Page 22 of A Very Grumpy Father's Day
NINE
Declan
HOW I DIDN’T MEET YOUR MOTHER
I stand by my statement that I do not have bad ideas.
It was not my fault that douchewagon with the giant slushie doesn’t like getting honked at when he’s jaywalking. Now the hood of my car is sticky and one of the interns will have to take it to the car wash this afternoon. Which means when I drive home later the interior of my luxury vehicle will either smell like cheap perfume or greasy fast food depending on who’s available—and that won’t bother me at all if I get to have an erotic naked lunch with the love of my life beforehand.
But there must be an idiot convention at Columbus Circle this afternoon. Fifty-Ninth was already backed up with buses, and now there’s a flaming assmonkey shitcircus up ahead. Two minutes ago, I watched in horror as one cab changed lanes and cut off another cab and then three cars rear-ended each other behind them, and now everyone’s out of their car and yelling at each other instead of clearing a path so I can get to my horny wife. What is the point of having good ideas if I am constantly surrounded by assholes who are incapable of having anything besides terrible ideas in the most congested city in the United States?!
There’s an overturned fruit truck on Seventh Avenue, so I can’t turn there. I can’t even make an awesome trafficjamjoke about the mess of fruit on the road because it is not funny. It’ll take a fucking year to get to the traffic circle from here, and I’ll never find a parking spot along Central Park South at lunchtime. I may be a genius, but I’m not lucky. Not lately. I’m not saying I should have driven through the park because there are just as many assholes in there as out here, and half of them are tourists. Tourists care even less about clearing a path for me to get to my naked wife than these useless turdnuggets.
It’s one thirty, and Maddie has probably fallen asleep waiting for me. Lying there, all gorgeous and naked and alone. There’s still half a mile between the tip of my cock and the place it’s been trying to get to for three weeks. It could take anywhere from twenty to forty minutes to reach the hotel at this rate, and I need to be back in the office for a meeting with Shapiro at three. I need to not smell like my wife’s reproductive organs when I’m discussing internal governance policies with the founder and CEO of Sentinel. There isn’t enough time.
I am still just shy of being crazy and desperate enough to abandon my car in the middle of the road and run seven long blocks to make love to my better half, but I am not going to run while carrying a seven-hundred-and-fifty-dollar, thirty-five-pound car seat, and I am definitely not leaving it behind.
Fuck my life.
I have no choice but to call Maddie.
She answers on the first ring. “You’re stuck in traffic, aren’t you?” I have the phone connected to my car’s Bluetooth, and I can hear her judging me in stereo through the speaker system.
“That is beside the point. The point is I am going to get you off from here because that’s how good I am.” The light changes when I’m one of three cars stuck in the middle of the intersection—as if that’smyfault—and now everyone around me is honking at everyone. “Oh yeah! Yeah! Let’s all honk at each other! That’ll make everything move faster! This is what will solve all of our problems!”
“Wow,” my bride deadpans. “I just came three times. Thank you.”
“All right. Just relax.”
“Oh, I’m relaxed, Mr. Cannavale. Why don’tyourelax?”
“I am exactly as relaxed as any superior person can be while surrounded by ass biscuits. Now, tell me exactly what’s going on with your beautiful body so I can get a precise visual.”
“Well, I opted to remove all of my clothing except for my heels in order to save us both a little time once you get here.”
Fuck me.“Excellent. Good girl. You on the bed?”
“Oh yes. For quite some time now, it feels like.”
“What else does it feel like? Does it feel wet?”
Good save, Cannavale. Good save.
“So wet, Mr. Cannavale. Always. Only for you. But especially today.”
Some guy in a red Mustang tries to cut in front of me—in the intersection—so I lean on my horn and I do not let him in. “Suck my tailpipe, Mustang!” I flip him off.
“Okay, you know what. This was a bad idea. I’m going to go grab lunch. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Oh hell no. You stay right there on that bed, naked wife.”
“Dec. I don’t want to hear you yelling at—”
“I’m done yelling. This is all about you now. I’m not going to make it to the hotel, even though there is literally nowhere else I would rather be right now. But you’re going to come at least once before you leave that room, and you’re going to do it while I’m on the phone with you.” Silence on the other end. “Cooper.”
“Fine. But make it quick.”
“That’s what she said.”
