by Mae Wood
A firm hand clamped down on Mr. Brannon’s shoulder. “Hey, Dad. Started without me I see.”
“Hey, man,” Trip directed my way. “Hey, Buttercup,” he greeted Fischer, who reached up to scratch the side of her nose with her middle finger.
“What’s up,” I offered in that macho way that requires no response. “Whatcha want?”
“Marisa’s not coming, so it’s just the two of us tonight. Four Roses it is, and we’ll eat at the bar.”
“Gotcha.”
“And, Dad,” Trip continued, releasing the friendly grip on his dad’s shoulder and settling onto a stool, “Bert knows.”
A switch flicked and the slightly morose Mr. Brannon of a few minutes ago lit up. Grandchildren do that. Any reservations my parents had about me getting married and becoming a dad much earlier than they had hoped evaporated as they stood in the hospital room and held Grady for the first time.
***
“God damn it, Grady! You call me back.” Tired of sending texts into a black hole, I resorted to harassing him with actual calls, which were going to voicemail.
“No response, I take it,” said Trip, tugging at a bent spoke in an attempt to salvage a busted wheel.
“I hope he knows this isn’t my Eagle Scout project. Yours either.”
Trip laughed. “Like I’d have been in the Boy Scouts. No girls at jamborees. Speaking of girls, you seeing Wine Girl?”
“Wine Girl? Come on, you can do better than that.”
Trip’s nicknaming skills are terrible. First his wife who runs earned the moniker “Runner Girl,” and now he’s trying to stick Drennan with “Wine Girl.”
“And don’t even try to claim credit for ‘Snatch,’ you know Marisa came up with that one.”
“Whatever, man, whatever. You avoiding answering tells me that you’re seeing her and that you like her. Never this quiet about the others.”
“Yeah, she’s cool,” I said, adjusting brake calipers. “She knows about Grady.”
“Met him?”
“Not yet,” I replied, keeping my eyes on my task.
“Yet? Sounds like you’re planning on that. So what’s the hesitancy? She’s hot and apparently you’re in to her.”
“She’s twenty-six. Way too young.”
“So?” he asked.
“So, she’s closer in age to Grady than to me.”
Trip’s shoulder rolled inward and his lip curled. “Man, setting aside the old man creep factor, which is admittedly high, I’m not seeing a downside here unless she doesn’t do it for you.”
“Oh, she does it for me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we went for drinks earlier in the week. Going to hang out this weekend some,” I said, trying to downplay my interest in seeing her soon.
“We should go out together,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. He’s got to be kidding.
“Come on, we had to suffer through the Snatch at a couple dinners. Plus, this one seems to eat actual food and partake of adult beverages, so that’s a vast improvement. Brooklyn Bridge for pasta in the next week or so? Marisa’s craving carbs, so pasta has been a winner,” he said.
“Do you and Marisa even try to use your kitchen?”
“Yes, we use it all the time.”
“I’m not asking what for.”
“Good man,” he replied, clapping me on the shoulder. “Hey, Grady! Thanks for showing up before your dad fucking loses it.”
“Sorry, Mr. Brannon. My phone died and I lost my charger.”
“He’s not here for his health, you know,” I said, pointing my thumb at Trip.
“I got stuck in traffic coming in from Mom’s and my phone was dead.”
Teenagers. Everything is either cool or a crisis. Apparently almost missing the start of the graduation day for his Kids Bike Safe project counted in the not a big deal category.
Soon elementary-aged kids with their parents in tow began to trickle into the bike co-op’s main room. The kids’ eyes were fixed on the row of shiny bikes that had been fished from garages and basements across the city and given new life. They’d each earn one today at the end of their six week bike safety and maintenance course. It was Grady’s capstone project to earn the rank of Eagle Scout. Looking around the room at the kids, the parents, and the volunteers he’d recruited to donate and repair bikes and teach the kids, my annoyance at his near tardiness coalesced into a lump in my throat.
For all of his accomplishments, I was probably proudest of him for this one. I know Amy was, too. I’d suffered through the Cub Scout years solo. But once I stopped being a stay at home dad and opened the restaurant, she’d taken up the mantle of assistant merit badge earner, including going with him to the Boundary Waters for a week last summer to perfect his paddling skills. From a drunken hookup, how lucky did I get?
As the kids rolled their newly prized bikes out of the shop, Grady exchanged handshakes and smiles with so many. My son, the man.
Trip clapped his hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle shake. “You know if you lose it now, he’s going to get pissed, right?”
“Yeah.” I stepped away from Trip, Sid, and our cycling buddies and stood next to Grady. Amy appeared at my side. “We did good, didn’t we?” I whispered to her.
“We did. Now go hug him.”
Despite the angry words we’d exchanged, the fist I’d put through drywall, the marriage counseling sessions that only brought our anger and frustration and resentment out into the light where it flourished, we were here. Together. Watching our son, the baby who had turned us both into adults before either of us were ready, stand on his own feet.
Looking at her now, it was hard to remember the people, the virtual children, we were when Grady arrived. But I viscerally recalled terror in her eyes that was surely reflected in mine when, with a thirty minute old baby at her breast, the doctor said she was hemorrhaging and needed to go to the OR.
Sitting in a rocking chair with my tightly swaddled tiny son, alone but with a nurse at my side, I vowed right then that I wouldn’t give up. That I wasn’t going to fail either of them. That Grady might be her only child, our only child, and that I would be Prometheus, giving and suffering without reservation so that they would have the best life I could give them.
“Go.” She nudged me with her elbow. “Give him a hug.”
I pulled Grady into my arms, feeling a piece of my heart reconnect with my body and my soul ease. The love of my life.
“I’m so proud of you.” He struggled to escape from my grasp and I released him just enough to pull Amy into the hug. As always, despite her warnings that I was getting sappy, it was her tears that escaped. I kissed her on the top of her head and then kissed Grady on his temple.
“Dad—”
“I know, I know.” I let him go and visit with the lingering volunteers, the Scoutmaster, and the other Scouts. What comes next for me after he’s gone?
“You want to go get a beer with me?” asked Amy, tucking an errant strand of curly brown hair behind an ear and then tugging on the lobe.
Something’s up and she’s anxious. That hand-hair-ear move is her tell. I don’t want a serious convo with her, so I play dumb and shrug.
“Let me clarify. We’re going to get beers. Let’s let him do his thing. Really, Bert. Stop staring at him. He’s not going to disappear before your eyes.”
We waved bye to Grady, hopped in our respective cars, and I followed her to the Belmont Grill. I held the door to the green shotgun style building across from the railroad tracks and she pushed past and bellied up to the bar, ordering us two Miller Lites. “I know it’s not local and it’s not craft, but I’m not in a foodie commentary mood, Bert.”
“That’s cool.” I plopped down on a stool next to her. Though it was late afternoon, the lowly lit dive with only a few other day drinkers gave the bar a feeling of limbo, a netherworld where time and place have no meaning. “What’s up?”
She sighed and took a swig from her longneck.
“I guess Grady told you I’ve been seeing someone.”
“Yeah, he mentioned it. A guy who works at Methodist Hospital. Grady thinks you’re going to get married again.”
She smiled wistfully, rolling the beer bottle between her palms. “I’m not sure about that. Not yet at least, but I do want to talk with you about the holidays.”
The confusion spread across my face. “Christmas,” she offered.
“Yeah.” We always went to my parents’ beach place, neither one of us wanting to spend the holiday without Grady. “You want to bring your boyfriend? I mean, it would be a little weird for him to be in the house, but you could rent a house nearby.”
“No. We’re talking about spending the holidays together. Thomas and me. He’s older than us. He has twin girls who are both in college and a son who is in medical school, so he takes his kids skiing. They’ve invited me and Grady.”
“You want to go?”
“Would I be talking to you about this if I didn’t?”
“So it is serious?”
“Yeah. I guess this is supposed to be our Brady Bunch experiment. See how the kids get along and how his kids like me.”
“No pressure, then.”
“On me, a ton. On you, no. I thought we’d make it Grady’s call. Let him pick.”
My stomach turned and I tilted up my beer, letting half a bottle wash down my quickly constricting throat. “Omni—”
“Please no Greek or Latin.”
“Sorry.”
“I know you can’t help it when you get like this.”
“And I know how annoying it must be. Anyway, it’s Ovid. ‘All things must change but nothing perishes.’”
“You’ve been an amazing father. Still are a great one. Were a good husband, too.”
I shrugged off the latter compliment. I was the one who’d fucked up our marriage, letting my regret at the dreams and opportunities that had passed me by build until I was left with anger, anger that I directed at Amy.
The chilliness built and I seethed, finally blowing up in a rage one summer while Grady was at camp, telling Amy that I’d never loved her and shouldn’t have married her. It was the great unsaid in our relationship. The verboten. We both knew it, but no one said it in fear of undermining the stable ground we’d forged.
But once said, the words had weight. They lingered and haunted us until separating was the right decision. The only decision. Hell, it wasn’t even a decision. It was the only way forward. Living together and putting on happy faces in front of Grady each day was going to ruin all three of us.
“So, you talking the whole week?”
“Well, they go to Deer Valley. He rents a chalet there.”
“A chalet? Not a cabin?”
“He’s not as pretentious as the word chalet sounds.”
“I’ll reserve judgment. How does Grady seem with him?”
“Pretty good, actually. It’s been a little awkward for a couple of weeks now because—”
“I heard about the sleepover.”
“Yeah.” Her cheeks flushed. I moved the conversation toward Grady and his girlfriend and his upcoming college decision, but Amy steered it back to me. “Grady said you have a girlfriend.”
“I wouldn’t go that far with it,” I huffed.
“You don’t have to hide dating from him. He’s actually happy that you are seeing someone. He worries about you. Worries about what you’re going to do when he goes off to college.”
My lips pursed. Me, too. Me, too. “He shouldn’t worry. That’s silly. I’ve got the restaurant and sports with the guys.”
“And an empty house. I think it’s sweet he’s looking out for you. I know we reversed traditional gender roles when he was growing up with you staying home with him, so it makes me smile that he’s kinda mothering you now. You should date. Good for you, makes Grady happy, and I know you’ll do anything to make him happy.”
“You about done with your beer?”
“Almost.” She smiles, swirling the last couple of ounces in the brown bottle. “I want to talk about college. I know our agreement is that you’ll pay for it, but my practice is doing well and I want to pay for it.”
“No.”
“I’m tired of you doing penance for our life. We’re going halvsies on it. Plus, if you somehow think you’re going to make him ‘normal’ by continuing to pretend that you and he don’t –”
“I’ve told him.”
“So does he know there’s a trust for him, too, or did you just fess up to yours? Money isn’t the root of all evil, Bert. We’ve both seen our share of listless Trustafarians. He’s not going to be like that. I know your sister is less than a stellar role model, but she’s—”
“Don’t bring Fischer into this,” I cautioned.
“I’m not. I’m just saying that she and Molly are fine, and Rosemary is as perfect as she’s always been, and I think your friend Trip finally has his act together from what Grady says. Listen, I’m so thankful for your family. I’m not trying to rehash the past, but don’t want it to hold you back. You’re a good guy. Date. Go to the Maldives. Buy your own beach house instead of borrowing your parents’. Pig and Barley was a great start. You won’t ruin Grady by doing what you want for a change.”
“Amy, this is not about me. It hasn’t been about me for as long as I can remember. And I’m fine how I am.”
***
Despite how I felt about Amy parceling out dating advice to me, I knew she was right. So, I kept hanging out with Drennan. I figured it was a good place to start. She’d be moving back to California in a few months, so I wouldn’t have to be the bad guy ending it for once.
I came clean with Grady, well as clean as a dad can with a son. I told him I was seeing Drennan, that I liked her, but that she lived in California so he shouldn’t expect her to become permanent. “She’s a friend and we’re both foodies, so we’re hanging out while she’s here. But it’s not like you have anything to worry about.”
The response was a derisive huff followed by teenage pearls of wisdom: “Whatever, Dad. That’s cool.”
***
“Hey, Bert. When are you getting off tonight?”
Getting off. The one, the only one woman I knew who would not-so innocently ask me that was here. I wheeled around at the bar, the orange peel I was slicing ahead of that night’s service falling to the floor, courtesy of my elbow and my inability to focus on anything after I saw what Drennan had decided to wear. I was glad I was just making garnishes. If I’d been doing more intensive knife work, I would have severed an artery.
My eyes trailed along the edge of the black lace top. Was she naked underneath? A nude bra? Did she have one of those skin-colored tanks? I didn’t care. I just had to know. Lace and Drennan were a pair. Lace bras. Lace panties. I’d become Pavlov’s dog when it came to lace. A peek of creamy skin through the delicately webbed fabric and I was hard and ready to rip it all off of her.
Damn the garnishes. No cocktail service tonight. Because my cock needed tail.
I untied the knot on the linen half apron around my waist and set it by the taps. Quickly walking to the end of the bar, I kept my eyes trained on her, forcefully pointing toward the back, toward the kitchen.
But we weren’t headed to the kitchen. Oh, no. We were headed to the closet sized room that served as our office. I didn’t care if Patti was in there, setting server schedules or ordering produce. I didn’t care if Trip had done a surprise pop-in to analyze the marginal costs on the seafood fritters as a fun way to unwind. All I cared about was getting her naked.
I heard her shoes tapping behind me. Oh, and heels. Dear God. She did this on purpose. Drennan’s legs were my favorite part of her body. Long and lean and defined. As I grasped the handle to the office door, I stole a look out of the corner of my eye. Yes. A bright blue skirt that sort of flipped out, leaving that muscle that wrapped around the top of her kneecap exposed. Ripe. Firm. Bitable. Oh, I was about to fuck her hard right before this place opened. And I
didn’t care. My restaurant. My girl. Fuck Trip or anyone else.
I pushed open the door and swept my arm to indicate she should enter ahead of me. As soon as she passed, I shoved the door closed and locked that fucker. Turning the deadbolt. No interruptions. None. The restaurant could burn the fuck down for all I care.
And Drennan was on the same page, as always. She wiggled her butt, setting it down on the particleboard desk that was shoved up against the wall. Gently placing the stacks of receipts and invoices and production logs to the side, she patted the fake wood next to her, and looked me straight in the eye while she cocked her head and dropped open her mouth a tad. Just enough to show me the luscious meat of her lips and supple wetness of her tongue. She wanted to play. And fuck that.
I reached up her skirt, skimming her thighs and gripping her panties. Dragging them down her legs with a force that told her all she needed to know. We weren’t playing. Fuck playing. Past her tall black heels, I tossed the wreckage onto the desk chair. Her shoes clattered to the floor. I had no time for tricks. I just wanted her.
Her eyes remained impassive. Though I saw through. She was trying to be cool, but her pupils dilated and she was beginning to pant with want. Her hands landed on my belt and I took them in my own. “Hands up.” Somewhere between a request and a demand. Regardless, she complied.
The lace top went. I felt the fabric shred, my fingers popping through the gossamer. Fine. She’d wear a Pig and Barley T-shirt home. No shame here.
And with my work complete, I stepped back to look at her. Her skirt was bunched around her hips, not quite giving me a peek of what I wanted. Her lusciously full breasts heaved, threatening to spill out from a very thin lace bra that exactly matched the color of her skin. My question answered, I settled down in the leather office chair.
The chair’s wheels rattled over the century old penny tile floor. And I bit. Not hard. Not to break skin, but to scrape my teeth on the inside of her strong quad and to earn a squeal from her.
I removed my mouth from her leg, replacing it with my hand. Leaning forward, I shoved her legs open and found what I was after. And I was merciless. Amid her whimpers and tempered moans, she writhed against my face, the bristles from my beard abrading her tender inner thighs while I plunged two fingers inside her body, stroking and teasing and searching for the mythical spot.