Track No. 11 Why Do Fools Fall In Love #2
He didn’t bother knockin’ before steppin’ inside.
Music was thumpin’. Some remix shit, all bass, no soul. The living room was half-full of strangers, guys Roger went to school with. Others Andrew knew from the league.
Couches were covered in Solo cups. The smell of weed hovered.
A girl laughed by the window as some guy passed her a blunt.
Here, not a single person had a care in the world.
No doors were slammin’.
No mouths were yellin’.
The floors weren’t cold.
Roger clocked him from across the room. “There he is, finally,” he said, throwin’ an arm around Andrew in that one-arm slap-hug, reekin’ of designer cologne and off-brand Jack. The kind of mix that screamed birthday boy tryna forget shit.
Andrew’s scanned the place. “Your parents here?”
Roger shrugged as he sipped from his cup. “Only my mom. She’s somewhere gettin’ drunk. You know they’re splittin’, right?”
No. Andrew didn’t know. They didn’t talk about heavy shit.
“Dad cheated, bro. Divorce mess. She’s busted up. Don’t really give a fuck about nothin’ right now.” He gestured toward the back of the house. “You want a beer?”
Montclair or Union—different zip codes—made no difference. Grief still poured the same. Both their moms were still drinkin’ themselves away just to get through the night. And both their sons not talkin’ about it but feelin’ it in their bones.
“Nah, bro. You know I don’t drink.”
Roger pushed his way through the room. “Right, right. Forgot. I’ll grab you a coke.” And in old-school Jersey, coke could be Sprite, Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, or Coke.
Kitchen lights were too bright when they stepped in, bouncin’ off pearl granite.
Then Mrs. Robinson turned, highball glass in hand—hair bleach blonde and blown out, face tight as hell, red lipstick fresh on full lips, tits sittin’ proud like it was her birthday, not Roger’s.
Could’ve fooled you into thinkin’ she was twenty-five.
Roger had heard it his whole life from his boys: “Bro, how you eat dinner across from those tits every night without combustin’?”
“Swear t'God, I get hard every time she brings snacks to the game.”
“Yo, why your mom built like that? What gym she go to, Pornhub?”
“I ain’t sayin’ I would, but I ain’t sayin’ I wouldn’t if she asked…”
She pointed at Andrew, one eye on Roger. “That’s Andrew Harding?” she asked. “Damn. Haven’t seen you since you were a twig with a bowl cut.”
Roger chuckled, slidin’ Andrew a Coke. “Yeah, Ma. Chill out.”
“Jesus.” She pulled Andrew in for a hug before he could step back, arms around his shoulders, chest pressin’ close. “You’re not a boy anymore, huh? You’re a man.”
Andrew gave her a half-pat on the back. “Wild. I’m growin’ up and somehow you’re…
rewindin’.” He knew the rhythm of drunk: smile, nod, let ‘em cling a little. He’d been trained by liquor-laced moods since he could tie his shoes.
He knew not to challenge a drunk woman. Not to ignore her either.
He knew they had two switches: cryin’ and smilin’, and he knew what would flip it.
Mrs. Robinson patted his chest, catchin’ the time on the stove.
“Shit” slipped off her red lips, and she made a beeline for a drawer. A spoon clanged as she pulled it out, then she turned, eyes landin’ on Andrew with a devious wink. “Andrew, sweetheart. You came just in time.”
He half-laughed, still holdin’ the Coke to his lips.
“Yeah? Time for what?”
But she was already grabbin’ Roger’s wrist and yankin’ him toward the living room, drink and spoon in her other hand.
Roger looked back at him, eyes wide like—Bro.
Andrew shook his head, followin’ like—Nah. All you, homie.
In the living room, Mrs. Robinson tapped the spoon to the rim of her glass. That hollow, clinkin’ sound that always meant somethin’ embarrassing was comin’. It made Andrew’s skin crawl. Alcohol plus an audience never equaled good.
“Alright, Roger, sweetheart.” She dragged a wooden chair into the middle of the living room, settin’ up a stage. “You’re gonna sit right here.”
Somebody killed the music.
The whole room went quiet, waitin’.
Mrs. Robinson raised her glass high. “Ladies,” she called. “Time to head outside. I got a surprise for my beautiful boy.”
Roger stood frozen, blinkin’. “Ma, what the hell are you doin’?”
She ignored him, hittin’ him with the mom glare.
Chatter and awkward laughs popped off across the room as they looked at each other. Then Mrs. Robinson cupped her hand around her mouth. “Girls!” she barked through the confusion. “I said get the fuck out for a second!”
She climbed up on the chair, wobblin’, glass still in hand.
“Yeah, you! And you!” she pointed at the girls one-by-one, then clocked a guy standin’ in the hallway. “No. You got a dick, you stay.”
Roger dropped his head into his hand. “Jesus Christ. This can’t be real life.”
The chair teetered on its side, wooden legs squeakin’ against the hardwood, when her heel slid off the edge. Andrew moved before his brain did, set his Coke on a table and leapt toward Mrs. Robinson.
One hand shot to her waist.
The other gripped the back of her thigh to stop her fall.
His fingers curled under the hem of her dress, tryin’ not to feel anything, though he could feel everything.
“Fuckin’ shit, bro—” he hissed, teeth clenched and glancin’ up, seein’ his hand under her hiked dress, palm full of her.
He shot daggers at Roger. “Wanna explain why I got my hand on your mom’s ass right now?
Come get her and take care’a this shit.”
Roger didn’t move, starin’ up at his mom with a deadpan face.
Then he took a sip from his Solo cup.
Andrew let out a huff, one hand tryin’ to drag away into a safe zone. “C’mon now. Let’s get off the damn chair before you bust your ass, alright?”
She didn’t move, too busy scannin’ the room, eyes throwin’ knives.
Girls shuffled toward the hallway, hesitatin’, glancin’ back thinkin’ maybe this was a prank.
“That’s it, girls,” Mrs. Robinson called, “move it along. Your boyfriends’ll be with you in five. You’ll live.”
Andrew didn’t like where this was goin’.
Mrs. Robinson didn’t budge ‘til the last girl was outta sight and the door slammed shut. She snapped her fingers, turnin’ toward the back of the house as he helped her down. “Alright. Bring her in!”
Andrew’s stomach sank.
Bring who in? The fuck was about to happen?
The first screech of guitar licked through the speakers—“SHE’S MY CHERRY PIE…”—volume up, bass rippin’ under the floor and shakin’ the walls. Then, from the kitchen, a girl strutted in with long tanned legs, heels, and black lace ridin’ high on her hips, as if she stepped right out of a centerfold.
The living room exploded into whistles, cough-laughs, guys jumpin’ up to their feet. One of ‘em tossed his hat in the air. Another fake-fainted into the carpet. Another banged a drumroll into the coffee table.
The DJ shouted from the corner, “Ayo—Montclair comin’ with the heat tonight!”
Mrs. Robinson grabbed Roger’s shoulders and pushed him into the chair. “Sit, sweetheart,” she cooed. And he did, glancin’ at Andrew with help-me eyes.
Around the room, his boys were goin’ feral as the stripper circled him, hips movin’ side-to-side, her hand trailin’ across his shoulders, and Roger’s eyes went dead, lookin’ right at her but seein’ nothin’—pale, stiff, no color, gone inside himself. It made Andrew’s gut churn heavy.
“Can’t have my son growin’ up confused. Not in this house,” Mrs. Robinson mutters from behind. “One day he’ll thank me.”
Andrew’s face hardened, teeth grindin’ so hard his temples throbbed as he stared at Roger like—you good, bro? But Roger wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look at anyone.
The room broke out in hoots and slap-heavy laughter.
“Yo, he blushin’!”
“Look at Rog, bro!”
“She gonna ride him in that chair or what?!”
“Ain’t no way he makin’ it through this.”
But Roger wasn’t smilin’.
Roger wasn’t blushin’, either.
Andrew scanned the room at all the guys laughin’ their asses off, too lit to clock what was really happenin’. Over his shoulder, Mrs. Robinson took a sip of her glass, swayin’ to the music, smilin’ and proud of herself.
When Andrew’s gaze circled back to Roger, he was sittin’ with his bones locked up, arms clamped to the sides of the chair, eyes open and filled with fear.
He wasn’t scared of women or the fact there was tits in his lap.
He was scared of bein’ found out. By his mother. His boys. Himself.
Andrew set his Coke on the speaker and broke through the livin’ room.
“Yo—lemme take it,” he said, pattin’ Roger on the shoulder.
“I know that face. That’s the ‘boutta blow’ face.
” He slapped Roger lightly on the cheek before yankin’ him up by the arm.
“Handle your shit. Then get your ass back here and earn your spot, bitch.”
Roger staggered upright, laughin’. “Big round’a applause to first baseman, Andrew fuckin’ Harding, always tryna steal the moment. Even on my goddamn birthday.”
Andrew grabbed the back of the chair, spun it in a quarter turn with one hand, then dropped into it before Mrs. Robinson could object. “Yeah, yeah. Go throw up, ya fuckin’ lightweight.”
After Roger dipped fast, Andrew flicked a glance to Mrs. Robinson, and gave her a crooked shrug.
“Birthday delegation,” he said, leanin’ back and tiltin’ his chin up at the stripper, fake confidence stuffed into his grin.
He motioned the stripper closer with two fingers.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said over the music. “We’re all waitin’. Gimme your best.”
Somebody yelled, “Harding came to play!” right before the girl stepped between his knees with a dirty smirk. A second later, she was slidin’ off her top, lettin’ her bare tits bounce free.
The room fuckin’ exploded, cups sloshin’, guys howlin’ and whistlin’.
And that was the first time Andrew ever had a pair of tits in his face.