Chapter 18
Hawk
“Heading out, sir?” Daphne asks, looking up from her screen.
“Yes. Call my cell if there’s anything you need me for.”
She nods, but her pursed mouth clearly reflects her disapproval. Whenever she’s asked me to join her for lunch in the breakroom or the diner, I cited being busy as an excuse, whereas this is the sixth lunch I’m eating away from my desk in the last two weeks.
Squid is the only one of my employees who’s not surprised. He’s just happy to have company on his daily walk to the residential side of the compound. I knock on his door before entering.
“Is it time already?” He asks, looking up from some papers he’s reviewing.
As he puts the files back into their folder, I glance at the family photos on his desk and, not for the first time, I envy the seemingly small joys of this man’s day.
Morning coffee with his wife, phone calls from his sons, lunch with Bev every day…
As every step carries me closer to Marissa and DJ, I imagine what it would be like to open the door and see them for the next 20, 30 years. My ribcage expands at the thought.
“In a hurry, are we?” Squid teases me after I clear my throat.
“I’m hungry,” I lie.
“You live with the woman, Hawk. How is it possible you can’t even make it a full four hours at work without seeing her?”
“First of all, thanks to your wife and her integration efforts, I barely see Marissa despite living with her. At least next week she’ll be working here with us.”
“I think you’re exaggerating what Bev’s doing.”
I don’t appreciate the dismissal in his voice.
“Oh, yeah? Eleven days she’s been living with me, and yet, the most time we spent together was sorting out the custody stuff in court last week. We’ve eaten three dinners alone. Three! If I don’t go home for lunch, I barely see her.”
“What about the weekend? Can’t you make plans under the guise of showing her around?”
“Not this weekend,” I say, trying not to sound like a sulking toddler. “Her friend Rachel is driving up with Truck and all three of their children.”
“That was fast, good, it means he’s interested in hearing us out,” Prez says in a serious tone, then frowns. “Wait. Where’s Marissa when you come home from work every day?”
“She’s gotten it into her head that I need to rest,” I make air-quotes around the last three words. “So she’s mostly in her room. And then it’s either people inviting themselves over or she's hanging out in the clubhouse with the girls…”
I’m quite worked up at this point, but Squid laughs.
“You do know what you’re describing is a good thing, right?”
We stop in front of my home, and the invisible leash that ties me to Marissa is now being tugged almost violently.
“I know,” I admit. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want some of that time for myself.”
“Patience, Hawk. You’re 38, act like it. I’ll see you in an hour,” he says before turning and, pulled by his own leash, heading towards his woman.
As I unlock and open the door, I make as much noise as possible to make my presence known. “Is anyone home?” I yell out for good measure.
Marissa is still hypervigilant and flinches at sudden appearances.
“We’re in here,” she yells back, and I find her on the couch, looking frazzled, while DJ crawls around on the floor.
She’s wearing soft-looking brown leggings and a very faded tie-dye Grateful Dead T-shirt that is at least three sizes too big. Her face is framed by two braids. She looks like a real flower child.
“Nice shirt,” I tell her as I squat and lightly squeeze one of DJ’s tiny feet. “Hey, little guy. Have you two eaten yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve baked some veggie muffins for DJ and was gonna fix myself something later.”
“I have some three-cheese pasta with eggplant,” I say as I inspect the freezer. “It’s two portions, wanna join me?”
“Oh, sure, let me…” She makes to stand up, but I wave her away. “I’ll pop it in the microwave and go wash up.”
She thanks me, but her eyes are still kind of sad.
Like Squid said, patience. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.
The whiteboard in my bathroom reads 2385.
I take a deep breath before heading downstairs.
“How was your morning?” I ask as we both watch DJ pulverize the muffin with his hands.
“I made a mistake at the autoshop,” she says quietly, like she’s trying to hide it from DJ.
I lean closer to her. “What happened?”
“Lucy had gone to the bathroom, so I was alone at the front desk when the phone rang. A woman asked for Frank, so I put her through to the extension indicated on my list. Next thing I know, it's mayhem. I heard a crash, and when I looked through the glass, I saw Hammer throwing things and yelling while two people were trying to restrain him,” she breaks off and grimaces. “When Lucy came out of the bathroom, and I told her what happened, she explained that the woman on the phone was Hammer’s ex, who apparently was never to be let in or put through to him. But no one told me that, Hawk, I swear!”
“I believe you,” I tell her as I put my hand on her forearm. “What happened then?”
“Lucy apologized but still sent me home early, like I’m the one who did something wrong.”
I suck air in through my teeth. “That sucks. I’m sure she only sent you home because you were scared and upset, not as punishment.”
“Yeah. Hammer overreacted, though.”
I push her plate closer to her, and she obediently takes a bite.
“He did,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “And I’m sure they sent him home, too. I’ll give you some context, not to defend him, but to help you understand. Hammer was married to his high school sweetheart for, like, 20 years."
"Was she the woman who called?" Marissa asks, and I nod.
"One day, he came home early and caught her having sex with her lover in their family home, pulled the guy off her, and beat him to a pulp. He spent a year behind bars and has been in anger management, but he’s still.
.. touchy about it. It doesn’t help that Erica keeps trying to get in touch with him. ”
Marissa’s eyes widen.
“Damn. No wonder he lost his shit. Now I have this unbearable urge to apologize to him.”
“Maybe don’t bring it up,” I suggest gently, and she nods.
“What does his ex want? Do they have kids?”
I nod. “Three. I confronted her once, told her that Hammer wants to be left alone, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. She wants to apologize,” I say the word like it's rotten.
Marissa shakes her head slowly but doesn’t say anything.
“What did you do after they sent you home?”
“I was practically vibrating with anxiety, so I spontaneously decided to have a swim before coming home.”
“How was the pool?”
She sighs dreamily, and I imagine her in a wet swimsuit. “It was lovely. I can’t remember the last time I went swimming. I’ll try to do it more often.”
She then frowns. “Of course, all the positive effects of the pool were undone by getting a phone call from D-Y-L-A-N,” she says with a glance at DJ, who couldn’t care less about our conversation.
“Oh?” I tone my interest down to appropriate, friendly levels. “How did that go?”
She makes a face, and I can’t help but grimace.
“Yeah,” Marissa says pointedly.
It’s almost time for me to head back to work, but I desperately want more of her.
“Do you guys have any plans for this afternoon? I figured we could go get some groceries before my AA meeting?”
*
“I didn’t know you had two cars,” she says when I meet her in the garage after work.
I pretend I’m focused on buckling DJ in. “Yeah, I barely get to drive the SUV. In fact, I was gonna tell you to use it for your errands and stuff. Lucy has one of these, and she always lauds it as the ultimate mom car.”
She thinks for a minute, throws herself into the passenger seat, and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes.
“I think I’ll actually take you up on that,” she says dejectedly. “I have to go to court for those parenting lessons, find DJ a new pediatrician, get him registered, we need to look into getting a place… There’s a lot of stuff to do. Thanks.”
There’s something very intimate about grocery shopping with someone. You’re essentially showing them who you are behind closed doors, what your habits and priorities are, not to mention revealing your guilty pleasures.
I push the cart with DJ strapped in the little baby container on it, while Marissa walks on my right.
“Did you know you can get an entire chicken for far less per pound, and then you can divide it into pieces, use them for different meals, and use the bones for stock in the end?” She says as I put three packages of boneless chicken breast in the cart, clearly trying really hard not to sound like she’s meddling.
“I did know that,” I say and move on to the marinated chicken thighs.
She wants to say more, but manages to stay silent until I start loading up on canned beans. “I usually get the dried ones and cook them myself. It’s not difficult. You only have to soak them beforehand.”
She hasn’t put a single thing in the cart yet. I pretend to think for a minute.
“I could. But I would have to remember to soak them in advance, and then cook them for a long time. I wouldn’t be able to come home, have lunch, and go back to work within an hour as I do now.
Same with the chicken: I like being able to simply throw it on the grill, no prep, no hassle.
Sometimes I take time on the weekends to make stews and stuff, and I portion them out and freeze them to eat during the week, but generally, I like making my life easier for myself. ”
“Must be nice,” she mumbles, and I stifle a laugh.
She sees it, and she smiles as well. “Sorry. I guess I’m used to my system.”
“I think DJ prefers my system, isn’t that right, buddy?” I ask him, then decide to make a game out of having him pick different produce for the week.
It ends up being loads of fun, and I even manage to convince Marissa to throw a few snacks into the cart for herself.
She grabs two cans of the energy drink Beavis and Butthead forced us to ingest, and upon seeing my incredulous face, she bursts out laughing and puts them back. “I was just messing with you.”
We browse the detergent aisle when she suddenly says, “I needed this today. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Do you want to talk about it?”
She sighs and tries to flick a braid back over her shoulder, only to realize it’s not as long as it once was. She does that sometimes. It’s like a phantom length.
“I guess Dylan finally read the papers he was served with. He’s angry about having to take parenting classes.
He told me we could have dealt with this between us instead of involving the court.
Accused me of being jealous and vindictive.
I didn’t take the bait. I calmly reiterated that this will ensure fair parenting time for both of us.
Then he said he wanted to take DJ for a weekend visit in two weeks.
Only one night, thank God, until he gets the hang of it.
” She inhales shakily, like she’s trying not to cry.
“I had no reason to say no. I mean, I want DJ to spend time with his dad, but… what if Dylan doesn’t give him back? ”
I stop in my tracks and grab her by the arm. She turns her body to me but doesn’t look away from her son.
“First of all, that’s kidnapping. There are laws against that, and I still have a lot of police contacts that would immediately make it a priority to intervene.”
She gives a small nod.
“But more importantly, I would drive to Tucson myself, and I’d burn their clubhouse to the ground if Slim dared to do that. I would stop at nothing to get DJ back to you, okay?”
I fucking said the wrong thing again because she starts crying for real. A little old Hispanic lady gives me the stinkeye as she walks by.
“I’m sorry,” Marissa says as she wipes her nose on her shoulder. “It’s nice when someone has your back. It made me wonder whether this was how people with fathers or older brothers always felt, and then I kinda lost it. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.”
I decide not to focus on the male relative box I’ve just been shoved in. I use my thumb to wipe some of her tears away.
“It’s fine. It’s been a rough few weeks. Emotional aftershocks, right?”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Weeks, months, years. Sometimes I feel like I never recovered from giving birth.”
DJ starts fussing due to being ignored in the cart, and Marissa readily sets her pain aside to tend to him, and that’s when it hits me.
She doesn’t do that with me. She doesn’t swallow the hurt.
She cries.
She’s vulnerable with me because she knows she can be.
She trusts me.
I feel like the biggest man in this store for the rest of the trip. Not even Marissa’s arguing about who’s gonna pay at the end gets to me.
As I’m backing out of my parking spot, I hug the backrest of her seat, and I drive my family home.
*
Living with your woman who’s not your woman is hard.
It starts in the morning - I come home from the gym, and Marissa and DJ are usually laughing in the kitchen, their eyes still puffy from sleep, but I can’t kiss her eyelids or smell her hair.
No, I can only politely inquire about the quality of their sleep or whether they like their breakfast.
Several times, I almost kiss Marissa on the mouth or forehead when saying hello or thanking her for dinner.
Idiot.
For a week, I even had the opportunity to observe how she navigated the office environment and her new responsibilities. She was magnificent.
Because I know her so well, it was obvious to me how scared and unnerved she was, but as always, my girl bit the bullet and did the job. She’s sharp and very capable, but doesn’t fully trust herself yet.
Our household is falling into a routine, and I find it thrilling since it enhances the we that I hope we are becoming.
A team. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Marissa makes dinner, whereas on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I prep something during my lunch hour while she’s at the pool.
On her pool days, I usually find her asleep on the couch.
My girl likes naps. Looks like she’s been tired for a long time.
I’m getting less annoyed at people stealing her time from me because her joy makes it worth it. After she spent all of Saturday evening gushing about the playdate she and Jameela had with the boys, I remembered the day when Jameela called about it.
Marissa was so flustered, and all I could think was, I never want her to be surprised at an invitation again.