Jesse
“Six ball, right pocket,” I say. I bend closer to the table, focusing my eyes on the ball.
I need to get my head in the game. I’ve missed my last three shots and Toby is mopping the floor with my ass.
I draw my arm back slowly, then take the shot.
The ball rolls to the left, missing the pocket by a good six inches and ricocheting off the short rail. Goddamn it.
My brother bellows with laughter. “You’re losing your touch, bro.”
I shake my head and take a long swig of beer. “Bullshit. I think the table is slanted. Probably needs maintenance.”
Toby crosses his thick arms. “That’s one possibility. Another possibility is that there’s something on your mind. A young lady, perhaps?”
“‘A young lady, perhaps?’ You need to start watching adult movies again. You sound like a Disney sidekick.”
“I’m sensing some frustration,” he continues, undeterred. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I pin him with a glare. “When have I ever wanted to talk about it?”
Toby scoffs. “Never. And it’s not good for you. Feelings are a natural part of the human experience. Dr. Patel says that pent-up emotions can lead to both physical and mental health issues.”
“Noted, Freud.”
Toby and Shelby started seeing a therapist when they were struggling with infertility five years ago.
My brother enjoyed the experience so much that he’s been going on his own ever since.
He says it helps him to talk about Mom and process how abandoned he felt when she decided to Eat, Pray, Love her way around the world.
And while I’m happy that my brother has found a healthy way to cope with the situation, I’m more than happy to tuck all thoughts of her into a box and shove it to the back of my brain.
Maybe it’s not the healthiest way to go through life. But it’s certainly easier.
Unfortunately, this attitude never satisfies my brother, who insists on doling out therapy phrases to everyone around him like mental-health fortune cookies. I’m keenly aware that if I don’t give him something, he’s going to hound me for the rest of the night.
“Marissa is going back to work,” I say. “Which is great. She’s been on hiatus for a while and now this perfect opportunity has fallen into her lap. I’m happy for her.”
“But you’re not happy for you,” Toby postulates.
I stall by draining the rest of my beer. When I finish, he’s still looking at me expectantly, so I add, “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like this was going somewhere. Even if we wanted it to, long-distance relationships don’t work.”
“Ah-ha! Now we get to the heart of it. You think this is Amber all over again.”
My stomach clenches at the mention of my ex. Unlike my brother, I don’t think anything gets solved by ruminating on the past. The only way to get through life is by putting one foot in front of the other. Always move forward. Never look back.
I lift my empty glass. “Want me to get another round?” I ask. Toby loves to talk about his feelings. But he’s also easily distracted by free beer.
Toby shakes his head pityingly, making it clear that I’m not getting off the hook that easily.
“Well,” he sighs. “Looks like we’re moving on to stage two of this intervention.”
He saunters over to the jukebox and scans the selections before making his pick. A familiar, peppy song emits through the speakers and Toby pumps his fists in the air.
“You can hide the truth from me,” he yells over the music. “But you can’t hide it from Taylor.”
I groan as Toby dances his way back over to me, not even noticing when he elbows some dude with a neck tattoo.
Christ, this is hard to watch. My brother is a twelve-year-old girl in the body of a linebacker.
The night he went to the Eras tour was one of the best days of his life, second only to his wedding and the birth of his daughter.
“I get it, bro,” he calls. “She’s the cheer captain and you’re in the bleachers.”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Lord, grant me patience.
“She wears high heels, and you wear sneakers.”
“How would the situation be improved if I wore heels?”
“She’s cheer captain, and your grumpy ass is in the bleachers.”
Well, it’s hard to argue that point.
There’s a small crowd forming around us now, watching Toby with growing bemusement. I need to end this, and fast.
“You’re embarrassing yourself, man. And me, by association.”
He continues to sing off-key, completely nonplussed by the attention. Who am I kidding? He loves it.
“But why can’t she seeeee?” He draws out the last syllable, now singing louder than ever. “That you’re the one who makes her laugh when you know she’s about to cry?”
My treacherous mind pulls up the mental image of the first weekend in Marissa’s kitchen, zooming in on the tear that spilled down her cheek after we finished banishing the pantry moths.
It took every ounce of strength not to brush it away with my thumb.
Watching her cry made my chest tight. It made me think I’d do just about anything to make sure she’d never feel that way again. Fuck. I never had a chance, did I?
The thing is, I haven’t felt emotions like these in a long time.
I’ve been skating through life on autopilot for the last few years, never feeling much of anything.
Part of me knows it’s a self-preservation thing.
I saw firsthand how love can destroy a person.
Saw the broken look in my mom’s eyes as I coaxed her into a bath, urged her to eat a few bites of oatmeal.
I’m not sure I ever gave myself the space to really mourn my dad.
It was better just to bury all those feelings, to keep it all under lock and key before it had the chance to drown me, the way it drowned my mom.
But ever since Marissa stormed into my life, those long-dormant emotions have risen to the surface.
And I’m tired of fighting against the tide.
What’s the point of denying it? I make her happy and I want to keep making her happy. I see her for who she really is, and I appreciate every detail of it. She’s given up so much for other people, and she deserves to have someone championing her. She deserves to have it all.
I have no idea if she even wants me to be the person who makes her happy. The way she was looking at me last night, it felt like she did. If you asked me then, I never would have believed this is just casual sex. But this morning, I was just the carpenter again.
Is there a chance she feels the same way about me as I do about her?
Or is this all just a summer fling, something she’ll forget about the minute she leaves?
I need answers. There’s no way I’m going to be able to focus on this game, or anything for that matter, until I find out.
I need to talk to Marissa, figure out where we stand. And I need to do it right now.
“Where did you say this cookbook thing was happening?”
Toby’s face splits into a grin.
“Thought you’d never ask.”