Chapter 10 Briar
Briar
Weekends alone are always hard. I use the time as best I can because it seems like there are never enough minutes in the day to get everything done that I need and want to, like deep cleaning the refrigerator, painting my toenails, and filling up my online shopping cart with an astronomical number of goodies only to close it out without buying anything because the browsing is the fun part.
But even while I’m scrubbing baseboards with my hands encased in moisturizing gloves, my mind is on Harley.
Do I wish that he didn’t have to see Tyler at all?
Absolutely. And my lawyer did the best he could to limit Tyler’s access, but my ex can put on the charm when it benefits him and he got the judge to believe that he was a caring, attentive, involved father. Hence, every other weekend visits.
At least he was on time for pickup yesterday, rolling in at six o’clock on the dot.
The stress of Harley being with Tyler never lessens, though.
In fact, I think it might be worse this time after his stunt at the hospital.
He was furious, not at Harley’s accidental and minor injury, but at me for bringing a “boyfriend” to the hospital.
I knew better than to argue with him, since that’s what he wants, so I stuck to discussing Harley’s exam in short, emotionless statements.
Tyler didn’t really care about that, but did call me some choice names before stomping out, promising that I’d regret everything.
As if. The only thing I regret is him.
Though if there’d been no Tyler, there’d be no Harley, and I would never undo the gift my son is to me.
I just can’t shake this feeling that something’s wrong. I’m worried if Harley is okay, and hoping that Tyler isn’t filling his mind with his twisted version of whatever truth he’s decided serves him.
By ten o’clock Saturday night, I’ve stress cleaned the whole house, baked Harley’s favorite cake, and taken an extralong shower.
Still, my belly is churning with this sense that I need to be doing something .
. . somewhere . . . I’m not sure what, but it’s definitely not lying in bed, mindlessly watching reruns.
Riiing.
My phone’s ringtone is intentionally loud and attention-grabbing, a choice for when Harley is gone because I do not want to ever miss a call from him.
Unfortunately, it’s not my son’s name on the caller ID. It’s Tyler’s. And it’s not just a regular call. He’s FaceTiming me.
I wish I could not answer it, but what if he’s calling about Harley? Or if Harley wants to tell me good night? Those possibilities are enough to force my hand.
But first, I make sure my nightgown is covering everything it should and also tuck the blankets around my chest. I take a deep breath to settle my gut, and only then do I hit answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, babe.”
“Is Harley okay?” I rush to ask, worry about his already-better ankle popping into my mind.
Tyler sighs, his brows furrowing in annoyance. “He’s fine. Went to bed about an hour ago. Probably crashed out asleep by now.”
He doesn’t know? He didn’t check?
Of course he didn’t. I was always the one to do that. Still am.
“What’s wrong then?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I just call to see what you’re up to?”
He’s checking to see if Dominic is here. I know that with complete certainty. “Unless it pertains to Harley, what I’m doing is none of your concern.”
“Don’t be like that, babe. You know that what you do will always be my business. I miss you.” His lips lift into the flirty smile that used to give me butterflies. Now, it just makes me nauseous.
Why did I used to think his possessiveness was sweet?
I’m ashamed to admit it, but the answer is daddy issues.
After having a father who left not only my mother, but me, regularly and without a second thought, meeting a man who was obsessed with me felt like the biggest salve to my traumatized soul.
It took a long time to recognize that Tyler’s possessiveness was more akin to ownership, and his desire for complete enmeshment between us was just as harmful as my dad’s absence had been.
“I don’t miss you. Now if there’s nothing else we need to discuss about Harley . . .”
I’m about to hang up, my finger hovering over the X-filled red circle on the screen, but I’m too slow. Tyler pulls his phone back, revealing more of himself. “I know one thing you’re missing.”
He has his dick out. His erect penis, with his free hand wrapped around it, leisurely jacking himself to my face on his screen.
I remember the first time I saw him naked.
We’d both been barely eighteen, and in my completely unexperienced immaturity, I’d laughed nervously, which had hurt his feelings.
But over time, I learned not to laugh anymore.
He always wanted me to tell him how big he was (as if I had anything to compare to), would groan in my ear that I felt good wrapped around him, and liked to brag about the veining along his shaft, which he thought made his penis look powerful and was supposed to feel good to me, though I could never actually feel it inside me.
It’s a penis I haven’t seen in years and did not want to see tonight. Or ever again.
I recoil instantly with a sound of shocked horror, and he chuckles at my reaction. “We had our problems, but one thing we were always good at was making up after a fight. You know you want it, Briar. You wanna suck me off to show how sorry you are, don’tcha?”
Every word is accompanied by an up and down stroke.
I gag, not because I want to service him, but at the disgusting thought of doing that again. Belatedly, I push the red circle and end the call. The feeling of violation is immediate, followed by the shoulda, coulda, woulda self-lecture.
I should’ve . . . not answered his call.
I could’ve . . . hung up sooner.
I would’ve . . . preempted what was obviously a planned maneuver on Tyler’s part.
My phone rings again. Tyler’s name appears on the screen and I hit decline.
It rings again. Decline.
He’s getting off on this, probably literally. Harassing me, seeing my name on his screen even if I don’t answer, and knowing that I can’t help but think of what I just saw . . . all turn-ons for him.
He calls again and again. Four times, five, then six and seven. I don’t even hit decline, and start ignoring the calls instead, leaving the phone face down on the bed.
But my skin crawls as my irritation grows.
On the eighth ring, I decide enough is enough. I answer with a curt, “Leave me alone unless you’re calling about Harley.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
The line goes quiet and it takes me a heartbeat to realize that it wasn’t Tyler’s voice. “Dominic?” I pull the phone away to glance at the screen and see the Hockey Coach label I gave Dom. Whoops.
“Yeah? Is Harley okay? His ankle feeling better?” He sounds apologetic and concerned for my son. And maybe me too.
Sighing, I tell him, “I’m sorry. I thought you were Tyler. He’s been calling over and over again after I hung up on his attempt at dick-dialing.”
“Excuse me?” Dom says, his voice rising in disgust and shock. “His what?”
“Dick-dialing? He called, acting like he wanted to talk, but had it out, showing off like his penis was supposed to be some sort of temptation.”
“Are you okay?” I can’t see him through the phone, but I can hear the anger in his clipped words. He wants to murder my ex-husband, but somehow, his focus is still on me.
“Okay is relative,” I answer. “Did I want that to happen? No. Am I going to fall apart over it? Also no. It’s a dick. One I’ve seen. One I have no desire to see again. But I’m stronger than whatever penile power move he thinks he’s pulling.”
Dom snorts like he’s trying not to laugh. “Penile power move? Was it doing MMA or something? Hiii-yah!”
I smile at his attempt at humor. I wouldn’t have thought I could after Tyler’s stunt.
But I can feel my lips stretching as Dom makes more karate-esque sounds.
Only when I eventually succumb to a weak laugh does he stop.
“I swear to God my penis is locked away in my shorts, but can we switch to FaceTime? I need to see you.”
“Uh . . .” I didn’t care what I looked like when I answered for what I thought was going to Harley or Tyler talking about Harley, but Dom? I try to smooth my flyaway hairs into the messy updo on top of my head and illogically check my breath by breathing into my palm. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
The call switches over instantly and I answer.
Dominic is sitting on a couch, a white wall behind him. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, and his eyes scour my face through the screen. “Are you okay?” he asks again.
Another call comes in, the preview bubble popping up on the screen, and I shake my head. Dominic sits forward on his couch, the phone angle going lower and his expression going dark and dangerous. “Briar?”
My name is more rumble than word, and I realize that he thinks I’m shaking my head in answer to his question. That I’m not okay. “No, sorry. I’m fine. Tyler’s just calling again.”
He grits his teeth, his jaw muscles popping with the work. “I really hate your ex.”
“Me too.”
“What the fuck did you ever see in him?” Dom asks, curious. “Motherfucker’s got serial killer eyes. Don’t you watch true crime documentaries?”
I laugh a little at his quick assessment of my ex. Okay, so he’s not going to make an appearance on any news shows, but I do wish I’d had a touch more self-preservation instinct where he’s concerned.
“My standards weren’t exactly high back then,” I say in the understatement of the century.
“He showed up to dates, told me I was beautiful, and acted like I was important to him. That was pretty much enough to have me fawning all over him. You can overlook a lot of red flags when you need someone to love you, and I truly thought he did.” The admission irritates me, but now that I have some distance from my relationship with Tyler, I can see the reality of us.
What did I get out of it? Finally feeling valued and special after a lifetime of being forgotten and dismissed.