Chapter 7 Jason
Chapter 7
I’m not sure what could suck more.
Jason
MARGARITA SLAMS THE front door on her way in, and I look up from the NFL Network, where I’m watching an old game I missed during the season. Mattie’s curly head is on my lap as he naps beside me on the couch with Possessed Baby tucked under his arm. His doll creeps the hell out of me with its wide, staring eyes and a yawing mouth that promises to suck out your soul in the middle of the night, but his mom got it for him, and he loves the plastic nightmare, so what’s a dad to do?
She slaps her oversize purse on the kitchen counter, just like she used to when she lived here. It’s like she owns the place, but she doesn’t. She has her own place. This one is mine.
“Why are you here so early?” I ask. “You’re not supposed to pick up Mattie till five.”
“I have an engagement, so I’ll bring him back to you for the evening.”
I hate everything about that sentence. How she says “engagement” instead of telling me what she’s really doing. And the way she makes it sound like she’s doing me a favor by letting me see my kid. It’s true I only get him every other weekend, per court order—my own fault for being “unstable”—but her acting all magnanimous about giving me more time with Mattie makes me want to punch the wall and disappear at the same time.
“What time will you be back to pick him up?”
“I’ll just stay at your place tonight.”
She squeezes onto the couch on the other side of me. I scoot as close to Mattie as I can without disturbing him and try to get back into the game. It’s 10–3, Cincinnati in the lead over the Chiefs, and they’re in position to score again. It isn’t long before I feel Margarita’s fingernails caress my arm under the sleeve of my retro Boomer Esiason football jersey.
“Not now.” I pull my arm away and rub off the tickly sensations. “The Bengals are winning.”
Her pout hides the flecks of flint behind her eyes, but I know better. “I know what’s up with you. It’s that celebrity crush girl from The Terica Show . You haven’t been the same since.”
I grab the bowl of blue corn tortilla chips off the coffee table and plunge my hand into it. “You’re imagining things.”
“So, where’d you do it? Greenroom at Terica’s studio? The car? I know that’s a favorite of yours. Airport bathroom before she flew back to—where is she from anyway?”
I’m too riled up to eat the chips. “I didn’t do anything with her. She’s a nice person, and I was trying to be nice.”
“Fine. We won’t talk about her. We can talk about us instead.” Her fingernail is on the side of my neck now, but I don’t know if she means to seduce me with it or slice open my carotid artery.
“Can I please just watch the game?”
She harrumphs and leans back against the couch cushions. For a minute, we sit in silence, but I can’t concentrate. What down is it? Who has the ball? What freaking sport is this anyway?
“You know,” she says, “if you were just trying to be nice, you’re misleading that poor woman. After all, Jason Connor is her celebrity crush. She’s going to read into everything you do.”
I drop the bowl of chips back onto the table. Cincinnati must have blown it because the Chiefs have the ball, and the score is the same. It’s first down. They’re gonna run it, I’m guessing.
“Jason, are you listening to me?”
“I’m trying not to!”
Mattie stirs at my shout and turns over. I take the opportunity to haul him onto my lap so I can move farther away from Margarita’s body pressed against my side.
She groans. “I hate this stupid sport.”
“Then leave and come get Mattie in the morning.”
“I’ll stay. I’ve stayed with you through worse.”
And there she goes. But I won’t engage. If I don’t engage, maybe she’ll get bored. Go into another room. Go out to her car. Go to hell.
Fat chance.
Thirty seconds don’t pass before she’s back at it. “This reminds me of the early days when we used to visit your family. Sunday afternoons with the football game on TV. Your dad cooking outside. Your mom with the pitcher of mimosas. Your brother and his wife and their entourage of sticky little children…”
“They’re foster parents, what do you want?”
“I didn’t say it was bad. It wasn’t bad. It was… Ohio.”
I roll my eyes and focus on the game. Kansas City didn’t run the ball. They passed it. Incomplete. Second down.
She plucks at my sleeve. “Why do you still wear that horrible shirt? I’ve bought you nicer things.”
Finally, I look her in the face. Perfect makeup. Designer earrings. Raven hair tamed by product and care and perhaps a blood sacrifice or two. We’re so different. Always have been. I don’t know what we were ever thinking.
“What is it you want, Margarita? Seriously. I’m paying attention.”
She blinks, and I almost get a glimpse of something behind the hard-as-nails facade. Fear? Insecurity? Her red lips part, and she sucks in a breath, hesitating. I wait, but she doesn’t follow it up.
“Really?” I shake my head. “You barge in here to what? Get my attention and then not say anything? What is this, a Charlie Puth song?”
Her gaze goes bitter. “I just thought we might spend some time together as a family. We are a family, you know.”
She won’t say it, but I can read between the lines. When Margarita got pregnant, she expected me to propose. Her family expected it, too. I thought about it, figuring it would be the right thing to do for the baby, but then Dad got sicker, and all the problems between Margarita and me got even bigger, and once Dad was gone, the only thing I was interested in was an exit door, not marriage.
Maybe I should feel guiltier about that, but I don’t know how marrying Margarita would’ve fixed anything.
“Don’t you ever think about meeting someone new? Falling in love? Being happy?” Even as I say them, the words kind of choke in my throat. Margarita and I have been through so much together. And I know I hurt her. If I hadn’t hurt her so badly, she probably wouldn’t be the way she is.
Her laugh manages to sound both cruel and sad at the same time. Her cool hand caresses my chin. “Oh, Jay -son.” She draws out the first syllable, long and Latin for me. Margarita Power Move Numero Uno. “It’s not too late for us. Things could still work out.” Her words are breathy, her mouth close to mine.
I jerk my chin away. This was a mistake. I don’t want to mislead her. “Things aren’t ever going to work out, Margarita. Things between us just don’t work, period.”
She drops the face, the exaggerated accent, everything, like a guillotine. “Well, they could, if you really wanted them to. We owe it to Mattie.”
“It’s not about what I want,” I say.
“It’s always about what you want! Besides, who do you think is going to love a total asshole like you? Untrustworthy. Selfish. Immature. Face it, I’m the only woman willing to put up with you for more than sex. But at least I know what I’m getting. And what I’m not.”
Fiery anger and shame swirl in my chest, but maybe she’s right. Maybe if I wanted it more, we could be a happy family. Although, no matter how many times my brain tries to process those words, they don’t compute.
“The sex is good, though, isn’t it?” She leans in, and I wince as her teeth nip across my neck.
This isn’t love. This is planting a flag in soil. This is claiming. Besides, I’m pretty sure she’s seeing someone else.
“What’s your engagement tonight?”
Her straight black hair flies back as she sits up. Her lip lifts in a snarl. “None of your business.”
“Then why are you acting like we’re still together?”
“If you like having Matthew two weekends a month, we’re together.”
A stone expands in my throat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She comes in again with her hot breath on my neck. “It’s an appointment, that’s all.”
So appointment is the new euphemism for date ?
I lean away from her. “I’m not as dumb as I look, remember?”
She dredges up a smile. “Did you know I’ve accepted the lead role in that celebrity crush movie, opposite you?”
I recognize Margarita Power Move Number Four: Change the Subject. I’m not happy about the casting, but it is what it is. “Yeah, Miles told me. Whatever, fine. Are you really gonna use Mattie as a pawn in all this? That’s a real shit move, Margarita.”
“Oh, you’re one to talk about shit moves.”
I ignore that. “The judge isn’t going to change our custody arrangement just because we’ve split.” It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.
“You do whatever you have to, Jason. Although I believe lack of a stable home life was the judge’s number one complaint about you. Besides, it’s not all bad, is it? We have our moments.” Her eyes are soft, dark, imploring. Her hand finds my thigh and begins to creep up. My insides feel like a bunch of kids running around with streamers, creating a wild, screaming tangle. My heart is the kid sitting in the corner, head on his knees.
God, what is she doing to me? Whatever we have, I don’t really believe she wants it, either. It feels like some kind of punishment. For me. For her. For all three of us. And now I have to make a movie with her—a rom-com. I’m not sure what could suck more.
I brush her hand away. “Fine, you can stay the night, but I’m sleeping in the guest room.”
She folds her hands in her lap, looking hurt. “I need you right now, Jason. Okay? Mattie needs you. We’re your family. Isn’t that enough?”
Enough for what? I want to ask, but I want the conversation to end more than I want answers. Is it my imagination, or is her bottom lip trembling? Is she acting? Margarita’s been nominated for two Oscars, so it’s possible. I’ve never been nominated for any, for the record.
Just then Mattie stirs on my lap. “Mami!” he cries, diving into her arms. He says something to her, but it’s in Spanish, so I don’t understand.
“What did he say?”
“He wants chicken nuggets.”
I thought I might have heard hambre in there somewhere. “Are you hungry?” I ask him. “Hungry?”
He nods but doesn’t try to say it. Here’s another thing that kills me: bilingual kids often have delayed speech, and because Margarita speaks to him only in Spanish, most of the time I don’t even understand him. Again, my fault, and I’m trying to learn. But it only makes me feel more like an outsider.
I can’t believe Margarita would threaten to take away even the little bit of time I have with Mattie.
I repeat hungry a few more times, trying to get him to say it back.
Margarita sighs. “Leave him alone.”
“Well, excuse me for wanting to communicate with my son.”
She looks up toward the ceiling in a way I interpret to mean this isn’t worth my time and stands up, hiking Mattie onto her hip. Possessed Baby’s dead gaze is right at my eye level. I try not to recoil.
“I’ll bring him back at five,” she says, heels clicking across the tiled floor. “You can feed him dinner.”
“Great.”
“Bye, Daddy!” Mattie grins and waves.
“Bye, buddy!” I wave back.
Margarita swipes her purse from the kitchen counter, and the two of them disappear out the front door. I stare over the back of the couch at the place where they stood a moment ago while, in the background, a stadium full of people cheers.
Maybe Margarita is right. Maybe this messed-up relationship is the best I can hope for. Maybe I don’t deserve anything better. Maybe I never will.
Completely checked out from the game, I pick up my phone. There’s a text from Cameron, my agent.
Cameron: I hate this promo tour idea with the author chick! You guys were way too chummy on The Terica Show. It’s gonna look bad.
I shake my head before replying.
Jason: Give me some credit, Cam. It’s no big deal. Besides, a nice, sweet romance film will be good for my image. And BTW everyone else thought the whole hug thing was cute.
Cameron: They don’t know you like I do. And they don’t know Lost Star is on the line.
I blow out a lungful of air.
Jason: I haven’t done anything. I don’t get what you’re so worried about.
She texts back the picture of the woman’s hand on my butt from the autograph signing.
Jason: I didn’t do anything with her.
Cameron: Well, people assume you did.
Jason: Well, I can’t help that.
Cameron: (…)
Oh boy, the dreaded three dots. I buckle in for Cameronegedden. It’s usually over quickly.
Cameron: Listen Jason. I’m telling you right now, if you screw this up, I’m out. I can’t do this anymore. I’ve had about eight aneurysms since I took you on, and if you blow this, nobody else is going to want you either. You’ll be relegated to porn flicks and HPV commercials!
Geez. Cameron! I type my reply.
Jason: I won’t let you down. Stop worrying.
My agent deploys a battalion of emojis—crying face, mad face, eggplant, cat, skull and crossbones. I can’t help but laugh. I don’t know why she’s overreacting. It’s just a silly little promo tour for a silly little rom-com. Besides, Emmy’s not like that. She could’ve made a move on me after the show, but she didn’t. In fact, I wonder what she’s been up to lately?
I pull up her website. I haven’t been on here since I bought her book, and truth be told, I’ve been really busy with work and haven’t read any more of it. I scan the links to vlogs and blogs, her TikTok account, Instagram, and whatnot. The thing that catches my attention is Dolphin Tells Your Fortune . That seems ambitious.
I tap the link, feeling a tiny zing of excitement. A vlog comes up. The video is from today. Just posted this morning. I press PLAY .
EMMY: Good morning, everyone, and thanks for tuning in to Dolphin Tells Your Fortune . I’m Emmy Ellison, and today is Sunday, May fifth. It’s 8:22 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time, and Echo has graced us with her presence today. Echo, thank you for that. Say hi to your fans. Don’t be one of those celebrities who’s too cool for the selfie. That’s it. Keep bumping the board. You know I love that. Yep, spray me, too. That’s not rude at all.
Okay, for those of you just discovering us, welcome to my stand-up paddleboard where all the dolphin-related magic happens! We’re happy to have you with us on Dolphin Tells Your Fortune , sponsored by Wok This Way. Wok This Way has three convenient locations: Port Richey, Tampa, and Clearwater. Okay, so the way this works is three different fortunes are hidden in the buoys you see floating out here in the beautiful Gulf of Mexico, and, yes, the buoys are really just amputated hunks of pool noodle. Echo will choose one, and that will be the fortune of the day. While we wait, let’s take a look at what’s coming through on the live chat.
@ChadAnimalLvr asks, Isn’t what you’re doing illegal? Gosh, well, Chad, thanks for joining us, and that’s a great question. I’m not allowed to feed or touch wild dolphins, which I haven’t done. Echo is actually a release from Mammal Dreams Aquatic Park, and she loves to flex her skills, so, no, what I’m doing is not illegal. If you want to know more, I invite you to visit the Florida Fish and Wildlife website.
Moving on… Oh, look! Echo has settled on one of the fortunes! Come on, Echo, bring it on over. That’s it, girl! Aw! Listen to that chatter. I can never stay mad at you. Oh, you’re gonna keep spraying me, huh? Maybe I can stay mad at you after all.
All right, folks, let’s dig out the little baggie and break open that fortune cookie. Dolphin Tells Your Fortune says that your fortune for today is… Stop spraying, Echo. I mean it! Your fortune for today is a shooting star is just a rock that is finally getting its moment to shine . Wow, she sure got that one from the deep end. So there you have it, folks. Have you ever felt like you’re nothing more than a rock hurtling through your life? Not even important enough to have a name, like Halley’s Comet or Pluto or… Asteroid Belt? Well, don’t despair, because the message today is you’ll get your day to shine. It might take plunging through the stratosphere and a fiery death to make it happen, but your moment will come, and it will be beautiful. That’s all for today from Dolphin Tells Your Fortune . Tune in again tomorrow—weather and dolphin permitting—for another daily fortune. Remember, Wok This Way is open seven days a week from 11:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. Find them online at www.wokthisway.com. And don’t forget to subscribe and share. Bye, all!
God, Echo, stop spraying me! I swear—
The video cuts out. I take an inventory of what I noticed: athletic, golden-skinned body in a long-sleeved rash guard and red bikini bottom; that tiny mole on the bottom of her left eyelid; lilting yet gravelly Zooey Deschanel voice; sense of humor. It’s supposedly passé to tan like that these days, but I have to admit the whole Blue Lagoon thing is working for me. Plus, I love red.
I drop the phone like a hot poker. Holy hells, maybe I’m in trouble after all.
Nah. Cam’s just getting to me. Miles and Margarita, too. I got this.
Jason Connor is the king of his domain.