111. Hard Not to Love the Sox #2
Luckily, she’s continued without even looking for my participation in the conversation. I wonder if Father tunes her out the way she tunes out most of the world during her verbal free association.
“That’s a good idea, Mother. Thanksgiving is a workweek for me.”
“Oh, I forgot. How do I keep forgetting? When do you think you’ll go into private practice?
Don’t answer that. I know you’re in your ‘exploring phase.’” She uses air quotes.
“And enjoying your time down south. You’ll want to be established and have a place you’ll stay before you begin the process of setting up a private business.
The idea of wintering there is certainly pleasant, but living there permanently?
” She shivers as if the idea is untenable.
I let her go on. I could say I have no intention of moving back to Boston. I could say I like Florida. I could say I love my job and private practice isn’t on my radar.
Instead, I do what is expected because expectations are the axis on which this family rotates.
I hmm and nod at all the right times. At other times, I use my champagne flute—still full minus the two sips I took earlier—to gesture to the crowd and the house.
When people begin pressing in for congratulations and small talk, I slip away, but only after confirming I’ll be here in the morning for brunch.
I head for the house, intent on leaving, only to see Tally on her way out the back door. The trifecta is complete. Tommy, my parents, and Tally.
“Hey, Tally.” I lean in and kiss her cheek.
“Tally?” The man at her side has a quizzical look on his face.
“Michael, this is my sister, Olivia. Olivia, this is Michael.”
I extend a hand, shifting my flute to do so. “Call me Livy. Everybody does. Well”—I cock my head to Tally—“everyone but my big sister.”
“Nice to meet you, Livy.” He squeezes my hand, scanning over my head at the party in full swing. “Looks like a packed house. Any boring conversations you can warn us about?”
“No bunion talk that I can recall.”
“Olivia,” my sister snaps as though my comment warrants immediate correction while Michael laughs under his breath. Tally slices her eyes to him.
“Good luck, Michael. Don’t say the word—” I mouth, “Bunion,” behind my hand. “It angers Tally.” I slide past him, setting my flute on the kitchen counter as I go.
As I pass the powder room on the way to the front door, the door opens and an arm shoots out, grabbing me. “Don’t scream,” Tommy says, leaning too close for comfort.
I don’t want to scream. I want to knee him in the balls.
“What do you want?”
“To talk to you. You won’t take my calls and won’t respond to my texts. Do you have me blocked?”
“Here’s a hint, Tommy. When someone doesn’t answer your calls or respond to messages, that person doesn’t want to communicate with you.”
“Baby, don’t do that. Don’t be mad at me.”
Who does this man think he is? More so, who does he think he is to me?
“I’m not your baby. You don’t get to call me that. And I’m not mad at you. I don’t think of you. There’s a difference. Anger is one thing; apathy is a whole different animal.”
“You’re just saying that because I hurt you.” He reaches up to brush his hand across my hair.
I slap his hand away. “Stop it. And step back. Now.”
He doesn’t, and his eyes turn manic. “I’m sorry, Livylicious. I never wanted to hurt you. I think of you… when I’m with her. You were the best I ever had.”
Uh, no. That’s gross. “Last chance, Tommy. Last chance. Step back.”
“Baby.” He leans forward, hands going to my hips, pinning me to the sink.
I lift a knee to his groin. His eyes go wide, and he groans when I make contact.
I smile when he crumples in front of me. Nothing has made me this happy since I landed in the state of Massachusetts.
“Stop.” His words are harsh, but airy as he tries to breathe, and his grip on my hip tightens. “Stop it. You know you want me too.”
“I do not. I can’t believe how foolish I was to believe you or trust you all those years ago.”
“Baby, we were good together.” He stands, looming over me. His anger and desperation becoming a dangerous combination.
I knock him off with my other hand, still holding my clutch. “So long as the “in sickness” part didn’t factor in, right? Or the “for worse” part either? You are an expert at being selfish. Now, step back. I won’t say it again.”
He pushes into me, pressing his hips into my stomach. “Livy.”
I throw a punch but miss wildly, hitting his Adam’s apple. I scrape my knuckles against the doorframe as I pull back, shaking my wrist furiously. Ow. “No means no. No, Tommy. Never again with you.”
I flee the bathroom and take the stairs two at a time to my childhood bedroom. I don’t want to be here, but I need to get an Uber, and I won’t stand alone on the street while I wait.
By the time the car arrives, I’m pissed but not afraid, and my hand is swelling and I could’ve avoided that with ice.
The delay in waiting until I get to the hotel isn’t ideal, but it’s a better option than another confrontation downstairs.
It also beats any explanation that a pack of frozen vegetables would warrant with Mother and Father’s guests.
I slide into the car and hold my wrist in my good hand, wondering what came over me that I hit Tommy.
I know what... anger, indignation, frustration. Not from rejection or jealousy or fear. Though I guess the man in question would prefer the latter to the former.
He never did get it.
“In the top of the seventh, the Rangers lead the Sox two to one. Time for the seventh inning stretch, folks. Sing with us now,” the man on the radio launches into ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’ and the recording as his background warbles with him.
“I can’t tell you the last time I heard baseball on the radio,” I muse as the driver negotiates Boston traffic.
“It’s getting harder and harder ta find. Better radio, more stations, lotsa choices, nothing great to listen ta anymore.” His accent is pronounced and makes me smile on the inside.
“Are you a Red Sox fan?”
“Well, yeah. Boston born and raised, Miss. Hard not to love the Sox.”
Hard not to love the Sox. Hmm. I was raised here and never went to a game. Academics over athletics is or was the family motto.
He pulls over at the hotel curb and offers the pleasantries most drivers do.
“I know this is random, but is that game here or away?”
“It’s a home series. First game of three tonight. Doubleheader tomorrow since they rescheduled a rain delay game for Monday in Montreal.”
“Thanks. Have a great night.”
I walk into the hotel, sliding my key from my clutch as well as my phone so I can tip the driver. Eighteen missed calls from an unknown number show in successive notifications down the screen.
The text message app notification number continues to grow even as nothing populates the screen.
First things, first. I enter the room and extricate myself from the dress. It’s harder than I’d like with swollen knuckles and limited mobility. Lounge clothes on, I pad down the hall with the ice bucket and fill it up, using the plastic bag to make a pack when I get back in the room.
I climb into the center of the bed and slide my phone across the covers to me.
I tip the driver and head to my browser window.
I put Red Sox tickets into the search engine and cue tomorrow’s date.
The first game tomorrow is at noon. I buy a ticket, reveling in my “get out of brunch free” card.
Well, it’s more like a “get out of brunch a little early and only hear about it until I’m out of the house” card, but still, it’s worth it.
I stare at the climbing text messages app notification and open the app.
Unknown number: I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you.
Unknown number: I miss you and I need you.
Unknown number: Cassandra doesn’t have to know. It’ll just be between us.
Unknown number: Why are you ignoring me?
Unknown number: This is starting to piss me off. You took things out of context, you know.
Unknown number: I can barely swallow. You shouldn’t have swung on me like that. I’ll have a bruise. How am I supposed to explain that?
Unknown number: Why couldn’t you ever be easy? Why is everything such a fight with you?
Unknown number: Do you enjoy being a cunt or are you just naturally great at it?
Unknown number: I don’t know why I waste my breath. You were never worth the trouble.
And here we go.
Unknown number: Fucking defective bitch.
Block.
Yet another number I have to block. I may need to ask the phone company if they can block a whole area code. Aside from my parents, that is.
Not that they would believe me if I were to tell them why I was changing my number. Again.
They call it flighty.
Oh, the joys of being the disappointment of the family.
I skim the messages again. Fucking defective bitch.
Maybe.
But better than being your wife.
I dress in the only clothes I brought aside from my cocktail dress. They’re appropriate for brunch with my parents.
I leave my bag with the hotel valet and grab yet another hired car for a ride.
This time, when I arrive, I don’t knock. There’s no one here to open the door for them and the pretense of needing servants can be left behind.
“Anybody home?” I yell down the hall toward the large eat-in kitchen. I find Tally there, looking as uncomfortable as she did last night standing at the espresso machine.
“Good morning, Tally. How was your night after I left?”
She grunts and casts her eyes to the machine.
“That good, huh?”
“I had too many champagne cocktails and too many post-party chats. It was late, and I don’t do late.”
“You usually work on Saturdays, don’t you?”