Page 90 of Whiskey Throttle
“Thank you so much.”
She smiles up at him. He ignores it, dumps the small plates on the table with a loud clatter, and walks away.
“He loves putting these boards together. Like a puzzle for that big brain of his. Sometimes this is our dinner on busy nights.”
The amount of free-flowing sharing is staggering. She waves a hand at me to partake. I’m not hungry in the least. My stomach is a tangle of knots. It’s as if I no longer know my son. I’m holding onto an old version that I’m starting to think doesn’t fit. Yet, I’m having an equally hard time grasping who he is now.
“This looks beautiful, son.”
The words come out quick and meaningful. Filled with the combination of all the changes he’s made, and making those I thought were virtually impossible. He doesn’t say anything, just delivers the wine glass for each of us, then plops down in the chair opposite me.
His boot stomps the edge of the coffee table, rattling everything on it, including the glasses. His childish show of anger doesn’t even faze Claudia. She leans forward, assembles a sampling of everything.
“Thank you, Dominic. This is really lovely.”
Her words fall over him like a fine mist. I’m entranced by the effect. His features soften. His gaze slants to her, soaking in her praise and studying every part of her. When our eyes meet, his expression turns back to a scowl. Hard and punishing.
“Why the fuck are you here?”
With his boot propped up on the couch, his black jeans and t-shirt seemed more like a rebellious uniform than clothing suited for comfort. My eyes dart to Claudia, wondering if we’re going to have this discussion in front of her.
“She knows everything, Mother. Everything.”
I’m not entirely sure what he means by that. Yet she remains unfazed, nibbling on her plate as if this is a typical conversation to be had. It’s a little unnerving, but if she feels more comfortable here, then I can’t hardly ask her to leave so that we can discuss this in private.
“Well, I figured you deserved an explanation.”
He huffs. It sounds condescending without actually saying a word.
“You fucked my friend. My friend fucked my mom. What more to explain?”
Claudia shifts away, positioning herself to face forward, where each of us only has a glance at her side profile. At first, I think it’s a result of disgust. Then I realized it’s a neutral position, not showing alignment to either side.
“Dominic, language like that isn’t helpful.”
“Don’t even start, Marlowe. It’s fucking true, and there’s no need to sugarcoat it to save her feelings. The point is, she has none.”
I release a shaky breath, setting my plate down on the table. This is what I prepared for. I steel my insides for all the insults yet to come. To bear the brunt of them now and fall apart later, not in his presence.
“Babe.”
They do that stare-down thing again. He looks away, suddenly interested in the game on television.
“Remember, we talked about ‘you’ statements and using ‘I’ statements’ in their place?”
Both he and I have heard this before. Elementary psychological advice that never worked in the past. It wouldn’t work here today.
“Fine. I think this is fucked up. I think moms shouldn’t fuck their son’s friends. I think moms stick to the life they built on the backs of fucking over their kids.”
He did what she asked, even if the results are still insulting and scathing.
“Good. Now Babs. It’s okay if I call you that, correct?”
“Everyone does.”
“Alright, what would you like to stay, knowing how he feels?”
She sounds like so many others who have gone before. A judge in the center court, observing the volley that always happens between him and me. Both sides wait with anxiety for the screaming ace to be served.
