entire life, a woman has never shown such a complete lack of enthusiasm to go home with me. I do not have a semi anymore.
I’m not relieved. This is a stay of execution, and I don’t know how I earned it, or what to do now, so I just try not to make any sudden moves. I keep my mouth shut. She wouldn’t want to go all the way to my place to tell me it’s over, right?
But she might to tell me someone hurt her, and she’s not ready to be with me.
Fuck.
I need a cigarette.
I drive the speed limit all the way to my townhouse. I bought it two years ago when Randy said rates were only going up, and ‘if you don’t want to get priced out of home ownership by Wall Street fat cats who have no better place to park their cash than Chateau de Shit Factory’ then I better use my container royalty check for a down payment. Chateau de Shit Factory isn’t quite fair. The waste treatment plant hasn’t been operational since the ’90s. They pump it all south of the city, now.
Anyway, it’s nice. Three bedrooms, two baths, and a deck I built myself. It’s not exactly decorated, but I keep it clean. It’s an investment. When I have kids, I want a single-family home with a big yard, a two-car garage, and a good tree for a treehouse. The girls would love a treehouse. Or a playhouse. They’d go nuts over that.
A heavy weight settles on my shoulders. I need to figure out what’s happening. I don’t want this to be over. For me, it never will be.
My throat is too tight to talk as I park in my spot, open her door, and walk her inside. She’s never been to my place before. She never had a reason.
I had this idea that it’d be cool to watch her check it out tonight, like she’d be really impressed with my leather sofa set and the fruit bowl on the breakfast bar that I bought yesterday and filled with the expensive apples. That’s not how it’s going to go.
I untie my boots and kick them off in the foyer. It’s habit. I work ships. If I wear shoes in the house, the carpets are getting ruined. Angie seems surprised, but then she unlaces hers and slips her feet out. She’s wearing thin little socks that barely cover her toes. I crank the thermostat up as I pass. The hardwood is going to be cold.
Angie wanders in behind me, lingering in the space between the living room and kitchen. The first floor is open concept. She doesn’t seem to take notice of anything.
“Can I get your coat?” I ask.
She blinks. “Oh, yeah.” She wrestles it off before I can get there to help. Her cheeks are pink, and worry lines her face.
What the hell is wrong?
“The bathroom’s there if you need it.” I point toward the half bath under the stairs.
“Okay.”
I hold my hand out for her coat, but she doesn’t seem to register what I’m doing. She folds it over her own arm instead. Her purse hangs across her chest. It doesn’t look like she’s planning to get comfortable.
Do I ask her what’s up now? While we’re standing here in the middle of my silent house, staring at each other like strangers?
I cough to clear my throat. “You want to sit? We can watch a movie?”
“Okay.”
“Do you want popcorn?” I ask.
“Yeah, all right.”
“The remote is on the coffee table. You pick something. I’ve got all the streaming services.”
“All of them?” she asks, a vague smile flashing across her face.
My chest eases the slightest bit. She’s tense, and there’s something going on, but she’s still Angie. I head into the kitchen.
“Want a beer?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Sure.”
I stretch to check the highest cabinet, praying I still have a bag of microwave popcorn left. Score. I have a whole unopened box. I check the expiration date. It’s from two years ago. Popcorn doesn’t go bad, right? Who’s ever seen spoiled popcorn?
I’ll just taste it first and make sure it’s good.
While I nuke the bag, I wash my hands. Immediately after I dry them, my palms begin to sweat again. I hope Maddie is right about women being into men’s pheromones because I started the evening fresh and clean, but at this point, I smell like I’m at the end of an eight-hour shift.
I’m so focused on not scalding myself with steam as I dump the popcorn into a bowl, and then scrounging up little baggies of salt from carryout orders since my shaker has been empty for a while, and then grabbing two beers, that I don’t fully register that I haven’t heard Angie sit down and turn the TV on.
When I come out of the kitchen area, she’s still standing there with her coat and purse. Her face looks stricken. There’s no other way to describe it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. My body tenses, getting ready to fight whoever made her feel like this, but I’m also in my stocking feet, my hands full with a bowl of popcorn and two bottles of beer.
“I-I have to tell you something,” she starts.
My guts seize. Please don’t let her say someone hurt her. Please, God. Let her dump me. Tell me she’s not really into me, that she’s not ready for something serious, fucking anything but someone hurt her.
She keeps talking without meeting my eyes. “I-I can go after if you want. I can leave. It’s no problem.”
I drove. She’s not leaving. If she does, I’ll take her. But that’s not what I need to say right now. I need to be calm, cool, and collected. I nod, my face sweating from popcorn steam.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I have herpes.”
“What?”
“I have herpes.” Tears spring to her eyes.
Immediately, Mrs. Roscoe’s eighth grade health class pops into my head. Which one was herpes?
Shit. All I can remember is that fucking cartoon about consent with the bike, and that bike doesn’t help me one bit now.
The tears are now falling down her cheeks in a sheet.
What do I say?
I’m frozen in place, my brain offering up useless shit from sex ed—abstinence is the only one hundred percent effective method of birth control; when you sleep with someone, you sleep with everyone they’ve ever slept with, too; there’s no such thing as safe sex, only safer sex.
Angie looks up at me, her arms wrapped tight across her chest and her chin wobbling, like I’m about to hit her.
And in my entire life, I have never felt so big—like Godzilla—or so hopelessly, utterly unprepared.