by Hazel Parker
“You know she’s the only reason I keep going, right,” Sarah said.
I didn’t respond. I knew Sarah didn’t have the greatest history of mental health. But I also didn’t want to get dragged down the pity well for her. She’d gotten plenty of chances to show why she deserved my sympathy, and she’d almost always spat on such opportunities.
“You had damn well better treat that girl right,” she said. “Or I’ll kill you.”
Once again, I didn’t answer. Engaging would only lead to an argument.
“You get that right—”
“Yes,” I snapped. “And I would say the same to you. If I ever hear that she’s suffering in any way at this house—”
“I’m not the one who went to jail.”
I bit my lip. She had done just as bad shit, but I had taken the fall for her.
“We both have fucked up in the past,” I said softly, taking care to make sure Lilly didn’t hear us. “We both have her best interests at heart, though.”
“I’d like to believe that.”
God, how the hell did I ever fall for this girl?
I knew the answer to that. I was young, stupid, drunk, and brash. We’d only dated for a few weeks up to that point. We were drunk and started making out. I didn’t have a condom, but it wouldn’t be a big deal, right? She wasn’t in her most fertile period. It wouldn’t happen, right?
The seven-year-old running around on the playground fifteen feet away from us sure proved us wrong.
It was somehow the best thing to ever happen to me and the source of the greatest stress of my life at the same time.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I said. “If I fuck up, it will not be because I was a bad father. And don’t even pretend like you don’t know that that’s true.”
Sarah looked at me like she wanted to retort with something, but she was either smart enough to know not to say anything or she knew I was telling the truth.
“Alright, honey, fifteen minutes!” Sarah shouted. “Then we’ve got to head back, and your father has to go.”
“Aww, Mom!” Lilly pouted.
“Mother’s orders, sorry.”
Orders? What is this, a boot camp? But I kept my mouth shut. The courts hadn’t given her custody so that I could push boundaries and lose visitation rights.
Fifteen minutes later, I decided to take the initiative before Sarah could cut me off from Lilly too quickly. I went over to her, told her it was time to go and let her jump into my arms. Holding her was the most loving gesture I’d ever felt—it was one thing to hold a girlfriend in my arms, but something that was of my flesh and blood?
Nothing could ever top a father’s love for his daughter. It had taken me until Lilly’s birth to realize that, but now, it was an inalienable truth.
When I got to Sarah’s apartment, I finally put her down and kissed Lilly on the forehead.
“You be a good girl for Mommy; you understand?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“I don’t want to hear any stories of trouble. I want to know that you are Daddy’s and Mommy’s little angel. Understood?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Alright, give your pops a hug.”
I squatted down to her height and embraced her as closely as I could. It may have been an early hour, and it may have been on barely any sleep, but I needed no amount of sleep to know how fortunate I was to have her. Whatever followed in my life—the club, dates, family drama—could not interfere with her.
Quite simply, it wasn’t just that she came first. It was that she was first, second, third… she was in her own category. Everything else was so far removed that nothing else mattered.
“You be a good girl,” I said. “I’ll be back in a week or two, OK?”
“OK. I love you, Daddy!”
I smiled, my eyes watering.
“I love you too, Lilly.”
I kissed her on the forehead, rose, and ruffled her hair.
“Let me know if you need anything,” I said to Sarah before turning away.
I shut the door behind me, sighed, and headed for my bike. I hadn’t cried since her birth. I didn’t cry when my father and mother died. I definitely didn’t cry at my sentencing.
But hearing my little one say she loved me, even after all those years in prison… that was enough to make the eyes well up, if not quite cry completely.
I headed for my bike, took a deep breath to push the tears away, and drove back home. I had seen my daughter, but I had also seen the mistake I had made for her mother.
Now, maybe—just maybe—it was time to nap and eventually try my hand at this game of romance a second time.
I just had to remind myself not to fuck it up again.
Chapter 8: Christine
I spent most of my morning painting.
And this time, instead of the bald man wearing a red shirt staring at Manhattan taking up my painting, I just decided to say fuck it and paint Marcel directly. Was it a little ridiculous? Maybe. Would it be embarrassing if he saw it before, say, the fifth or sixth date? Certainly.
But when an artist had something on their mind, it was more irresponsible not to do something than to do something that would have been slightly embarrassing. And it wasn’t like I had to tell people that this was Marcel; I could just as easily say it was a friend or only an image I had. That was the benefit of being an artist—I could say almost anything, and people would buy it as creative interpretation.
I painted him standing as I had before, but instead of looking up at the skyline of Manhattan, he was looking at a building that had the Savage Saints logo on it. He had his motorcycle, but he and the motorcycle looked intentionally small next to the building with the Savage Saints. I knew no such building existed, but literalness was rarely, if ever, the point with creative work.
Most of my paintings never got past the pencil stage, especially on workdays. Now that it was a Saturday, though, I got to work and didn’t have to stop for anything. I started around nine and didn’t take a break until noon, which in itself was only a fifteen-minute break to throw some leftover beans and rice into the microwave. I then continued until three-thirty in the afternoon, having painted nearly everything.
It was a sort of flow state that so many psychologists talked about, except they said it only lasted a couple hours. Mine, essentially, had lasted an entire day. If that didn’t indicate something about how I felt about Marcel, I’m not sure what did.
Really, the only reason I quit was because I had to start getting ready for the date. He had texted me at seven to say he would pick me up and surprise me with dinner plans, though he promised to do it somewhere small after I insisted—I didn’t want to go to a sports bar or someplace of that ilk. Granted, when I got up, I found myself a little stunned that I had spent so much time on a painting of a man I had not even had a first date yet, but I’d long ago stopped apologizing for the subject of my art. If anything, it was a chance to get out some of those weird feelings before they manifested themselves in truly awkward ways.
I had given away most of my expensive clothes upon going to AA as a means to disassociate myself from my prior life, but I still had some nice tops I could easily wear with jeans and shorts. I threw on a red tank top with my jeans and black flats. I felt like I gave just enough of a vibe of being conservative, while subtly hinting at an erotic desire for more. I wasn’t going to sleep with Marcel on this date—that was something I really hoped would only happen after my hundred days of sobriety, if we got that far—but that didn’t mean I couldn’t set the stage for something more later.
I was, after all, only human. If there was one thing learned in AA that didn’t just apply to alcohol but everything else, it was that I was flawed but that I could be better. I could make myself a better person if I just applied myself.
At five minutes to five, I stepped out of my apartment complex and stood on the front steps, waiting for Marcel to walk toward me. In a different town—maybe my hometown—I would have waited
for him to drive and pick me up, but no one owned a car in Brooklyn or Manhattan. Anyone who did probably paid more in parking than they did on their home. And given I could barely afford rent, well, I wasn’t picking up Marcel anytime soon.
At five, I listened to the distant sounds of Brooklyn. Cars honking. A motorcycle getting louder. People chatting as they walked by. Engines humming as they waited for the red light to turn green. I didn’t see, though, anyone approaching with a bald head and eyes on me.
I looked down at my phone. And then I noticed the motorcycle was getting louder.
So much so, in fact, that it was coming right to me.
I felt a little silly for not considering that this would happen. He was, after all, starting a motorcycle club; him not owning a motorcycle would have been akin to someone starting a savings club without a bank account.
But whatever silliness I felt was quickly replaced by a sense of excitement. He had on a black leather jacket, large sunglasses, a black helmet, and jeans that looked tightly wrapped around him. I tried not to stare too much. His jacket wasn’t quite that of what I had seen from my Google searches of “Savage Saints,” but then again, he had just talked about it only yesterday. He probably hadn’t even gotten himself a place.
“Well, hello, beautiful,” he said.
“Hi,” I said quietly, far too quiet for him to hear over the bike. He patted the back seat, unaware that I had said anything. I gulped as I stared at the motorized missile on wheels.
I had never ridden a motorcycle in my life. I hadn’t even gotten in a car in ages. And now I was to trust someone I’d met while working—a customer—with a motorcycle?
“You’ll be safe,” he said. “I’ve got a helmet for you, and I’ll make sure I go slow for you.”
For me. So you’re normally a speed demon of some sorts? You normally drive fast and go crazy?
“OK,” I said as I approached, still far too quiet to hear over the putt-putt-putt of the engine. “Where are we going?”
Finally, I’d found the strength to speak loud enough for him to hear me.
“We’re going to a nice place in Queens,” he said. “Albanian food. Not that crowded. Used to go there on weekends back in the day and it was never busy.”
“Back in the day?”
Marcel’s face pulled into a frown.
“Ah, I’ll tell you when we get there.”
His face went back to normal almost as quickly as it had gotten annoyed.
“Come on! The food’s not going to just sit there waiting for us. We gotta go and get it!”
“OK,” I said, forcing a smile. “Promise me I won’t die.”
“Nonsense,” he said with a chuckle. “If I wanted you to die, you think I’d do it in a way that would put my life at risk too?”
I guess that was a fair answer? I didn’t know; I was just nervous as hell about moving forty miles per hour without any safety.
“We can take the subway if you want,” he said, perhaps sensing my nervousness. “I don’t think it’ll be quite so memorable though.”
“No, let’s go,” I said.
I knew as soon as I accepted the helmet that I hadn’t just signed up for him to take me on a ride. I’d signed up to wrap my arms around him. To feel him. To touch him. To trust him.
So much for going slow. So much for waiting a hundred days to do anything more than coffee and food.
But you know what? You wanted to break out. What’s the difference between sixty-one days and a hundred days besides a number? You’re not any different than when it was fifty-nine days.
“Just don’t—”
“I promise you nothing bad will happen,” Marcel said. “Do you trust me?”
I locked eyes with him. At that moment, I didn’t want to just ride with him. I wanted to… I wanted to…
“Yes,” I said.
I got on the back of his bike before I finished that thought. The emotions and passion of the moment were sweeping me up in an unacceptable manner. It wasn’t his fault; if anything, he was being almost too much of a gentleman.
I wrapped my arms around him. His waist, though thick, was hard and defined. I barely could wrap my arms around him, and I squeezed with all my might—despite not having even moved a foot.
“It’s going to feel faster than it actually is,” Marcel said. “Trust me. I’ve got a lot to lose if I so much as speed one mile over the speed limit. OK?”
“OK, but why—”
The engine roared to life, and there was about half a second between where the engine roared and the bike moved forward that I knew I’d officially reached the point of no return. There was something oddly liberating about that moment, almost like I had officially released any semblance of control over to Marcel. I’d had the ability to walk away up to that point, but now, I had no such option.
And you know what?
It felt pretty good.
Maybe I’d change my mind later, but in the exact moment of giving up the ability to quit, I felt like I’d made the right choice.
And then the bike sped up, and I started screaming.
Marcel was right, but I don’t think he had any idea just how right he was. It didn’t feel like we were just going fast; it felt like we were going too fast. I wasn’t sure there was a “just right” speed, but it felt like someone had yanked my feet out from under me and was dragging me forward, and the only thing keeping me from splattering on the street was my arms around Marcel. He laughed when he heard me scream, which just made me want to hit him.
I hated it. I fucking hated it! I was out of control, a feeling I hadn’t had in sixty-one days, and I did not need that mental association. I needed to get the hell off.
But…
I realized I couldn’t get off. If I got off now, that was the end of the date. I had told Marcel I trusted him enough to get on the bike; I had to see it through.
I was still screaming. I was still terrified. But I sought to control my breathing. I sought to calm down. I sought to trust Marcel.
And when I did that, slowly—incredibly slowly—I started to feel more comfortable with what was happening. Instead of feeling like I was getting swept off my feet, I felt like I was becoming just one body with Marcel. Instead of fearing I was going to die, I felt like I was getting a true rush from living that I hadn’t had before. Instead of wondering if I’d get hurt, I started to feel good.
Actually… if I was being really honest… let’s just say with the rumbling between my legs, the incessant vibration, and the way my legs were spread apart…
And then, just like that, Marcel stopped the bike.
“We’re here,” he said, killing the engine.
It felt like someone had snapped me out of a crazy dream. One second, I was experiencing an adrenaline rush far beyond anything I’d ever even come close to. The next… I was just sitting on a bulky bicycle behind a big man?
“That’s it?” I said.
I realized by Marcel’s facial expression that I must have insulted him. I had meant it more as “isn’t there more?” not “that was disappointing.” It turned out, though, I was the one being played with because Marcel just started laughing when he saw my face.
“We have the ride back; don’t forget. And maybe a little more, depending on what you’d like this night to feel like.”
That was perhaps the dirtiest innocent statement I’d ever heard. I detected no creepy vibes, no sexual energy from him—well, beyond the typical amount from a first date—nothing that would suggest what he had just said was to set something up later. It almost made me wonder if there was something he had that was like my alcoholism that prevented him from engaging fully.
I guess that’s what dating is for, right? To figure out what the obstacles are and if you’re willing to fight to overcome them.
I slowly removed my helmet, feeling a little dazed. Marcel motioned for me to stand up. I handed him my helmet, and he put it under the seat.
“I told you I wouldn’t get you
hurt,” he said.
“That was… oh my,” I said, laughing, almost like I had just survived a near-death experience. “You didn’t speed?”
“If anything, I went under the speed limit.”
What in the world would speeding feel like? What in the world would it feel like to get on a highway and drive like the wind in that case?
“I’m a safe driver. I have to be.”
Have to be?
“Come on; let’s go.”
He waved me on, and still feeling the effects of the bike ride, I followed him in, the vibrations still very much tingling down below.
The name of the place was Ukus, a cash-only, small restaurant. Marcel was kind of right—the place had no wait, but there were plenty of other diners around.
“Huh, it’s gotten a little more crowded since the last time I was here.”
“Which was?”
He shrugged.
“Too long, that’s for sure.”
I tried to give him a look that would encourage him to elaborate, but he ignored me, walking toward a table that one of the staff pointed to. But unlike before, when I felt like there were some things hinted at that I had let slide, I wasn’t quite so ready to let this one slide.
“What, did you move somewhere else?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?” I said, more curious than suspicious.
Marcel paused for a beat, craned his neck up, stared at the ceiling, and chuckled.
“You might as well know some things about me sooner rather than later, huh?” he said. “Well, if you want to know, I just got out of jail. Drug offense.”
I nodded. I know a lot of women would have just run screaming out in that spot, calling for the nearest taxi to run away, but I had become perhaps a little too judgment-free in my time in AA. I was willing to give him a shot.
“The truth is that I was trying to make more money to help someone I cared about greatly and, well, being a mechanic wasn’t enough. It still isn’t, but—”
“The Savage Saints is your way forward.”
Marcel smirked.
“So you were listening.”