Page 5 of One Hotlanta Night
Michael
Ugh. I miss my family.
I mean, I don’t miss the daily drama, like how running out of perfectly squishy avocados at the local Kroger causes the equivalent of a Michelin-restaurant disaster. Or the constant yelling that passes for talking in my house.
“We’re not yelling. We’re Cuban—that’s just how we talk.” Truer words have never been spoken, even if technically I’m half-Cuban, half-German. A combination that likely gave me my temper as well as my passionate nature.
But I do miss how incredibly full everything always feels at home. The quiet in my Atlanta townhome is deafening.
At home, my mother always greets me with a hug, asks about my day and if I’ve met a nice girl at church yet. My dad, God bless him, works eighty-hour weeks, so no one sees him much. And the few hours he is home, he’s so drained that he can only communicate in grunts. But his eyes light up when I tell himabout the work that I’m doing, and he always says, “I’m proud of you, son,” and ruffles my hair like I’m five instead of twenty-five.
I sigh and continue loading the dishwasher. You use a lot less dishes when you’re only cooking for one.
Looking out the window into the small patio space outside, I’m reminded of the pickup soccer games I’d have with my sister. Isabella had less and less time to play around, just like me, after she started working two jobs—just like me. And that was even before I left Charlotte to come to Atlanta, so our times together grew few and far between. But no one else could keep me laughing like her when we’d take over the kitchen, seeing who could make Paquita’s picadillo the best.
Obviously it was always me, but I let her think hers was better.
I miss all the messing around, playing dominoes or sitting around the kitchen table late at night. Whisper-laughing while sharing stories of nightmare customers and clueless coworkers, trying not to wake up our dad. It didn’t always work. But he was cool about it.
My dad’s crazy work ethic became ingrained in me. He taught me to go above and beyond with everything I do. And it paid off when I got the opportunity to move to Atlanta.
I love my family, but I couldn’t see myself staying in one place. Couldn’t explain the wanderlust—the itch—I had to strike out on my own. The need to get out and experience something new,feelsomething new. The circumstances of my move weren’t ideal, but I’m here now, and that’s what counts.
I take another deep breath and blow it out as I finish wiping the countertops and survey my work. Saturday chores don’t take long when it’s just you and a roommate in the house. Jax pretty much keeps to himself, unless he’s scavenging for leftovers. Still haven’t figured out the art of cooking for one versus a small army, so he gets to reap the benefits on the regular.
Hanging up the kitchen towel that my mom sent down with a box of random cooking utensils that she “swore I’d need,” I take stock of my day.
I could call Adam to see what he and his girlfriend Janice are up to, if they’re having one of their impromptu street hockey games tonight. Sweeping the hockey stick on rough asphalt that desperately needs paving, sending the ball into the goal, and the heat of playing on the radiating blacktop usually satisfies my need for adrenaline. Leaving me with the kind of exhaustion that only wearing myself out physically can provide.
Because I need that to sleep. My bed feels empty.
And I love cutting up with the guys who show up; they just want to play the game and have a good time. Small talk is painful, and it hasn’t been easy making friends since I’ve moved down. Not like that’s what I’m down here for anyway. At least on the tarmac, it’s more trash talk than anything. Easier to feel like I fit in.
What’s not easy is after, when the group wants to go out. Most of them are already paired off. That’s when I feel my loneliness the most.
Sure, I’ve been on a few dates here and there, mostly ones that Adam—or rather, his girlfriend Janice—have set me up on. She’s a sweetheart, and wants to see all her friends happy, so I’ve gone along with it.
The girls were nice enough, sure. But there wasn’t any spark, and conversations felt stilted and forced. Can’t deny some of their lustful gazes were an ego-boost. They’d giggle and ask about my workout routine, not hiding their intentions as they tried to run their hands over my arms and chest. Can’t say the physical release wouldn’t be nice. I’m a man after all, and I can appreciate an ass-grab as much as the next guy. But if there’s no connection, no mental stimulation… what’s the point? I’ve neverslept with someone I didn’t truly care about. I don’t believe in leading girls on; that’s not my style.
It wouldn’t be fair to them. Or to me.
Sighing, I lean back against the kitchen counter. Sometimes I think it would be a lot easier if I could just be a manwhore like some of the guys at the office, or at least someone who didn’t mind the occasional hookup. At least it wouldn’t feel so lonely.
My grandfather raised me to be intentional in everything I do, be it work, boxing, or relationships. Everything. He demonstrated how to go after what I want, how to live by a code of honor, and how to be a gentleman.
Sometimes that meant being a gentleman with an edge, as the scars on my knuckles attest. Especially when you’re protecting someone.
Good thing his charm with the ladies rubbed off on me too, because I was one awkward mofo until I graduated. His lessons went beyond opening doors and buying flowers: he taught me how to read people, how to make a girl feel special, and how to protect and defend. Sunday afternoons we’d hang out on the porch as he smoked the cigars Paquita pretended she didn’t know about.
“Miguel,” he would say, taking my chin in hand to make sure I was paying attention. My grandparents and mother frequently spoke to us in Spanish, although Isabella and I usually replied in English. “There are only three things you need to know in life. One,camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente.”The shrimp that sleeps is carried away by the current.If I had a dollar for every time he told me this… It means to be wary of complacency: opportunities and life itself wait for no one. “Miguel, you have the gift of discernment. Use it wisely and pay close attention to who you allow into your circle.Él que a buen árbol se arrima, buena sombra lo cobija.” He who stands near a good tree is covered by good shade.He has always told me tobe particular: how I spend my time, what I wear… and especially who I hang out with. And finally, he’s told me this for as long as I can remember:“Del dicho al hecho hay mucho trecho.”From saying to doing is a long stretch.Actions speak louder than words.Si, abuelo, lo se. I know.
I’ve thought a million times about those conversations, and the sting of being far away eats at my heart. I’ll go visit them in a couple of weeks. I need their words, their hugs, their love to sustain me while I wait.
Coming down here, getting a fresh start—I’ve always known it was for more than just a job. More than the opportunity to start my life, myownlife, independent of the family that I love but feels stifling at times. I’ve felt it in my gut that I’ll meet someone here.
Thatsomeone. The one I want to spend the rest of my life with.
This is not only the start of a new chapter, but the beginning of the rest of my life.
