2. Brian
CHAPTER 2
“Those boxes look awfully heavy. I bet you were the cock of the walk of your old town with arms like that!”
I freeze mid-squat on my way to lift another box out of the U-Tow and into my building. I turn and look out the back of the box truck, where an elderly woman dressed in a bright turquoise windbreaker, tailored sweatpants, white sneakers, and a pair of binoculars around her neck is leaning against the loading ramp.
“Uh, I don’t believe we’ve met, Miz…” I extend a hand to her, waiting for her to provide her name.
“Mrs. Woodcock, dearie. And you must be Brian Gosling, the new town chiropractor! You wouldn’t happen to be related to…” She looks at me appraisingly, meeting my handshake with a surprisingly firm grip for such cold fingers.
“Oh no, no relation.” I chuckle nervously. Who the frick is this woman? And how does she know who I am? I follow her eyes out of the back of the truck and towards the front porch of my mixed-use office and residence, where a freshly-painted, plastic-wrapped wooden sign is leaning against the railing.
That’s Good Crack
Brian Gosling, D.C.
That was quick. I just put in the order at the Signne Shoppe two days ago when I had my refrigerator delivered. Although that does explain how Mrs. Woodcock knows my name and what I do for a living.
She starts to speak again. I load a stack of boxes onto a handcart and wheel them down the ramp, only half-listening to her ranting.
“...It’s been an awfully long time since the old coot has had any competition, after all, but what with the yoga studio and boxing gym and all these other young folk moving into town, it’s nice to see that there will be options for the more physically inclined! I’m sure you’ll find we’re quite the active community once you get to know us! Why, just the other day, Mr. Woodcock and I were out birdwatching…”
Thud. The handcart bangs against the wooden stairs as I pull the stack of boxes onto my porch and through the front door.
Mrs. Woodcock doesn’t seem to mind the extra noise, even if it covers up some of the context of her story.
“...can be quite physically demanding, as I’m sure you know–” Thunk. “–as soon as he’d put his foot–” Thunk. “–did Mr. Woodcock–” Thunk. “–have the tits in his sights–”
Donk! “What now?”
I plonk the handcart down a little too forcefully in front of the door.
“Why, a delightful pair of tufted titmouse, of course! Right by your upstairs window. They’re native to the area, you know. Are you a birder as well?”
I blink at the old woman. When did she start talking about birdwatching? “Uh, no. I’m afraid I’m not.”
“Well, it’s never too late to learn!” She holds up her binoculars and gives them a little wiggle. I give her a look that I hope comes across as more smile than grimace. Although, if being perceived as rude would get her off of my lawn…
“I’m sure. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Woodcock, but I really ought to get these boxes inside.”
“Oh of course, dear! We’ll catch up soon. And if you ever need anything, don’t be afraid to ask! We’re just up the street at the lovely white colonial, there.” She points at a giant home in the center of the residential block. I swear I see a pair of eyes peeking from behind a set of lilac curtains in the first-story window, but they’re gone the second I try to look a little closer.
“Have a good evening, Mrs. Woodcock.” What an unfortunate name.
I watch for a moment as the old woman walks right into the street, setting off a slight squeal as a car hits the brakes to avoid hitting the old woman. She waves at them as she crosses, and the driver shakes their head. I notice as she shuffles away that her windbreaker has “Tit Peeper” written across her shoulder blades in academic-style block letter patches.
I really hope that’s referring to birdwatching.
Moving here from the city wasn’t an easy choice. Tuft Swallow was a ways away from a few of the conveniences I’d come to expect. But I was tired of driving over an hour to meet up with my boyfriend, Zeke, twice a week for date nights. He participates in a recreational sports league in Spitz Hollow, the neighboring township, and it apparently gets pretty intense in the summer.
I suggested once that it would be nice if we lived closer to each other, and he didn’t disagree. So I moved here to surprise him for our one-year anniversary. Now, instead of an hour and a half apart, there’s only twenty minutes between his front door and mine—and no city traffic to keep us apart.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. I stop rolling the handcart and reach into my pocket. Zeke’s name flashes across the screen.
“Hey babe,” I say, checking my watch. “What are you up to tonight?”
“I was hoping we could talk about something.” His husky, British-accented voice rings out of the phone speaker. God, he’s sexy. How I got lucky enough to snag the one British guy near me on the dating apps, I’ll never know, but every time I pick up the phone I thank whatever power made it so. Supposedly he moved here from London for work a couple years ago.
Their loss.
“Sure. Why don’t we meet up at my place?” This is it. He’s going to be absolutely thrilled.
“Uh, babe, I’m not up for an hour-plus drive–”
“It won’t take that long,” I cut in. Here goes. “I got a new place.”
There’s a pause on his end of the line. It’s long enough that I wonder if maybe the connection dropped, but then his response crackles through. “What?”
“That’s right. I’m now the proud owner of a home/office building in the town of Tuft Swallow!” I grin, imagining his face as I look around the empty foyer of the first floor where my chiropractic business will be set up.
Truth be told, I’ve wanted my own space and practice for years. After chiropractic school, I worked for a big rehabilitation clinic and health club in the city. It was a decent enough job, but the boss had been so particular about how he’d wanted everything done. He was a stickler about how long we spent with each patient, too, which annoyed the hell out of me. Fifteen minutes just isn’t enough to address people’s chronic injuries or pain, and I always told myself that when I had my own practice, I’d actually schedule enough time with each patient to give them the care they need.
Now I can do that and have dinner with the man of my dreams every night if I want to.
“Tuft Swallow? Why on earth would you move to Tuft Swallow??”
That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.
I feel myself deflate a little. “Uh. To have my own practice? And it’s closer to you. I thought you’d be happy?”
“Oh God, you didn’t do it for me, did you?” A horrible, queasy feeling swirls in my stomach. I hear Zeke sigh, and I can just see him rubbing the bridge of his nose with his long fingers. His handsome, brown face scrunched in frustration. “Text me the address. You don’t have my red jacket packed away in a box, do you? I need it back.”
“Are you mad at me?” I flinch. I hate how pathetic I sound.
“No, no, that’s not it. I just want it for this weekend. I’ll pick it up when I come over.”
“Okay. I’ll send you the address now.” I switch to speaker phone and text him the address of the new place as quickly as possible, wishing he’d say something to break the awkward silence. “Love you,” I say once it’s sent.
“Yeah, I got it. See you soon.”
The thirty-four minutes in between him hanging up and ringing the doorbell are absolutely unbearable. I fling the door open, and take in the sight of the perfectly-rumpled Zeke standing with his hands in his pockets on my front porch. He rocks that effortlessly tousled look, with big, mirrored sunglasses and his dark hair mussed and brushing over his forehead. He’s still wearing his work clothes, just slightly wrinkled from sitting at his desk all day.
I reach out to hug him, and he hesitates before giving me the shortest of squeezes in return. I beckon him in, showing him upstairs to my actual apartment and offering him some luke-warm pizza that I had ordered earlier in the day. He declines, waving his hand nonchalantly.
“I already ate.”
I look at the microwave clock, which I’d set while I waited for him to arrive. It’s barely six o’clock. He ate before driving over here? Why wouldn’t he want to have dinner together? I mean, sure, lukewarm pizza isn’t the most appealing meal, but if he’s already in my apartment…
“So. You wanted your jacket?”
I walk to the bedroom to get the red leather bomber jacket from its hanger in the closet. He follows behind, fidgeting with his sunglasses, before tucking them in the collar of his shirt and taking in the surroundings of my new space. His eyes land on a box on the bed labeled Zeke’s things - Bedroom.
“I think we should take a break.”
I blink.
No, surely I didn’t hear him correctly. The acoustics must be off in this house.
The house that I just purchased. To be closer to Zeke.
Zeke, who just said– “You want to break up?”
He removes a hand from his pocket and shoves his fingers through his hair, making it even more deliciously messy. But instead of the warm, fuzzy feeling I usually get in my stomach at seeing his finger-rumpled mane, there’s only an empty gnawing there. It slowly spreads through my chest and down to my own fingertips. He buzzes his lips.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right, it’s probably best to just have a clean break, eh? With you, focusing on building up your business in its new location and all, and me…well. You know.”
I stare at him, my eyes somehow zeroed in and unfocused at the same time.
“No, babe, I don’t know. What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
“You really shouldn’t call me that anymore, you know. Doesn’t really go along with the whole ‘breaking up’ vibe we’re going for here, does it?”
“We’re not going for a breaking up vibe, ba–” I catch myself. “Zeke. For fuck’s sake! I moved to Tuft Swallow.”
He snorts. “Yeah! That’s a real case of counting your chickens before they’ve hatched, isn’t it? But you’re rather scrappy. I’m sure you’ll do great around here. Loads of old folks with bad hips and the like, falling out of trees and such. Good for business!”
He snatches the jacket out of my limp hands and shoves it into the open box atop my comforter. My heart shatters. Then, when he casually props it under his arm and grins at me, so easy and aloof, the sight of the perfect dimple in his cheek melts the fragments that remain.
That devil-may-care attitude and cool British detachment sure are a real pain-in-the-ass when I’m the thing he’s detaching himself from.
“Please tell me this is a joke,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Oh cheer up, mate—I’m sure they aren’t actually falling out of trees. I’m just taking the piss.”
“Not about the old people! About us!”
I’m shouting now. Oh fuck. This isn’t a good look. No, no no. Act cool, Brian. Cool like Zeke. Like the ironic, unflappable disaffected millennial you’ve convinced him you are.
But my face won’t listen to my brain. I can feel the vein in my forehead twitching, and my throat won’t stop trying to swallow around the lump that’s formed there. Are those tears stinging the backs of my eyes?
“Oh, God, man, you’re not crying over this, are you? You know I’m absolute shite with tears.” He shifts the box to his other side, and he’s looking more and more like he’s regretting his decision to come over.
Shit. I’m regretting his decision to come over. I was perfectly fine with how things stood an hour ago, when Zeke was still my boyfriend and I was still thinking he’d be happy when I surprised him with our sudden proximity.
“I thought–I thought we had something–” don’t say ‘special,’ don’t sound clingy, “good–here. We don’t have to change. I mean, it can stay casual, you know? One night a week, a hookup here and there…”
Oh God just stop talking. You’re making it worse.
“Yeah, I’m just not really feeling it, you know? Never been one to tie myself down, and what with the league starting back up. There are an awful lot of local hotties that toss bean in the summer and, well. I don’t have to drive an hour to hook up with them, now do I?”
I don’t answer, even though every fiber of my being is screaming at me to point out that he no longer has to drive an hour to hook up with me, either. I eliminated that pain point when I moved out to the suburbs, just twenty minutes away from him.
“Buck up, now, B–maybe we can pick things up again in the fall, eh? Get pissed or whatever it is people do for fun out here in the sticks. You’re a great shag. I’m just feeling like I need a little time away, you know? For the league.”
“For the league.” The words sound hollow when I repeat them. Probably because I’m still in shock, trying to absorb what he’s saying.
“Now you’re getting it, B. You’ve always been crack wit. Hey! Good Crack! Like on your sign! I get it!” He laughs and pats me on the shoulder, not getting it at all.
Okay. Okay. No need to panic. Let’s review. What has he said so far?
Not ready to tie myself down. We’re moving too fast. Got it, that’s understandable. I spooked him a bit. You’re a great shag. So there’s still chemistry here. He feels it, too. Pick things up in the fall… he just wants some time to enjoy the summer with his sports club. To “toss bean,” whatever that means. Must be some weird British sport like Cricket or Rugby.
That’s fine. This is fine. It’s just a break. Doesn’t mean it’s over. Not like I packed up my entire life and my well-paying job at the health club for a relationship that the other person doesn’t even care about.
He just doesn’t care about it right now.
“Yeah, man, you’re right. It’s summer!” I force a smile and return the shoulder pat, adding in a hair tussle for good measure. It takes every ounce of my willpower to keep my fingers from lingering in that perfect, soft hair. “No sense in tying ourselves down when there’s… bean to toss. Totally. We’ll, uh, touch base come September. Have a poke, as they say!”
I stab a finger into his muscled arm as I say poke. And inwardly cringe as I realize how idiotic I sound.
He looks down at my finger, then coughs. “Right. Well then! Now that that’s settled. I’ll see you around, B.”
He hoists the box of his belongings, containing all the reasons he might have to return, up on his shoulder and whistles as he exits the room. Then he dons his sunglasses and saunters through the kitchen and out to the second floor landing, flying down the wooden stairs to the driveway. I didn’t show him that door. It’s almost as if he scouted the place for exits when he came inside.
I hear his Mustang peel away, and then silence.
I rip open the pizza box and try to shove an entire slice in my mouth at once. Yeah, I know, eating my feelings is wrong. I went to fucking medical school, okay? But there are exceptions.
I’m not even done chewing before I’m grabbing my keys and heading to the gas station on the corner. I may have lost one man tonight, temporarily, but I’ve got two on speed dial for emergencies like this.
Ben and Jerry.