Page 91 of Whiskey Throttle
“I understand why you’d think those things. And for a long time, I would have agreed with you. But I didn’t expect this to happen.”
He jumps to his feet. The wood floor groans from the impact.
“Bullshit. Hell, mother, it wasn’t that long ago that he was a kid, not even legal. Doesn’t that shit bother the fuck out of you? It sure does me.”
My eyes slide to his girlfriend. Older and more mature. I doubt she’s close to my age, but there’s an age difference.
“You didn’t have a problem with your father doing it. Didn’t bother saying any of this to him at the last event. You even saw me upset and were still cruel about it.”
My accusations may not be fair, yet they have to be said. There’s always been a double standard. My ex can do and has done whatever the hell he wants. Dominic has always given him a pass regardless of how egregious his behavior is. Where I have to walk the line, and the second I step out of it, my son is there crying foul and making a massive deal of it.
“Because my father is a fucking worthless piece of shit. I couldn’t care less if the man lived or died. He’s always coming at me for shit. I cut him off years ago. I don’t care what the fuck that asshole does. He’s a waste of oxygen and carbon dioxide.”
He’s pacing now. His hand runs through his hair, tugging at the ends. He reaches into his pants pockets, coming up empty. Then he glares at his girlfriend. She’s content to sit amid the chaos, eating from her plate as if none of this bothers her.
“Fuck I need to vape.”
“You’re doing fine. But this is good. Keep going. Get it all out.”
Her encouragement to continue berating me is disturbing. Suddenly, I feel like I’m becoming an enemy of Miss Suzy Sunshine too.
“With all due respect?—”
“You’re not him. You’re my damn mother. You don’t do shit like that. You sit in that damn house he paid for after the divorce, and you do that wealthy woman stuff. The kind all those old bitties do at your club. That kind of stuff, mother. Not chasing after playboys who think they’re hot because they’re covered in tattoos. That stuff poisons your system. And someday, you’ll end up slumming it with paid prostitutes like my father.”
My eyebrows are into my hairline.
My mouth hangs open. I can’t decide if I’m offended at how little he thinks of my life. That I’ll backslide into the slums, or that he holds me to a different standard, or that my ex is hiring prostitutes to keep up the façade.
“I . . . I . . .”
I don’t know where to start.
“But why the fuck would you let it be Hollister? Of all people. Couldn’t you have fucked one of those lifeguards or masseuses at your club? Hell, a tennis instructor would have been a more obvious choice. All the other women there do that.”
His pacing grows more rapid. As if trying to stomp out each word he’s saying.
“But my fucking friend. You know how hard it is for me to keep relationships, and you fucking torpedo it by jumping on his cock. Do you know how fucking disgusting that is? How it’s fucking with my head.”
He starts slapping the side of his head, and both of us are on our feet. But Claudia reaches him first, and I stop. It’s not my place anymore. She’s overtaking the role I once had. One I took for granted for many years, just trying to survive him.
She grabs his hand, places it around her waist, and hugs him. He relaxes into her. His other arm wraps around her. His face tucks into the crook of her neck, seeming to collapse into her.
It hits me square in the chest.
He’s in love with her.
She’s his safe place.
The one he’s been searching for years. The one I couldn’t provide. Didn’t provide, and regret not providing. It’s so obvious now what she means to him. Why she is here. She regulates him. I don’t know how. I don’t have the words to explain it. Yet I’m witnessing it firsthand.
My son is in love.
He’s carved out a normal, loving relationship from the charred ashes of my bad marriage and bitter divorce. Has a front row seat to the brutality and pain. Then took his own path to find it. What a beautiful realization that brings tears to my eyes. I press my lips together, turn away to retrieve the cocktail napkins he tossed down next to our wine glasses to dab my eyes. Each of us takes a moment.
A ragged sign loosens from him before rustling footsteps are heard behind me.
“If I may interject,” she starts, slowly and with a heaviness that matches the moment.
