Page 52 of Hold You Close
I hang up the phone, and a tear falls.
Twelve
Ian
I’m a fucking asshole.
I know this.
When she left this morning, it was like being thrown back in the past all over again. She left without a backward glance. She acted like she wasn’t a willing participant and I was just a guy who needed to get laid.
She didn’t see how bad I wanted her.
How, as much as I want to hate her, I looked at her like she was the fucking sun in the sky.
She called it a mistake and walked out.
After she left, I took my shower, drank a shit ton of coffee, and stared at her backyard. I stood at the window, watching her long, wet brown hair brush against her back as she moved toward the couch on her deck. Watched how she pulled the blanket around her. Wished it was my arms holding her close.
Then I remembered her words.“But what I didn’t forget was who you are and who I am and all the reasons why you and I do not belong together.”
Who I am.
Fuck her and her goddamn self-righteousness. She’s not better than me.
I was starting to get through my anger and then the kids got up. After that I went from pissed off to the verge of losing my fucking mind. This morning was like an episode of Married . . . with Children mixed with Shameless, and throw in a little Family Guy for the hell of it.
No one listened to a damn word I said.
It was complete chaos and I’m not even sure I dropped them off at the right places.
I throw the phone across the room, pissed at her, myself, and everyone I haven’t spoken to yet.
Then the damn thing rings again just to mock me.
Great. It’s my mother. This should be fun.
“Hello, Mom,” I say, trying to calm myself down.
“Hi, honey. How are things going?”
“Just great.”
If you consider tossing my nephew into the pool because punching him wasn’t the better option great, then I’m telling the truth.
“Kids are good?”
“They’re alive, let’s just be happy about that.”
My mother was Betty-fucking-Crocker. She baked us cookies while dad mowed the yard. She had the perfect house with the white picket fence and a boy and a girl. It was the textbook family life that everyone wanted. I don’t think I can recall one time she raised her voice—she didn’t have to. Dad was the enforcer and he was scary as fuck. Mom simply pointed with her lips tight or said, “don’t make me tell your father,” and we were perfect angels.
If she had seen the shit show that existed here a few hours ago, she’d have my father beat me.
“Ian, you need to rely on London if it’s too much.”
My mother would’ve sold me to get her. I swear, she likes her more than me. “I am. Your perfect adopted daughter just bailed on me instead of watching the kids.”
“She wouldn’t do that if she could avoid it,” she says, defensive.
