Page 21 of The Falcon and the Foe

“I don’t need to get out there. I already have everything I need.”

Monica dragged her spoon through her soup before taking it out, her appetite seemingly gone. “You know I love Quentin to pieces. He’s a sweet boy. But he’s your world, Russ.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“A world is a huge thing. It’s an entire planet. One person should not be an entire planet. Even planets have different civilizations on them and different landmasses.”

“I don’t think I follow.” I worried this was how she tried to explain art concepts to her students, which in turn explained the incomprehensible drawings and clay molds Quentin brought home.

Monica struggled to elaborate but instead strummed her nails on the table.

“What is it?” I prodded.

She peeked over the top of her glasses. “There’s room in your world for a guy.”

“Stop.”

“Russell.”

“Mon, how old are we? We’re not teenagers, I can tell you that.”

“You’ve been forty-seven since the day you were born,” she shot back just as fast.

“I’m forty-one.” But I guess she wasn’t wrong. I tended to be more serious than my cohort growing up. I saw it now with Quentin and his classmates. Some kids were serious; some were goofy. Monica still teased me about yelling at my friends to put away the toys we used when we’d play. Thinking back on it, I’m amazed I had friends at all.

“You know what I mean, Russ. We’re never too old to fall in love.”

“I was in love,” I said, my voice thick.

“I know.” They got along so well. Malcolm indulged all of her creative pursuits and wasn’t afraid to give constructive feedback to her work. He even helped her submit pieces to local galleries. “Look, Malcolm is irreplaceable. But it’s been four years. And every time I mention another potential guy for you, you shut down.”

Frankly, I was okay with that. I didn’t feel this desire to date. I had the love of my life, and he was cruelly ripped away from me. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost never had a cop show up at his door on a random evening to tell him his husband was roadkill. I wasn’t going to put myself through that wringer again.

“I’m just not open to dating. I’m busy.”

“Don’t you dare say Quentin. You can’t use him as your dating shield forever. In a decade, he’ll be off to college, and you’ll be all by yourself.”

“I’ll get a dog.”

“You hate dogs. They shed.”

“I’ll get a fish.”

The waiter ripped the check from his pad and stuck it under the napkin dispenser. Monica grabbed for it first.

“Russ, dating as you get older is like musical chairs. And pretty soon, when you’re finally ready for the music to stop, there won’t be any chairs left.”

7

CAL

Working at the grocery store gave me a lot of time to think. During slow times, when the registers were quiet and customers weren’t approaching me with questions about the potential soy content in their organic produce, my mind wandered to ways I could improve my voiceover side hustle or how I could be a better parent for my son, or replaying memories of an embarrassing thing I said in 2008.

But for the past week, my mind had refused to stray past the topic of Russ Ettinger. The man had not only gotten on my nerves; he burrowed himself into said nerves and used that entrance to travel through my bloodstream. Like a virus.

Was that how viruses worked?

He couldn’t handle that not all of us were A-plus, Pinterest-perfect dads like he was. He couldn’t stand not having complete control over everything. He couldn’t have a conversation with another human being without caking his words in condescension.

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