For my son.
It’s time to be a father.
Theresa’s Pulled Pork
Legal Assistant, Dallas
Makes 6 servings
6-8 hours (in slow cooker)
2 Lb. Pork Roast
1 12 Oz. Bottle Root Beer or Dr Pepper
1 Bottle Barbecue Sauce (I like Sweet Baby Ray’s sauce)
Place the pork roast in a slow cooker and pour the Root Beer or Dr Pepper over the meat.
Cover and cook on low until well cooked and the pork shreds easily (usually 6-7 hours but may vary depending on the slow cooker and size of roast).
Drain well. Shred and return to slow cooker. Stir in the barbecue sauce and continue to cook on low until sauce is heated.
Serve on hamburger buns.
Hawaiian buns are great with this. Also, a side of coleslaw and Southern Style potato salad make a really great meal.
Clarissa
Tossing my favorite Lush ‘Sleepy’ bath bomb in, I mentally unplug from another week of teaching youths about ancient books the world has mostly forgotten about. Students are a lot more outspoken and opinionated than they used to be in my school years. The web has given them false confidence that theirs is the only opinion that matters. I catch hell from the girls who I can see openly scrutinizing the way I dress and apply my makeup, and the guys, well, the guys are still guys. Some of them little Troys, great genetic makeup but infuriatingly cocky. It seems to be a daily pissing contest amongst the little Troys I teach on who can get the biggest reaction from me. I like my men bold, but the operative word is men, not little jockstraps with a recurring Proactiv monthly charge who have barely hit their second growth spurt.
I cringe at the thought that only years ago, I’d taken one of those at that inexperienced age between my legs and enjoyed every second of it.
Troy had acted like no boy. But was he really so different? The only conclusion I can draw is no. He was not. During my morning coffee on the porch yesterday, I’d caught him escorting a girl out on her walk of shame. She looked melancholy as he bid her goodbye. He might be capable of fathering as he claims, but he’s still a wildly sought-after college senior, apparently still getting where the getting is good. And I can’t exactly blame those women, Troy is ridiculously appealing, with his athletic build and natural swagger. I’m sure to women of all ages and types, Troy’s that guy. The guy others want to be, and the one women fawn over. He had wooed me after all, and I’d been raised by a womanizer. Even with my grudge, I must admit there’s definitely a sort of charm, a charisma about him.
Too bad I hate his guts.
I’m about ten minutes into my soak when Dante’s conversational voice distracts me from my read, so I gather myself from the tub and unplug the water. It’s when I hear the gruff voice in reply that my whole body goes on high alert. Troy is in my house. I angrily towel off, dressing with my hair still soaked.
How dare he go back on our agreement so soon?!
I can already tell this arrangement isn’t going to work. Throwing open the door, hair dripping, I march into the kitchen where Dante stands dictating his day off to Troy while he washes his hands in my sink.
Troy’s gaze trails up my frame, his eyes resting briefly on my pert nipples through my tank, before his smile fades as he sees my repulsion to his attention.
“Troy cut our grass, Mommy,” Dante says uneasily, reading my temperament. “I wanted to give him some of the lemonade I made. He told me you wouldn’t like it if he came in unannounced, but he did something nice,” Dante explains as if I’m a four-year-old while I have a silent standoff with his father.
In response, I glare at our intruder, unable to hide my aversion to our new neighbor. I’ve been able to keep him away for nearly six years, and suddenly he’s everywhere.
“Mom-my, he’s not in trouble. He did the yard. It was nice of him.” Troy’s hair is disheveled and in need of a cut. Sweat runs down his throat, his skin darker from his stint in the sun. He’s shirtless, his rippling muscles jarringly defined from the light workout. He stands satisfied with his son’s protection as his neon blue eyes burn into mine.
I once read if you stare down a dog long enough, you prove your dominance if the dog is the first to look away.
I lift a brow in challenge, refusing to blink.
Troy’s thick lips turn up before he drops his gaze to the floor.
That’s right, Fido. Now, go lick your ass.
“He, uh, insisted,” Troy says as Dante tugs me into the kitchen by my hand.
“Don’t be mad. I’ll make some for you too, Mommy.”
Because my son is nervous, guilt wins, and I try to reel in my anger. “Okay, baby. That was nice of you to offer.”
“Mommy, you’re supposed to say thank you,” Dante scolds, widening his eyes in expectancy. He’s trying to impress Troy, and nothing about that sits well with me. Troy turns, arms crossed accentuating his broad chest, weighing me carefully. He’s so imposing in our kitchen, the space too intimate.
I pull my hand from Dante and excuse myself. “I’m going to finish getting dressed. Can’t wait to taste it. Thank you for cutting the grass, Troy.”
He slowly nods, unsure if I’m plotting his death. I am.
“You’re welcome.”
I walk away knowing revenge is a dish best served cold and chuckle when I hear Troy’s sputtering after he takes a drink of Dante’s lemonade.
“This…is,” cough, cough, “well, this tastes great, little man.”
“I know. Mommy, yours is on the counter!”
Checkmate, Fido.
“Thank you,” I shout through my grin. Point Mom, thanks to little man.
The next morning I’m scrambling around the house as my son watches me at a standstill from the door.
“Don’t just stand there, son, we’re late!”
“I’m not late,” he taunts from the front door. “You’re late!”
“I’m not late, we’re behind!”
“Behind is late!”
“Uh,” I scan the living room. “Where’s your bookbag?”
“Got it,” he says, lifting it up as I frantically load my purse.
“Oh, no! Your lunch!”
“Got it,” he says, patting his backpack.
“No, you don’t got it.”
“Bread, jelly, crunchy peanut butter, and an apple. I didn’t cut it because I’m not allowed to use a knife. It’s so hard to make peanut jelly with a spoon. For snack time I put a bag of Sun Chips and one cookie not two.”
I stand, stunned. “You made your own lunch?”
“You’re late!” He reminds me.
“Right. And no, you can’t use a knife.”
He rolls his eyes. “I could put your seat belt on for you too, Mommy.” The look I give him scares him into backpedaling. “I went too far?”
I can’t help my laugh. “Yes. And even if I’m laughing, I’m not happy. Let’s go.”
We both burst through the front door and nearly trip over the bags of clothes and shoes on the porch.
Dante rummages through the boxes, his face lighting up. “Size seven and a half! Are these for me?!”
Eyes bulging, I look through the bags briefly before I put them into the entryway and attempt to lock the door, but Dante stalls me, tossing his shoes to the side of the porch and pulling one of the bags into his lap.
“Can I put these on? Puh-lease?”
Hiding, I turn to lock the door, wiping a stray tear away. Troy had to have dropped these off after his shift, leaving them at the door to avoid waking us and blowing his cover. Thoughtful.
You hate him, Clarissa.
“Mommy, can I try these?”
“Of course.”
“Where did they come from?”
“Just something I ordered,” I say as he ties them, admiration clear in his features before we make our way down the porch steps.
Dante looks up at me skeptically. “They weren’t in a package.”
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�New service.”
He doesn’t believe me. I wouldn’t either. I’m a horrible liar. I climb in behind the wheel as Dante buckles in. “These are the kind I wanted for school, like Austin’s!” I had assumed Troy forgot or ignored my request for help with the clothes, but clearly, I was wrong because Dante now has hundreds of dollars’ worth of new gear. I look back at him, marveling at his animated face while trying not to burst into tears.
“They’re so awesome.”
Whoever said money can’t buy happiness, forgot what misery is like on piss-poor days. Unable to help myself, I glance at the house next door and see it’s lifeless from the outside. I want my anger back. I want it back so much. But gratitude is all I feel as we pull out of the drive.
A large part of me does hate Troy, but for Dante, I’ll try.
Troy
It’s been three weeks since I’ve moved in next to Dante and I’ve made a little progress. Between my shifts at UPS, practice, school, and our first away game, I’ve had little time to do much more than catch Dante a few hours after school. I’m still the neighbor, so I can’t see him every day, but in doing what I can, I’ve made enough headway that my presence is no longer questionable but more routine. I’m hoping it’s a start. Clarissa has yet to look at me like I’m not shit on her shoe, but she’s no longer watching our every move. Dante comes over once in a while with permission to play Xbox with me. I make good with the time, careful with my words. “Take that, sucker,” Dante utters from his seat next to me, working the controls like a pro as I study him. We look so much alike it’s uncanny, and I take pride in that.
Mom will never forgive you for this.
I’ve never told anyone that I’m a father, not even my mother, who I’m closest to. I have a few reasons. The first is because I’m ashamed of what I’ve done. The second is that she very well would have reprimanded Clarissa for something that was entirely my fault. Pamela Jenner invented the phrase ‘mama bear,’ and in her eyes, her golden boy can do no wrong. But the most important reason is that if I told her, I know she would make it her mission to be a part of Dante’s life, and I have yet to earn that privilege for myself. I don’t want Clarissa to hate me more due to a confrontation with my mom because she is a force to be reckoned with. She’s my best friend, and when I finally do confess, I know it will irreparably break her heart. She’s missed nearly six years of her grandson’s life. But to be fair, so have I. Still, she won’t understand, and there’s no way she’ll ever fully forgive me.
As with Clarissa, there will be no redemption, but I’ll try my damnedest to make amends with them both.
“Did you know?”
Dante eyes me from where he sits on the couch, his feet swinging.
“Know what, little man?”
He rolls his eyes. My eyes. His mother’s eyes. We both have the tricked-out blue. Clarissa’s are lighter. Maybe they’re hers. “The trick I just showed you.”
“No, I didn’t. Good one.”
“You weren’t even listening,” he grumbles.
“Sorry. I was just wondering if you’re hungry?”
He shrugs, his attention back on his game. “I could eat.”
I shake my head. How does a five-year old speak like such an adult? His mother, that’s how. And I love that about her. She’s no bullshit. She wasn’t the night I met her. She’s brutally honest, and though she would never believe it now, aside from my lie and the fact that I lived for ball, I was myself with her. Dante commands respect, much like her, and much like my roommate who walks in the room, dumping his backpack on the floor.
“Sup, guys?” Theo asks, making his way toward the couch.
Dante’s eyes light up. “I showed Troy the trick you taught me.”
“Yeah?” Theo asks, taking a seat next to him. I pass him my controller.
“Grilled cheese?” I ask Dante.
His eyes light up. “Yes, please!”
Pride fills me. Dante has manners in abundance, though I can’t take any credit. Making my way to the kitchen, I hear Dante rambling to Theo.
“Cup your balls, you’re going down.”
Theo cracks up, and I do too. But I know Clarissa wouldn’t appreciate that language. Is this where I begin to parent? And if I do, will it break our new connection and embarrass him? His mother hasn’t given me any privileges yet, so I say nothing. That’s on her. Knowing what I do about Dante already, he wouldn’t take too kindly to discipline from a neighbor.
Dante devours his first grilled cheese and damned near begs for another, so I make myself busy catering to him as he slides into easy conversation with Theo. I think on some level, it’s easier for Theo because he grew up with siblings. I’d been more of a loner up until high school when I started running and hit a growth spurt. High school was easy for me because ball paved the way. It’d been an avenue of wealth after I got my braces off and discovered my talent for catching and running with that pigskin in my hands. I developed then too, along with my taste for pussy and it was a whole different world. I ran with the sudden attention and popularity, especially with the ladies, like every other red-blooded male would, but I wasn’t as privileged as my friends. Always driving my mother’s beat-up Dodge around on the weekends rather than getting my own, so I took and took until I choked on greed. All of that ended the day that fiery redhead slapped it out of me.
I deserved what I got. Karma and all of her friends, especially humility, came and made it known, a man is only as worthy as his last act.
As much as I want to admit I’ve grown up, I do still partake when the pressure gets to be too much. But that’s got its own set of problems.
The front door sounds and I glance at the clock knowing exactly who it is. She doesn’t let Dante hang for more than an hour or two without checking in. Opening the door, I see Clarissa waiting a few feet away as if she’s afraid to approach it. She might be a mama bear by nature, but she’s wary of me. I take note of her form-fitting blue sundress and pink painted toes.
“Hey, you look beautiful.”
She ignores my compliment, her eyes darting past my shoulder. “I, uh, was wondering if Dante could stay a little bit longer tonight?”
“Of course. My shift doesn’t start until two.”
“In the morning?”
I nod.
“You work nights?” She’s looking anywhere but at me.
“I’m sorry, are we having a conversation?”
Reluctantly her eyes meet mine, and I can’t help my smirk. I’m rewarded with a scowl. “You know how hard this is for me to ask.”
“Sorry, but I’m just wondering why you’re having such a hard time looking at me.”
“I have a date.” She swallows. “Well, not a date, kind of a date. An old friend from college. He wants to have a drink and catch up.”
“Good for you. Go. I’ll take good care of him.”
She hesitates, glancing over my shoulder. “Just forget it. I can do this another time.”
“What changed your mind in the five seconds since I agreed?”
“I just…he hasn’t eaten dinner.”
“I fed him already.”
She gapes at me. “What?”
“Grilled cheese.”
She palms her forehead. “He’s lactose intolerant.”
“Shit,” I glance back at Dante, who’s still mouthing off to Theo on the couch. “Do I need to take him to the doctor?”
“No,” she sighs. “He knows better. You’ve been suckered.”
“That’s my boy.”
Her glare has me swallowing.
“And there’s my hesitation. He’s probably going to run over you.”
I lift my hand, “I think I can handle him.”
“Do you?” The smile she’s sporting scares the hell out of me. She bites her lip and looks up at me through her lashes. “Good luck with that, neighbor.”
“Have a good time on your date, not a date, old friend get together.”
She rolls her eyes and sighs. “I�
��ll be back in a few hours.”
“Sounds good.”
I shut the door and mentally roll up my sleeves. This is my shot.
“TROY!”
I close my eyes and scrub my face with my hand as Theo chuckles from where he sits on the couch.
“Bet you’re wishing you didn’t offer your child sitting services up so fast.”
“How much shit can a five-year old have inside of them?” Grumbling, I take the steps back up to the bathroom and double tap on the door. “Sup, little man?”
“I pooped again.”
“Good on ya.”
“I need you to wipe me.”
“What? You’re old enough to wipe yourself. You did the last time, right?”
“Mommy says I don’t do a good enough job when I have flare-ups.”
“And I say you can do this, bud. And you might want to mention you’re allergic to cheese next time I tell you there is going to be cheese in your food.”
“I need a wet wipe, not a lecture.”
I glance at the ceiling. I’m officially my son’s bitch. “On it.” I hustle down to the kitchen and wet a wad of paper towels before hauling ass back upstairs.
I double tap the door again.
“Come in here,” Dante says, unaffected by the lack of privacy.
“I’m good here.”
“No way, I’m not getting up. I don’t want poop juice on my new shoes.”
Holding my breath, I walk in the door where Dante sits swallowed by the rim of the toilet. He’s so small like I was at his age. I hand him the wet paper and step away.
“You can stay,” he offers.
“I’ll just wait outside.”
“You need to check my butt.”
I stand there as he painstakingly takes his time wiping his ass. He doesn’t want to deal with his mother’s disappointment any more than I do, and I get it. That redhead is fire. “I think I’ve got it.”
Thank Christ.
Dante gets up and turns to flush the toilet, and I jerk back in horror when I see the literal shit trailing from his ass down his legs.
The Guy on the Left Page 5