Not My Match

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  He drives off, and I swing around to get inside my car.

  Of course, just as I crank it, Dad opens his eyes and hurls.

  After scrambling around in my glove box for napkins to get him as cleaned up as I can, I drive the twenty minutes to the east side of Nashville to a small subdivision with cookie-cutter ranch-style houses and modest-sized front yards. I picked it out for him before he moved here a few years ago, when I did. I got him the job at the car dealership a block away.

  I help him inside, wrangling him into the dark house and fumbling for the light switch in the entry, one that doesn’t come on. Cursing, I half carry him to his bedroom, sending up a fuck yeah when the light comes on in there. At least the electricity is still on. I help him get his clothes off down to his boxers, lay him down on his side, and set a trash can nearby in case he gets sick again, and before I pull up the covers, he’s back asleep, snoring.

  After washing my hands and face in his bathroom, I check on him. My eyes catch on the photo on his nightstand—a pic of me and Mom and him when I was ten. Even with her smile, her face is distant, as if she’s thinking of anything but the husband and kid pressed against her.

  Couldn’t make her happy. Dad’s voice grates in my head. Got her pregnant.

  The day she stormed out of our trailer, kicking beer cans out of her way, a shabby duffel bag clutched in her arms, pops into my mind. She drove away with another man, and I chased her down the driveway, begging. I’ll be back, she promised, a pinched expression on her face. She wasn’t there when I got sick with mono the following month. She wasn’t there for my thirteenth birthday. Or Christmas. She erased me from her memory, as if I’d never existed, then left us to pick up the pieces.

  Dad shoved women in my life, a revolving door of girlfriends, and I looked to them for love, craved it. They won my kid heart, only to follow in Mom’s footsteps. Bye, Devon. Be a good boy, and take care of your father. Bonnie, Marilyn, Jessie—they never stuck around. In retrospect, most of them were barfly floozies, but hell, I just wanted someone to stay.

  Still, he keeps that damn pic. I snatch it up, hands clenching around the frame. Part of me wants to rip it apart and remove her from our lives forever.

  Where are you? I bought your beer, asshole, pops up on my phone.

  Sorry. Unexpected errand, I reply to Aiden.

  And you told ME not to be late. What’s your ETA?

  Leaving the frame and my dad in the bedroom, I head back to the kitchen, halting at the mess. Empty beer bottles, takeout containers, and dirty dishes litter the table and countertops. I close my eyes, wishing it would magically disappear. Of course it doesn’t. Shit. I plop down at the table and fire off a text: Something came up. See you tomorrow.

  He sends a flurry of pissed-off messages. I ignore them. Dad comes first.

  Chapter 4

  GISELLE

  With a kiss to my cheek, Topher lets me out at the curb, and I pad over to the stoop of the brownstone, an old three-story building with a spacious apartment on each level. With lots of charm and close to Vanderbilt, it comes with the perfect landlady.

  Dressed in her orange-and-purple muumuu, Myrtle stands on the sidewalk, her Yorkie, Pookie, sniffing at the one tree we have. Sixty and the closest thing I have to a bestie, she plucks a joint out from behind her ear and lights it. Mostly it’s for her horrid migraines, but she gets it illegally, and it worries me. Pink lipstick outlines her lips as she takes a deep drag. A former model forty years ago in New York, she married a middling movie producer, eventually divorced him, and moved to Nashville to pursue a country music career that never panned out. Now she owns the building and writes poetry, some of it published.

  With a grimace at my bare feet, she says, “Prince Charming?”

  I plop down on the third step. “Charlie was an alligator-wearing weasel.”

  “Ah. The emu?”

  “We didn’t get that far, and I was afraid to ask. I need some wine with a side of Ragnar Lothbrok. You up for a Vikings binge session?”

  She takes a toke. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “How’s your head?”

  “Better now. How did the advisor meeting go?”

  Dread inches up my spine as I tell her about my meeting at Vandy. “He isn’t going to recommend me for CERN, he isn’t happy with my teaching methods, and my work last semester was not impressive.” I sigh as the words fall out. He’s not wrong about last semester.

  She lets out a wave of smoke, and I inhale the smell. “I’m still waiting on the next Vureck and Kate chapter. Is she going to escape the ship?”

  I’ve been writing a sci-fi novel for the past five months. A romance, of all things, although the writing didn’t quite start out like that—it just sort of happened. Science has been the center of my world since I discovered Einstein in elementary school, but writing is a way to vent my frustrations. “He’s finally given her clothing after scanning her for disease, but now he’s locked her in an antigravity chamber, and she can’t cross the threshold. She needs to disable the control pad to escape. Haven’t figured out how.”

  “Loss of power on the ship?” she offers. “His pet snake slithers into the chamber with the tools to get her out?”

  “Because a snake can carry tools.” I smile.

  “It’s an alien snake. Give him little fingers.”

  I jerk out my phone and take notes. “Maybe. Or the big guy is tormented in his sleep, since he has a murky past, and he sleepwalks up to her prison, opens it himself—”

  “Because he secretly wants to bang her—only he hasn’t acknowledged it. Just give the purple alien a big dick. Size does matter; I don’t care what Cosmo says.”

  I grin. “She pops out and makes a run for it, and he grabs her, and they fall to the ground. His seven-foot muscled frame lands on her, and she’s soft and silky, and he’s never seen a female form the color of hers . . .” My voice trails off as ideas flash in my head, and when I glance up, she’s smiling wryly at me.

  “Your eyes light up when you talk about them. There’s an artist inside you.”

  Ha. I sigh, stuffing my phone back in my bag. “My classmates would think my writing is ridiculous.”

  “Ah, you care what people think. My old age gives a fresh perspective, I guess, but if you want to be happy, do what makes your heart fly. Every breath you inhale must be meaningful. What do you really want, Giselle?”

  I don’t know. Not anymore.

  Her words settle inside me, twisting around. Now that CERN is gone, my career goals feel uncertain. What will I do now? Graduate. Teach. Research. Sure, but is that all? What about love and my dreams of a family? When it comes down to it, physics is all I have left, the only thing I trust, and that life stretches in front of me, empty. That tight feeling in my throat rushes back.

  Pookie pees, then runs over and jumps in my lap.

  I stroke the dog’s hair, plucking at the pink barrette on her head. “I’ve made so many bad choices lately—Preston, ugh, what a disaster. At least physics won’t disappoint me.” My voice cracks, surprising me, a testament to my very bad day. “I had an argument with Devon.”

  “Oh dear. You hate confrontations. Tell me everything, and leave nothing out,” she says, sitting down next to me, and I recount the date with Rodeo, then reenact both sides of the minifight between me and Devon. Sometimes it’s torturous, especially for those bad things you’d rather forget, but I have an eidetic memory, where I remember almost perfect mental images as well as auditory occurrences and other sensory recall. I’ll never be able to forget how Devon smelled and how he felt when I was pressed against his chest. Hard chiseled muscles, the scent of summer and delicious male. I sum it up with, “I had a good old-fashioned hissy fit and stormed out. It’s Jack’s fault, but now Devon sees me as someone he needs to protect.” I scratch Pookie under the chin. “Every time he looks at me, he’s thinking about my virginity. He’s wondering what’s wrong with me. Explains the gaze at the wedding.”

  She pats my hand
, her mascara heavy on her lashes as she juts the joint at me. “You look like you need a toke.”

  I grin.

  “You’re already getting a contact high. Might as well. Opens the brain waves for free thinking.” She waggles her eyebrows.

  “I need my brain cells to stay focused at the moment.”

  She laughs just as my phone buzzes. I groan at the caller, Mama, and press straight to voice mail as I stand up. “Maybe next time. A daughter’s duty calls.”

  Setting the dog down at her feet, I study her face. “I didn’t ask about your day. How was it?”

  She twirls her bejeweled hands. “Fuse box in the basement is on the fritz. Something electrical. Garbage truck never showed. Pookie crapped in my kitten heels. The usual.” She wets her blunt by pinching it, then sticks it back behind her ear as she ambles behind me to the wide front door.

  “Nothing exciting, huh?”

  She grimaces. “If you’re asking if I talked to Mr. Brooks, I did not. His bald head and wrinkled lips can kiss my petunia.”

  I throw my arm around her. Mr. Brooks was her long-term boyfriend until they broke it off around the same time Preston and I ended. We’ve commiserated together ever since.

  “Sorry.”

  “Fun to ride but not worth the trouble,” she adds, giving me a squeeze.

  “We’re quite the pair, you and me,” I say as she walks inside with me, and I help her up the last few steps.

  “Didn’t bring my cane,” she mutters as we approach the elevator—a small one, rather dinky and dark, but it gets the job done. It’s on the basement level, so I push the button for it to come up. The doors slide open.

  “You should just get the knee replacement,” I tell her, taking her elbow. “You know I’ll help you with the recovery.”

  She waves me off as she puts her foot at the door to keep it from shutting. “Sushi tomorrow night?”

  I bob my head. “It’s on. Spider roll and fried wontons. Your place.”

  She points a finger at the door off the foyer on the first floor. “Let’s invite the new resident. His name is”—she leans in to whisper—“John Wilcox. Moved in today. Handsome fellow in his fifties.”

  I see that glint in her eyes. She’s already tried setting me up with the grocer, the baker, and the boy who throws the Sunday paper. None worked out.

  “He’s all yours. Please.”

  She mulls it over. “He has a cat. I’m allergic.”

  “Take a Benadryl.”

  She taps her chin. “Sushi night is historically girls’ night.”

  “Rules are made to be broken!” I toss in.

  She sends me a droll smirk. “Live what you preach, Giselle.”

  “Ask him. Tomorrow night is going to be lit,” I chirp, waving good night as she pushes the button for the second floor, letting the door slide shut. I take the stairwell up to my place on the third level.

  I don’t have any whiskey, but I’m midsip on a glass of wine when Mama calls back around nine.

  “Mama!” I say brightly. “Missed you earlier, but I had to get situated.”

  “Was he employed?” No hello, how are you.

  “He was a rodeo star, belt buckle and all.” Then: “I thought I’d at least have until tomorrow before Topher told you about my date.” Topher and Mama had some unsure moments when he lived with my sister—not right to cohabitate with a man, she insisted—but now that Elena’s married to Jack, Mama is satisfied and treats Topher like one of her own. Not sure that’s a good thing.

  “Topher can’t keep a secret. If he wasn’t gay, I’d tell you to marry him. He came by for some Sun Drops at the Cut ’N’ Curl while I was doing some late-night cleaning.”

  “He’s in trouble for running straight to you.” I shall plot my revenge.

  We chitchat for the next few minutes, until she drops her bomb. “Your birthday is Sunday. I get home from church at noon, so be here by one, dear.”

  I set down my glass and lean in, gripping the phone. Something about her voice . . . “I don’t want anything fancy, Mama. Just you and me and Aunt Clara and Topher.” I pick at the threads on my blue couch. “Elena and Jack won’t be back. Maybe we should wait—”

  “We will celebrate on the actual day.”

  I groan at the determination in her voice. She’s a bulldog. “Mama, let’s wait.”

  There’s a beat of silence, and I picture her in her stately brick house in Daisy. She’s probably already wearing her blue nightgown, the one that goes all the way to her feet with lace at the hem. She’s curled up in her recliner watching Dateline, hair perfectly coiffed, nails tapping a copy of People magazine in her lap. A warm cup of peppermint tea sits next to her.

  “Mama?”

  “I don’t like the ghosts in your eyes, dear. Preston . . .”

  Sick of his name and annoyed, I hold the phone at arm’s length for the next ten seconds. Sometimes I think she was more devastated than I was when we broke up. She’d been hesitant at first since he’d previously dated Elena, but he’s a lawyer, lives in Daisy, and has money. He checked all her boxes, and she couldn’t resist him. She planned our wedding, made an album with her favorite color scheme (pink and more pink), and selected flowers, venue, musicians . . .

  I bring the phone back.

  “Didn’t you used to have a crush on him?”

  “Who?”

  “Aren’t you listening? Mike Millington, the new principal at Daisy High. Recently divorced. He married some girl he met at Tulane. She ran around on him, and there’s a child, but she’s adorable. Only three years old—plenty of time for you to ease your way in and be a good role model—”

  “I did not have a crush.” Four years older than me, he lived next door to us until he left for college. I totally wrote our names in my notebook and drew little hearts around them. When I was thirteen.

  “He handcuffed me to a tree once,” I throw out.

  “They were plastic handcuffs. Don’t embellish.”

  I leave the memories behind as realization dawns. “Mama! You invited him to my birthday lunch? Why?”

  “Dear, be nice. His dad passed, and his mom just a few months later. He’s moved back to Daisy and is living in their house. He’s starting over, dear, and I’m just being neighborly. Don’t worry about details. Let me take care of it all.”

  I get that she thinks I’m unhappy, but no, I pick my own bad dates.

  “I haven’t seen him in ten years,” I sputter, standing so I can pace around the living room. “I don’t want to stuff food in my face while he sits across from me. It’s my birthday—”

  “I’ll put him next to you.”

  I groan. “Why?”

  There’s a long silence, just the sound of her breathing, and when her voice comes, it’s subdued, a tinge of hurt echoing in the tones. “It’s a bittersweet day, dear, but you deserve a party. I want some happiness for you.”

  My eyes shut. While I was under the bleachers at the high school, mostly naked and getting videoed, my dad wrecked his car, went into a coma, and never came back. It was my sixteenth birthday. I’ve refused a party ever since, and the curse was born.

  And the coldness.

  My chest exhales. “We should just do it like we always do. Low key.”

  I hear the tinkle of a teacup as she sets it back on the saucer. “I can’t take back the invitation. It’s rude. Any good hostess knows this. Once everyone gets here, you’ll be glad. I know you better than you think.”

  I pinch my nose. “Once everyone . . .” What is she planning? “Did you invite my preschool boyfriend too?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jude—whatever, Mama, you can’t fill the house with prospective husbands! I don’t need a man. I have my work.” This is the direct opposite of my thoughts lately, but I can hardly tell her about my quest, which has nothing to do with love. Feelings don’t have to be involved at all. Just the act itself.

  I glare at the wall, fingering my necklace. “If we’re doi
ng this, I want alcohol.”

  “It’s the Lord’s day.”

  “Champagne. Jesus would understand.”

  She pauses. “Okay.”

  I stare at the phone, as if expecting to see her come through the phone with two heads. She’s . . . compromising?

  I let out a sigh and grit my teeth. “I’m not dressing up.”

  “Of course, dear,” she purrs, victory in her voice. “Wear your usual. You always look so nice.”

  Because my style is modeled after hers.

  “Uh-huh. Just you wait.”

  “Don’t be bratty like your sister.”

  I smirk. Elena was the one who went off to New York to college (the nerve of her leaving the South), traveled Europe, then gave up her chance to be a physician to be a librarian turned sexy-lingerie maker. She’s the rebel, and I’m the spare, the one Mama believes will never step out of line, but these days I’m teetering on a tightrope, and I don’t know which way I’ll fall. With a sigh, I end up telling her about CERN, and she can’t keep the relief out of her voice. She never wanted me to even apply. At least someone is happy about it.

  Later, after the wine has chilled me, I circle back to the party. “Did you invite Devon?”

  Dialogue in the background vanishes; she’s clicked off the TV. “Do you want me to?”

  My hands grip the phone. “Just trying to get a feel for how many people will be there.”

  “Have you seen him since the wedding?”

  I don’t like her tone—it’s as if she’s taking notes.

  “Briefly.” It’s not an outright lie, but I don’t want to get into a convo about Devon and all that entails.

  “He’s not really your type, dear. He’s from California.”

  She says it like he’s been in prison. I roll my eyes.

  “And he has not one, but two earrings.”

  “I can count.”

  “And those tattoos? Bless.”

  Which is why she’s never seen my pitiful attempt at ink.

  “He’s a playboy,” she continues. “Who was that girl at the wedding? She had on enough makeup for a glamour shot.”