CHAPTER 8 – SAY YES TO MEATBALLS #2
One second. One touch, and it almost came apart.
I stare at the garage door, count to twenty, and then back to zero. I need to get my shit together, or I’m going to lose it all.
When I walk back outside, Nancy’s still watching me like a hawk. She doesn’t say anything, but her face says everything with its narrowed eyes and pinched mouth.
This was supposed to be clandestine.
But it’s all falling apart already.
By seven, the last of the party stragglers have trickled out, leaving behind a landscape of paper plates, bottle caps, and half-deflated soccer balls. The air has cooled, the sun grazing low across the rooftops, and the grill smoke has faded into a memory of meat and lighter fluid.
I volunteer to help Gerald clean up. It’s the least I can do, after partaking generously of the free food and drink. Gerald tosses empty cans into a blue recycling bin, and I collect the folding chairs, stacking them along the fence line.
We work in silence for a while, the easy kind you only get with old friends. But every now and then, Gerald grunts and gives me a look that’s either suspicion or constipation—it’s hard to tell with him.
“So how’s life, Jack?” he says finally, hosing down the grill. “You seeing anyone?”
I pause, play it cool. “Nothing serious,” I say. “Mostly just seeing what’s out there for retired vets, and a little too much time at the gym.”
He snorts. “Well, you look good, my man. Shit, if I had your discipline, maybe Nancy wouldn’t be on my ass about my cholesterol all the time.”
I laugh, stack another chair. “Lipitor is the answer, my friend. Lots of dudes our age are on it these days.”
There’s a lull, then: “You know, Eliza’s not a kid anymore,” he says, voice dropping half a notch.
I freeze, just for a second, but make myself keep working. “Yeah, I noticed,” I say, aiming for casual. “She’s grown up.”
Gerald nods. “It’s weird, isn’t it? One day you’re teaching them how to ride a bike, and the next they’re driving off to college and you can’t remember how it happened.”
He wipes his hands on a rag, staring at the fading sky. “She’s a good kid. Just sometimes, I worry she’s gonna make some dumb mistake, you know?”
I swallow, throat tight. Is my friend warning me off? Does he suspect, and he’s trying to tell me without spelling it out? I smile tightly. “That’s what being young is for. You’re guaranteed to make mistakes at that age.”
Gerald laughs, loud and sudden. “That’s what I said! But Nancy doesn’t see it that way.”
Oh shit, his wife. Honestly, Nancy is a good person, but I can feel it when the ground’s shaky, and nod, keeping my head down.
We finish the cleanup, and Gerald heads inside to grab a couple beers from the fridge.
I hover by the patio door, not quite ready to leave because I’m still hoping to catch of glimpse of the beautiful girl who lives here.
Then I hear it: Nancy’s voice, sharp as a tack, coming from the kitchen as she speaks with her daughter.
“You and Jack seemed unusually familiar today.”
I stop, beer bottle halfway to my lips, and strain to listen. Inside, Eliza’s voice is softer, but clear.
“He’s dad’s friend, Mom. I was just being polite.”
There’s a pause, the sound of ice clinking in a glass.
“Polite isn’t the same as… whatever that was,” Nancy says.
“Relax,” Eliza replies, a little more edge in her voice. “Jack’s practically an uncle. It’s just weird being the only young woman at these things.”
I exhale, muscles unwinding a notch. She’s good. Better than I am.
“You know how it looks,” Nancy says.
There’s a clinking sound, maybe a plate in the sink. Eliza’s voice drops even lower. “Nothing happened, Mom. And besides, what’s there to notice? I dropped a meatball, and Jack picked it up.”
I almost bark with laughter. That fucking meatball.
There’s another long silence. I can picture them: Eliza cool and composed, her mom dissecting every word for evidence.
Finally, Nancy sighs. “You’re too pretty for your own good, sweetheart. Men are drawn to you like bees, and I just want you to be safe. To feel comfortable telling me if anything and I mean anything, puts you ill at ease.”
Eliza makes a noncommittal noise, and I hear footsteps, then the scrape of a chair on tile.
That’s when Gerald’s hand lands on my shoulder, making me jump a foot in the air.
“Lost in thought?” he asks, thrusting a beer at me.
“Just tired,” I lie, accepting the bottle. “Damn, the sunset’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
We stand together, staring out at the gorgeous red and orange rays spread across the sky, and I think about how a man can spend decades building a reputation, a life, and in less than a month throw it all away for the taste of forbidden fruit. Is it worth it though? Right now, I’d say yes.
I turn to leave, and inside, I catch a glimpse of Eliza clearing the table, her hair in a messy bun, a faint smile on her lips . She’s gorgeous, as usual, with that big bust and curvy hips, humming a bit as she works.
Shit. If there’s a war on, I’m already losing.
And I love every second of going down.
When I get home, the house feels even emptier than usual.
There’s a leftover echo of charcoal in my clothes and the lingering taste of small talk in my mouth.
I kick off my boots, toss my keys on the counter, and pour myself a glass of the red I saved from last week, just to make the silence feel deliberate.
It’s not even nine, but my body aches with exhaustion—the kind you get from being on high alert for hours, every word and glance a potential grenade. I open a window to let in the night, and in the distance, some kid is blaring a car stereo, the bass thumping in time with my headache.
I’m halfway through my second glass when my phone buzzes.
It’s her.
You home? The message appears, simple, but loaded.
Yeah. You okay? I type back, thumb trembling a little.
I imagine Eliza, holed up in her room, lights off, maybe in comfy PJs. I wonder if she’s crying, or if she’s burning with the same restless energy that’s eating me alive.
My mom’s suspicious. She called me into the kitchen and did the “are you on drugs” stare. If she had a drug test, she would have made me pee in a cup.
I smile a little. You hiding a secret meth lab?
She replies instantly. Only if you’re my first customer.
There’s a beat, then:
We need to be careful, Jack. I don’t want to get you in trouble.
I know. I add a smiley face, just to keep it light, but inside I’m already mapping out new contingencies: no more secret glances, no more touching. Hell, no more being in the same room unless there’s a crowd. But good intentions die hard.
I want to see you, I send, before I can stop myself.
She doesn’t respond right away. I set the phone down, finish my wine, and let my mind drift to the last time we were together—her skin under my hands, her laugh muffled in the pillow, the way she said my name like she was tasting it.
Then, another ping. This time, Eliza’s tone over text is despairing. I don’t how I know, but I just do.
My boss just messaged. Emergency doc review. All night. He’s cc’d the whole team and told us if we screw up, the partner will eat us alive. I want to die, but at least I can do this remotely. Who would have thought this would happen Saturday night?
I almost reply “I’ll save you,” but of course, I can’t. Instead, I write: You got this. You’re smarter than any of them. (Also, your boss is a dick.)
A minute passes. Then:
I can’t do this, Jack. The hiding, the endless work. I’m gonna lose my mind.
My heart swoops because I’d do anything to help her. But right now, all I can offer are kind words.
You can’t be everything to everyone, I write, and then: You’re enough for me.
I can almost see her smile.
You’re the best, she replies. But what if my mom is onto us? What if my dad finds out? I feel like I’m going crazy.
I look around my house—so tidy, so orderly—and wonder how I ever thought I had control of my own life. “Crazy” isn’t even in the top five.
Okay, you’re right. Let’s lay low for a week, I send. No calls, no texts. We’ll meet somewhere safe next time. Like… Siberia.
She sends back three laughing emojis, then: You’re so dramatic. I love it.
There’s another pause. I finish the bottle, listening to the wind rattle the screen door.
Then, a final ping: I wish I was there with you right now.
Me too, I type.
We say goodnight, but I keep the phone beside me, just in case. I watch some TV, but the words blur into nothing. I try to read, but every paragraph turns into a loop of her voice in my ear, the heat of her body next to mine.
Eventually, I shut off the lights and stand by the window, looking out at the empty street.
I think about the last month: the stolen hours, the risks, the way every secret meeting feels more necessary, not less. I know this is unsustainable. I know something’s going to break.
But for now, this is enough. I’m addicted to Eliza … and I can’t give up the curvy girl who drives me crazy.