Cowboy Baby Daddy

by Claire Adams

  “Yeah,” he says, and that’s all he says for a minute.

  Alcohol probably isn’t the best idea right now, but the anesthetic properties are all I’m thinking about at the moment.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

  “Not really,” I tell him. Then I decide I have every right to be pissed off at this guy, “Not with you, anyway.”

  “I get that you’re upset—”

  “Upset?” I ask. “Did you even consider what this might feel like for me? Did you even care?”

  “I know it hurts, man,” he starts, but I don’t let him finish.

  “You don’t know a fucking thing,” I snap. “I have never felt what I feel for Leila. Why would she do this?”

  “Because it’s her fucking dream job and you need to stop being so goddamned selfish,” Mike answers.

  “Boy, you’ve got some fucking balls,” I retort, glaring.

  “Yeah, maybe that’s a little harsh, but this whole time, have you even thought about how much this job means to her? She’s been working toward this for her entire adult life, and I’d think for someone who professes to love her so fucking much, you might look past your own shit and realize that you need to let her do what’s going to make her happy. Otherwise, who the hell are you and what the fuck are you doing?”

  “Why are you here?” I ask. “Aren’t you doing the same fucking thing: not supporting her? The least you could have done was help her move.”

  “I helped her move the stuff down to the car, and does it not occur to you that the only reason that I am here right now is because Leila asked me to be here? She cares about you, dickhead, and she didn’t want you to be alone tonight. So you can be pissed at me all you want. I probably would be if I was in your shoes, but at the same time, you’ve got to pull your head out and realize that if you really care about her, you’ve got to let her follow her dreams, man.”

  “I want her to follow her dreams,” I tell him. “But I want to be a part of them, too. Is that such a bad thing?”

  “She kind of gave you the chance to do that,” he says. “Don’t you remember her inviting you to move with her?”

  “I have a job,” I tell him, and yes, it sounds and even feels weak as it comes out of my mouth. “I can’t just leave my boss high and dry.”

  “I get that,” he says, “I really do. But that’s the choice that you’ve made. So, you can sit here and be pissed at me or be pissed at her, but you made your choice. Now it’s time to start living with it.”

  “I was going to talk to her tonight,” I tell him. “I was going to talk to her about finding a way to make this work.”

  “Don’t you think that’s the kind of thing you might not want to leave for the last minute?”

  “Okay, I get that you’re trying to help your friend here, but your folksy advice is really starting to piss me the fuck off.”

  “Whatever,” he says. “Look, you had the chance to go with her, to figure something out beforehand, but it doesn’t seem like it was important enough for you to—”

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” I tell him.

  His mouth is still open, and for a second, it looks like he’s going to start moving it again, but I’m ready to beat the shit out of him, and I think he can see it.

  “Fine,” he says. “I told Leila I wouldn’t leave, but I don’t want to make things worse either. Just one more thing before I go?”

  “What?” I ask, impatiently.

  “Could I use your bathroom? I’ve really got to take a—”

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” I repeat.

  He leaves, and I start to feel bad. I don’t really feel bad for him. He was being an asshole, but I feel bad for talking to one of Leila’s friends—one who actually listened and followed through when she asked him to keep an eye on me tonight to make sure I was going to be okay.

  Maybe I should have gone with her, maybe not. Whatever the case, Leila Tyler turned my life upside down in the best and worst possible way.

  Now she’s gone.

  Now she’s gone, and I’m calling Wrigley to see if she’d feel up to hanging out, maybe getting a drink.

  It’s not that I have plans to get back with her; she’s simply the only person I can talk to right now. Before I slept with his secretary, I used to be able to talk to my friend, Derek, but he’s a little pissed at me right now.

  I’m sure as hell not going to get Mike back up here.

  “Hello?”

  “She’s gone,” I start, but I can’t say anything else.

  I take the phone away from my ear and drop it on the table.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Of Chlorine and Anger

  Dane

  It’s been a week now, and I haven’t heard anything from Leila.

  Mike hasn’t stopped by again, but I’m not quite so upset about that.

  I tried calling Leila a few times, but the phone always went straight to voicemail, and what I have to say isn’t something a recording can contain.

  I’ve been talking to Wilks, trying to gauge his readiness in taking the kitchen entirely on his own, without any further input from me, but he’s nervous. I know it’s something he’s going to have to overcome, but even standing back, watching him, it’s clear he’s not quite ready.

  I’m not sure that I am, either.

  Right now, I’m at home with an old friend. Well, in truth, the only friend I have left.

  “So, are we fucking tonight, or what?” Wrigley asks.

  “That’s really not why I called you,” I tell her.

  “I know,” she says, “but I bet it would cheer you up.”

  “I bet it wouldn’t,” I answer, taking a shot of vodka.

  “Pour me another?” she asks as I’m still breathing through mine.

  I pour her another shot and start to wonder what the hell she’s doing here.

  I know why I called her: I’m lonely, heartbroken, and I have absolutely no one else to talk to about it. Unless she actually thinks I’m going to relent and we’re going to end up in the sack, however, I have no idea why she came over.

  “You know what you’ve got to do,” she says, and takes her shot.

  “What’s that?” I ask. “Fuck my pain away?”

  “Woo!” she says, slamming the now empty shot glass onto the table. “No,” she says, wiping her mouth, “well, it couldn’t hurt. What I mean, though, is that you’ve got to figure out a way to be all right with never seeing her again. How would you go about that?”

  “If I had the answer to that question, I wouldn’t have a problem,” I tell her. “It’s not just some switch I can turn on and off at will.”

  “It’s simpler than that,” she says.

  “Simpler than flipping a switch?” I ask.

  “Well, no,” she says, “but it’s not nearly as difficult as you’re making it out to be. All you have to do is get mad. Get angry at her for hurting you. You’ve heard of the five stages of grief, right? You know: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.”

  “I’ve heard that they’re largely bullshit.”

  “They’re not,” she says. “I mean, not everyone goes through every one of them all the time, and there’s not some absolute order to them, but they are a pretty common way that people deal with loss. You, my dear,” she says, “are stuck in depression. Have you even experienced anything else since she left you high and dry without so much as a phone call or a goodbye kiss?”

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” I tell her, “but it’s not going to work. I love Leila, and I’m not about to get mad at her for following her dreams.”

  “Oh, God, will you stop romanticizing the fact that she got a fucking job and moved to New Jersey?” she asks. “It’s about the least romantic thing there is. It’s just a thing. No, I’m not telling you to be mad at her for ‘following her dreams,’ I’m telling you to get mad at her for not wanting you to be a part of them.”

  So far, I’ve been deftl
y avoiding Wrigley’s finer points, but that last part caught me off guard.

  “She’ll call,” I tell Wrigley.

  “She hasn’t yet,” she answers. “Why do you think that is?”

  “She probably wants to make this easier on both of us,” I tell her. “I mean, if we’re not going to be able to be together, isn’t it better to—”

  “Closure is better,” Wrigley interrupts. “That’s the one thing I will give you about the bullshit way you decided to stop giving mama the old in-out-in-out: at least you were up-front about it and were firm in your resolve. I’m not saying it’s been easy going back to less compatible man skanks, but at least you didn’t leave me hanging. I mean, that’s just fucked up.”

  “Stop it,” I tell her.

  “You’ve got to stop idealizing her as this perfect person who could never do wrong, who’s perfectly benevolent and holds the power to make your life better at a whim. That’s why people create gods.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

  She smiles.

  “Nothing,” she says. “I’m just trying to tell you that the longer you put her on that pedestal, the less of her is going to be part of it.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means that the longer you idealize her, the less real memories you’re going to have to hold onto because they’ll all be slowly replaced by the fantasy. Memories are good, whether they’re of happy times or bad times. They keep things in perspective. If things are shitty, you can pull on a good memory to remind you that things aren’t always going to be shitty. If things are good, you can pull on a bad memory to remind you to keep your focus and not get complaisant.”

  “Where do you get this shit?” I ask.

  “I’m a social worker,” she says. “There’s a bit of psychological training that goes into that, you know.”

  I stop to consider the fact that Wrigley has had substantial psychological training.

  “How can I be mad at her, though?” I ask. “I’m just hurt. If anything, I’m mad at myself.”

  “Why?” she asks. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been around you enough to know that you’re pretty good at being stupid when you want to be, but that’s hardly a crime.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it,” she says. “What did you do that was so terrible to deserve being abandoned the way that Leila abandoned you?”

  “Will you stop saying shit like that?” I ask.

  “Why?” she smiles. “Is it making you angry?”

  “Yeah, it’s making me angry.”

  “Good,” Wrigley says.

  “How is that good?” I ask.

  “It’s good because you’re allowing yourself to feel something else. You’re becoming more in tune with the larger reserve of emotion that you’ve been pushing down so you could wallow in your depression. Movement is a good thing.”

  “It’s so weird to hear you talk like this,” I tell her.

  She laughs.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Why don’t I pour another shot and you can take it from between my tits?”

  “That’s much more familiar,” I chuckle.

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to get angry. I’m just not used to being the one left wondering.

  Yeah, I get the karmic bullshit in the situation.

  I’ve been looking off into space, and I didn’t even notice that Wrigley has, in fact, poured another shot and she’s holding it between her breasts.

  “You know you want to,” she says.

  “Wrigley…”

  “Stop being such a baby,” she says. “I’m not telling you to lick it out of my twat, although—“

  “I think I’ll be okay,” I tell her.

  “Oh, you’ve had enough for the night?” she asks. “Lost your tolerance for alcohol, have you?”

  “No,” I tell her.

  “Then, come on,” she says. “I’m kind of getting tired holding this thing in place. Maybe if I’d worn a bra, I could have—”

  “Fine,” I laugh. “I’ll take the fucking shot.”

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t read too much into it.”

  I hesitate.

  “Seriously,” she says. “I won’t. Now stick your face in there before I spill this shit.”

  I laugh, but I’m thinking about what Leila would think of the scene.

  You know what? She kind of gave up the right to care when she just left without even saying goodbye.

  She hasn’t been answering my calls, and the only reason I know she’s all right is because she sent over her stupid fucking friend—who I hate, by the way—to tell me that she didn’t care enough to see me before she took off.

  My mouth is around the shot glass a moment later.

  “There you go,” Wrigley says, running her fingers through my hair like some weird oedipal hallucination. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

  I pull the now empty shot glass out of my mouth and set it on the table.

  “You know what?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “It does,” I tell her.

  She smiles.

  “I’m glad.”

  “And you know what else?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “You were right. What she did is bullshit, and I’m not going to sit here another week feeling sorry for myself about it.”

  “Good for you,” she says. “Does that mean we’re going to fuck?”

  And my momentum is stalled.

  “Too soon?” she asks with a chortle. “Got it.”

  “But you’re right,” I tell her. “What am I accomplishing by sitting here feeling shitty about everything? I’m just making it impossible to be happy. I mean, she’s doing what makes her happy, why shouldn’t I?”

  “Okay, now I’m back to unclear as to whether—”

  “Tonight, things are going to change. I’m going to stop trying to be that guy who sits at home, bummed because his girlfriend left him. I’m going to reintroduce myself to an old friend.”

  “Great, so we’re gonna—”

  “Myself!” I declare. “You know, I’m pretty fucking good company when I’m not acting like a bitch.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Wrigley says. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to stop pretending like I owe her something. We’re not together anymore.” I stand up. “Why am I wasting my fucking time when I could be out there, having fun, and I’ve really got to sit down.”

  I sit back down, and Wrigley gives me a polite round of applause.

  “That was great,” she says. “I’ve never actually been in the room when someone made an inspiring speech to themselves.”

  “Glad I could be of help,” I tell her.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just stood up too quickly,” I tell her and then stand again (this time, much more slowly.) “Mark the day,” I start again. Couldn’t tell you why, but the overdramatization seems to be helping. “Tonight is the first night of the rest of my fucking life!”

  “Eh,” Wrigley says with a shrug. “A bit cliché there at the end, but I can get behind it.”

  “First thing’s first, though,” I say.

  “Yeah?” she asks. “What’s that?”

  “We’re going to need more alcohol.”

  * * *

  Wrigley and I make a quick trip to the liquor store, and we crack open the bottle once we’re outside.

  I haven’t paper-bagged it for years, and damn it, tonight is my throwback to the dynamic son of a bitch I was before I met Leila. Tonight’s going to be a fucking good night.

  “What now?” Wrigley asks, wiping the vodka from the sides of her mouth.

  “Now,” I tell her, “we’re going to do something that’s not only stupid, but absolutely brilliant.”

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” I tell her. “I’ll come up with something.�
�

  She laughs and hands me the bottle. I take a swig and hand it back.

  “Are you open to suggestions?” she asks.

  “I’m open to pretty much anything right now,” I tell her, wondering whether I’m really ready to jump back in bed with her.

  “All right,” she says. “I’ve got an idea, but we’re going to have to take a little trip to get there.”

  “All right,” I tell her. “We’re young, we’re drunk, let’s fucking do it!”

  “Okay,” she says, “you’re going to need to work on your inside voice, though. Otherwise, we’re not going to be able to pull it off without getting arrested.”

  “Something that could get us arrested,” I say. “Now you’re talking.”

  She smiles and hails a cab in her usual style.

  While it may not be the most dignified technique, that shit works. We’re in a cab less than a minute later.

  “Where are we going?” I whisper.

  “Why are you whispering?” she whispers back.

  “You told me to work on my inside voice,” I tell her.

  She grins. “You can talk normally until we get there,” she says.

  “Okay. Where are we going?” I ask in my normal tone.

  She finishes taking a pull before answering, “We’re going swimming.”

  “Ooh,” I mock. “Now that’s living on the edge.”

  “It’s a little more than that,” she says. “You’ll see when we get there. First, though, we’re going to need to stop by my place to pick up my briefcase.”

  “Your briefcase?” I ask.

  “Just trust me,” she says.

  We pull up to her building and I wait in the car while she runs up. She’s back a few minutes later, briefcase in hand.

  “All right,” she tells the cabbie as she’s getting in, then she gives an address that I’m completely unfamiliar with.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “I told you to trust me,” she says.

  We eventually pull up to a building downtown. It’s late, so the building is mostly dark, but there are security guards in the lobby.

  “Okay, so what are we doing here?” I ask. “I don’t think this is the pool.”

  “Oh,” she says, “they have one. Just let me do all the talking.”