Boyfriend Maintenance

by Helms, Lauren

  After a few quiet moments, he asks, “Why didn’t it work out with Craig?”

  I sigh. Craig, oh Craig. “Craig’s dad and mine were college roommates. To be clear, my father lived in the dorms only about six months before my grandfather bought him his first apartment. But Jerry and my dad stayed friends. I grew up with Craig. He’s two years older than me, and we got along fine as kids. We weren't friends, yet we didn't dislike each other. Right before I graduated, my parents started pushing me to start dating, to get serious. Craig seemed like a well-adjusted adult, so if I had to date someone, I thought the fact that I already knew him was a good place to start.

  “We dated for two years. We were together when I walked away from my family’s money. He wasn’t happy but I suspected that he didn’t really care all that much. We never really loved each other. When he started pushing me to quit my job and start using my trust, I realized that he’d never support my need for independence, and that we were just wasting each other’s time if we stayed together.”

  “He’s a tool,” Jake grumbles, sounding mad.

  Suddenly I wonder if we’ve exceeded our after-sex cuddle and chat time. But he doesn’t move away, his arm is still firmly wrapped around me. I stare off across the room unsure of what to say next. Until he speaks first.

  “I think I needed you to be some rich trust-fund brat.”

  I suck in a breath, whispering my reply. “Why?”

  “So, I wouldn’t fall for you.” His voice is low and gravelly.

  “Because this whole thing between us is fake?” I brave asking it and I don’t dare let out a breath, because I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle his reply.

  Shifting away from me slightly, he looks down at me. His eyes are filled with heat. “This isn’t fake anymore, Emmy.” There’s no reassuring smile, no adoration in his eyes, I’m worried his words aren’t meant to soothe me. That he’s stating a fact and because of that, this realness between us can’t continue.

  I’m a bundle of confusion and dread. Staring into his eyes I’m unable to figure out what his words mean.

  He must see my wheels turning because he visibly softens all the hard lines in his face. A small, sweet smile replaces his near frown. He pulls me to him and kisses my forehead. “It’s late. Sleep.” He resumes a lazy path over my shoulder and arm with his calloused fingers.

  Minutes tick by and my eyes grow heavy. As I start to doze off, I feel him turn his head toward me and whispers into my hairline, “You’re by far the best I’ve ever had.”

  I smile into the dark and fall asleep.

  * * *

  Hours later when I blink open my eyes, I first notice the sun peeking through the blinds, which is most likely what woke me. I take a moment as the events of last night filter through my mind. I’m facing the opposite side from when I fell asleep, so I turn over to face Jake. But he isn’t there. Sitting up, I look around my room. I lean over the bed to find his clothes are also missing.

  Anxiety starts to flutter in my chest as I fear he left and didn’t bother waking me. Please just be in the kitchen or the bathroom. I repeat this mantra in my head as I pull my thin cotton robe off the hook in my closet and slip into it, tying the sash as I step out of my room. The rest of the apartment is quiet. I don’t have to strain my ears to know I’m most likely alone. I walk to the bathroom and see the door open, lights off. I walk back to my room to see if he at least left a note.

  My heart has progressed from fluttering to pounding and I’m starting to worry I imagined last night. Maybe I just dreamed about having the best sex ever. Maybe Jake was so mad he didn’t give me a chance to explain my life. Did I just write myself into an alternative ending?

  Searching my room, there’s nothing on the nightstand. I crawl onto my bed and move the sheets around, lift, and look under pillows. I won’t admit this to a soul, but at one point I desperately crawl on the floor around my bed in hopes of finding a fallen note.

  Nothing.

  He’s just gone.

  Chewing on my lip, I realize I have no idea where my phone is. I never saw it in my pursuit for a note. Thankfully, it’s still in my purse, which I put on the table last night when we got back after the party.

  I hurry back out to the table and fish out my phone. There is a text from Becca, and two missed calls as well as a text from Levi, all from this morning. I realize that it’s a little past nine. Then I see it.

  A hastily scribbled note from Jake next to my purse. My eyes blur while I quickly try to read it. I slam my eyes shut to focus myself before reopening them and carefully reading his note.

  Sex with you was everything I had hoped it would be and more. But that’s all it was, and it won’t happen again.

  He even signed it “Jake Harper,” as if I wouldn't know who left the note. And then it hits me, I hardly knew anything about him. This fake relationship was so focused on me and my family and him getting his money that we never really got to know one another, aside from the moments when we were faking it. I just had amazing passionate sex with a man who didn’t even think I knew his last name. Was he making a point that I don’t know enough about him? If that was the case, maybe he shouldn’t have given me two orgasms before he left me in the middle of the night.

  Heart, meet fist.

  Chapter 16

  Jake

  I’m a jackass.

  I’ll admit it to myself, that sneaking out on Emmy early this morning was a jackass move.

  But I did it, there’s no changing it. The letter I left her—that … well, that was a dick move. But I don’t have a time machine, so I have to admit that I’m a jackass dick and move on. Because moving on is what needs to happen.

  When I got home around three this morning, I tossed and turned until eight trying to get some sleep. I’ve been sulking around my shitty apartment all morning. I’m grumpy and tired. It’s nearly one and I’m lounging on the couch, waiting for Kevin to arrive. He’s coming over to watch the Mets since they are at an away game today.

  My phone rings and I steel myself before picking it up off the coffee table. Emmy. This is the first I’ve heard from her today. I’m tempted to answer, staring at her name on my screen. A pounding comes at my front door. Kevin is here. My decision is made for me and I set down the phone and get up to let him in.

  “Yo.” He hurries in past me. “Sorry I’m late, the subway was packed today.”

  “I was wondering if you were going to miss the opening pitch.” I lock up behind him.

  Kevin quickly makes himself at home by grabbing a beer out of the fridge, a jar of salsa, and a bag of chips from the counter. Hands full, he deposits it all onto the coffee table. He must have grabbed the opener because he uses it to open his beer then twists open the brand-new jar of salsa with a pop. As he rips into the bag of chips, he says, “Dude, the game’s starting, are you gonna sit?” Then he shoves a few chips into his mouth.

  “Make yourself at home, Kev,” I mutter as I grab myself a beer.

  As I sit down next to him, my phone alerts me to a voicemail. My god, that’s either a long-ass message or I missed the first alert.

  Kevin notices and looks down at my phone but then focuses back on the game.

  I snag up my phone and shove it in my pocket.

  He lets it go for a few minutes, longer than I expected.

  “So, how's that going? Your fake girlfriend?” he asks between mouthfuls of salsa-covered chips.

  I grunt.

  “That great, huh? Is she a total bitch?”

  “Watch it,” I nearly growl.

  He pulls his eyes from the television and leans away from me. “Duuude. What? We haven’t talked about it in a while. I thought you said she was some stuck-up rich chick.”

  I shake myself out of it, he doesn’t deserve my foul mood. “No, it’s fine. It's just, she isn’t a bitch.”

  He eyes me before shrugging a nonverbal “alright” and turning back to the game.

  “So, things are good or bad with her, Emm
y, right?” He keeps his focus on the game.

  “Emmy.” Just saying her name makes my body heat up with thoughts of last night. Shit, last night, the sex was so fucking good. “No, things are over with her.”

  “Huh.” He cocks his head, giving me the side-eye.

  I’m leaning back into the couch with my arms crossed.

  The broadcast jumps into its first commercial break. Kevin faces me, studying me while he drinks his beer, slowly. I ignore him. He doesn’t let up. I press my lips together and then chew on the inside of my cheek to keep from engaging him.

  I can feel his stare and it’s really starting to grate on my nerves.

  “Oh my god, what?” I snap.

  “Nothing.” He shrugs and turns back to the television.

  “What do you mean nothing? You’re giving me the look, and I don’t appreciate it.” I twist my upper body to face him.

  “What look?”

  “The look. You know, the one Mom gave us growing up when she wanted us to spill our guts.”

  He nods in acknowledgement. “Oh, that one. Yeah, I’m familiar.” He dunks a chip in the jar of salsa. I just stare at him. “You know, now that you mention it, you do seem like you need to get something off your chest. So, what’s up?”

  I glare at him.

  “What’s going on with Emmy that has your panties in such a twist?”

  “She’s been lying to me,” I grunt.

  “Shit, man, about what?” He’s giving me his full attention, the little punk pulled one over on me.

  “About the fact that she has no money.” His eyebrows shoot straight up so I correct myself, “As in, she isn’t rich. She has money, she works and pays her bills, but she’s just solid middle class.”

  “How does she not have money? Isn’t her dad some rich fuck who plays with makeup?”

  I roll my eyes. Clearly, he only listens to half of what I say. “No, he runs and owns King Cosmetics. And she walked away from it. A few years ago. She wanted to live her own life, one without the expectations and duties that come with having that kind of cash.”

  “Wow. That had to be tough,” he mutters into his beer.

  I nod, staring at the game, not really seeing anything.

  “She just told you and you ended things?”

  “Kinda. We fought about it. Fucked, then I left.” I’m not paying attention to the game or anything around me for that matter, but I hear the thump of his beer bottle on the coffee table. Tearing my gaze away from the TV, I look over at him. His eyes are wide and his mouth agape.

  “What?”

  “Do you hear yourself right now? When did you become an asshole?” I let out a humorless laugh.

  Apparently, this morning.

  “Please tell me you didn’t leave without talking to her first. You didn’t ghost her.” He reads my silence and shakes his head.

  “Oh, save it. I know it was a dick move.”

  “What the hell happened, man?”

  “I was lying there, holding her next to me as she slept, and thinking about how she was the best sex I’ve ever had. That being with her, both between the sheets and not, just feels different. Like something more, something I’ve never felt with another woman.” If I’m being honest, the thoughts nearly wrecked me. I couldn’t believe just how right she actually felt.

  “So, what’s the issue?” The game completely lost to us both now.

  “While I was thinking all this stuff, I remembered where I was. I was lying there in a big comfy bed on the fourteenth floor of 425 Madison.” He starts to speak, I know to bring up my residents rule, but that wasn’t the issue. “No, I realized that I didn’t belong in that bed. I didn’t belong in that room. The only reason I should be in those apartments is to fix all the shit those rich fucks can’t fix themselves.” My body began to shake. “Even though Emmy works hard at her job, to make a life for herself, she’s still rich. She might not have millions in some bank account, but at any minute she could change that. She might be semi-estranged from her family but that doesn’t change the fact that they will always push her to come back, to take what is rightfully hers and be who they expect her to be. And who that is, is a millionaire.”

  Kevin shakes his head, clearly confused. He stands, pauses, shakes his head again, then continues on into the tiny kitchen nook. “I can’t believe all the shit that just spewed from your mouth.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I don’t know when you became so jaded, but this is not you. You’re being downright ridiculous about this. That shit you pulled sneaking out on her, I’m just …” He trails off, looking shocked as he stands in front of the fridge.

  “You’re just what?” I don’t know that I want him to finish the sentence.

  “I’m just disappointed in you.” He lifts a shoulder and walks back to the couch.

  “Disappointed? Oh, get over yourself. Why the hell are you disappointed? You don’t even know Emmy, she’s just another chick to you. What do you care?”

  “I care because you’re my brother. I care because you clearly have feelings for this woman. I care because my big brother is suddenly a coward.”

  “I’m not a coward.” I’m such a fucking coward but I’m still in the mood to fight.

  “You are! You’re too scared to admit to yourself and her how you feel. Man up, Jake.” Not only am I getting my ass chewed by my little brother, I’m missing my team play.

  “I’m not scared.”

  “Well then, what are you?” he challenges.

  “I’m a maintenance man for Christ’s sake!” I lose my cool now and jump up from the couch like it’s on fire.

  “I know what you do for a living. What's the problem?” He’s back to shoveling the fucking chips into his mouth now. Did he not freaking eat today?

  “No woman—especially one like Emmy—would ever be content marrying a maintenance man.” My hands dig through my hair and I’m close to ripping it out.

  “Jake, that’s not your decision to make.”

  I scoff.

  “I’m sure Emmy would love the opportunity to make her own decision when it comes to who she marries. Yeah? Sound familiar?” He sits back with a smug-ass look on his face. “I mean, think about it, Jake. She did walk away from millions so she could live her own life, to make decisions on her own.”

  “It’s not the same.” I turn my back to him.

  “Have you thought about the fact that maybe you’re the one who’s insecure about your career?” He has my attention again, but if looks could kill, he’d be six feet under right now. He continues, “What if no matter who you’re with, you’ll never feel equal in your relationship. Maybe it’s not them, it’s you.”

  I haven’t punched him in more than a decade. I don’t know if it’s acceptable to beat the shit out of your little brother at nearly thirty, but I’m thinking that it should be my brotherly right no matter what age I am. All the shit he’s spouting is just that … shit.

  “Whatever, man.” I shake my head.

  “The sooner you can admit it to yourself, the sooner you’ll be happy.”

  “I am happy.”

  He laughs at this. “You are not happy, brother. Not at all.”

  “Whatever,” I grumble again.

  He casually turns back to the television, focusing back on the game. As he reaches for the remote, I assume to turn up the volume, he lands one more blow to my newly bruised ego. “It’s your life to fuck up. It’s no sweat off my sack. Emmy should be relieved not to be dragged down into your pit of self-pity and insecurity.”

  The heat in my veins starts to boil. I ball my fists and shove them in my front pockets. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from letting all the words filtering though my head explode out of my mouth. Turning my back, I walk as calmly as I can to the bathroom.

  I will not hit my brother.

  I will not hit my brother.

  I repeat the phrase over and over. Gripping the bathroom counter, I hang my head and breathe deep, yet shaky
breaths as I count to ten. Then I splash water over my face and dry it off with the towel hanging nearby. I shake the frustration out with a full-body shake starting from my head, to my shoulders, and then arms.

  I walk back into the living room and find him engrossed in the game.

  “We are done with this conversation. You can either shut up about it and watch the game or get the fuck out.” I don’t sit down just yet, I need to hear his answer first. I’ll either grab another beer or I’ll be slamming the door as he leaves.

  He gives me side-eye and pretends to think about it. I cross my arms. “Well?”

  “Well, the beer is free here, so I’ll shut up and stay.”

  I nod and grab another beer.

  Kevin ended up staying about an hour after the game ended. I ordered a pizza, and he ate half of it. After the ultimatum I gave him, he did shut up about Emmy and that bullshit about being insecure. We were actually able to enjoy the rest of the game. It was a good one, too. The Mets won by three.

  Now, as I sit here on my bed getting ready to turn in for the night, I stare down at my phone. My home screen still shows a missed call and voicemail. I’m drawn to her name on my screen. I want to listen to the voicemail, but I need to think everything through.

  I think about all the shit Kev spouted off about today.

  Maybe I am insecure. I love what I do, but it doesn’t mean I’m not worried about finding someone who’s okay with being with someone who is just a simple man living a blue-collar life, as I’ll never make the big bucks.

  I might have grown up in a single-parent household. One where my mom worked two jobs at one point. I always told myself that someday when I was married and had kids, I would support my family. I would do everything in my power to make sure my wife was happy and had everything she needed. Maybe because my mom didn’t have the same opportunity, I wanted to be able to give my wife the option of not having to work if that was her choice. That mentality was stuck in my brain before I realized that being a handyman was my calling. It’s been hard to align my truth with my somewhat stunted belief of who should be the breadwinner in a family.