“Grab my breast,” she told him.
“What?”
“My boob, Mitch. Like this.” Ellen took his hand and pulled it onto the rough fabric, and she moaned.
His back and head pressed against the driver’s seat—he had nowhere to go. “Ellen,” he said.
She lifted herself, moving her breasts over his face. The hem of her dress slid up, and he could feel her against his jeans. He said her name again, but she ignored him, unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt and burying her face in his chest.
He didn’t want this, because this was ridiculous. This felt wrong. She was Luke’s mother, and he was married, and they were in their forties, and the fucking road was right there. But before he could articulate any of this, a lightning bolt of pure, glowing pain shot through his shoulder, and he screamed.
Ellen jumped back, blasting the horn. “What?” she said.
“Ouch,” Mitch said. “Fuck.”
“What is it? Are you okay?”
He touched the source of the pain and absorbed another quick strike. He hit the dome light, which turned the car closing-time bright, and they both squinted. In the rearview mirror, he saw the bite mark, beside his right collarbone, ridged and angry-looking, left there by two perfect rows of teeth.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Did I do that?”
No, Ellen didn’t. Jessica did. The night this all started—the moment before their bed snapped and they fell to the floor. Jessica bit him as she came. “No,” he said. “Old injury.”
Ellen smiled. “Whew.” And then she kissed him again.
This time, though, he was able to turn away. “Ellen,” he said.
She looked surprised, and then hurt. Mitch’s hand was still on her breast.
“We can’t,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“But you said I was lovely.”
“You are, Ellen,” he said. “But I just can’t do it.”
* * *
—
Mitch stepped out of the closet in his pajamas. Jessica had come out from under the covers and was sitting cross-legged at the center of the mattress, waiting for him.
“I’m just gonna brush my teeth really quick,” he said.
And maybe he would’ve gone on like that, finding things to do—household errands to tend to. I should shave. I should see about that wobbling ceiling fan. I should really go file our taxes. But Jessica wasn’t having any of it. “Mitch,” she said. “Did you do it?”
Mitch knew that she didn’t want to hear that El was Ellen. She didn’t want to hear that he couldn’t do it. If she did, she wouldn’t have sent him out into the night by himself in the first place. So Mitch decided to tell her what he knew she did want to hear.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
34
“If you think about it, sex when you’re married is a lot like going to spin class.”
The Husbands fell silent.
Mitch, Doug, and Alan stared at Terry. They were five minutes into a discussion about Tara, the redheaded spin instructor. They all belonged to the same gym, and she’d become something of a folk hero to them. Doug heard a rumor the week before from the guy who made protein smoothies that Tara was gay, which, for the Husbands, was both intriguing and devastating.
“I can kinda see it,” said Doug.
“I’d like to see it,” said Alan.
“She could beat the shit out of any of us,” said Doug.
“I’d literally pay to have her beat the shit out of me,” said Alan.
And then, apropos of nothing, Terry had said that thing about sex and spin class.
“What?” said Alan.
“Go on,” said Mitch. “I’m genuinely interested to hear the second half of that.”
Terry reveled briefly in the undivided attention, and Mitch assumed that he was about to say something offensive. Terry was the most crass of the four, a characteristic that had only intensified since his affair and subsequent divorce. The lying and betraying, sneaking and conniving had somehow managed to sharpen his already-jagged edges.
Terry cleared his throat and smiled. He was wearing a Metallica T-shirt—skeletons, guitars, and lightning bolts. “Yeah. When you’re done, you’re always glad you did it, right? But, sometimes it’s just a hell of a lot easier not to go to spin class, you know.”
Doug and Alan laughed.
“Did you just come up with that?” asked Mitch. “You could probably rewrite it as a haiku.”
“Oh Christ,” said Terry. “Stop being such a geek. And no. I saw it on a meme, I think. Online somewhere.”
“That’s what I hate about the Internet,” said Alan. “Every time I have a brilliant thought, I have to stop and think, Is that mine, or did I see it on Twitter?”
This was the general trajectory of their conversations—random and bouncy, yet somehow continuous—the result of four men who’d known each other long enough to make transitions unnecessary. In the last two hours, they’d discussed their spin instructor, the removal of back hair, The Divorces, the Orioles’ inability to develop pitching, the creeping power of Internet porn, the Wives, and now, marital sex.
Mostly, though, they’d talked about how much they hated IKEA.
They were in Terry’s apartment downtown, putting together what appeared to be the world’s shittiest bunk beds, which Terry’s sons would be sleeping on every Wednesday night and alternating weekends. They’d torn into the boxes with no clear strategy, so there was cardboard, plywood, brushed metal, and bubble wrap everywhere, and enough poorly labeled nuts and bolts to reconstruct a World War II fighter plane.
“Fucking IKEA,” said Terry.
“What do you think SVÄRTA means, anyway?” asked Doug. “Who names these things?”
“I think it’s Swedish for ‘Americans are dipshits,’ ” said Alan.
The sum total of their work had produced a wobbling, crooked mess that looked like scaffolding that had been torn off an abandoned building. Terry tossed a piece of wood onto the floor. “This thing’s gonna collapse and kill my kids in their sleep, isn’t it?”
“Seems like a safe bet,” said Alan.
“Yeah,” said Doug. “Inviting us here has basically made us accessories to gross negligence.”
“Why is this even necessary?” asked Alan. “Don’t they already have beds?”
“They most certainly do,” said Terry. “But they wanted bunk beds.”
“Those little shits,” said Doug.
“You could’ve gone to a real store, you know,” said Alan. “One that sells preassembled furniture with pronounceable names.”
“Fucking tried,” said Terry. “The boys insisted on this thing. Their idea of heaven is running around IKEA eating meatballs and picking out shit for me to put together.”
An Oriole hit a single, and they watched him take a wide turn around first on Terry’s insane television.
“I blame my dad for this,” said Terry. “He has tools. A big fucking workbench. All that shit. Why didn’t he teach me things?”
To a man, the Husbands shared some degree of physical incompetence, a fact that was perfectly exemplified by Doug, who dropped his IKEA-issued wrench for the tenth time that night and then called it a “Stupid, stupid whore.”
“What do you expect, dude?” said Alan. “You’re too jacked for tools that small. You’ve lost your fine motor skills.”
“It’s all that fucking CrossFit,” said Terry. “You gotta tone that shit down, man. You look like you should be bullying Ralph Macchio.”
They watched baseball for a while and continued to pick on Doug for being in such good shape, which was more entertaining than the Orioles. It was only April, but the poor team already seemed doomed. The young centerfielder blew an enormous pink bubble with
his gum.
Alan’s phone vibrated on the coffee table, and he practically leapt for it. He’d been distracted all night, checking it every thirty seconds. Mitch watched his face come to life when he looked at the screen. He quickly texted something back.
“Is that…?” asked Mitch.
Alan grinned. The phone vibrated again, and he texted back.
Nearly two decades ago, Mitch had watched this very same guy take a deep breath and walk across a crowded house party to talk to the lanky, complex-looking giantess who he’d eventually date, marry, and divorce. And now he was tapping on a little screen talking to a girl in her twenties. The modern-day Circle of Life, Mitch thought, complete with a soaring Elton John vocal.
“Hey,” said Terry to Alan. “Less texting, more working. This thing isn’t gonna fucking construct itself. That much I promise you.”
“Sorry,” said Alan, although he made no move whatsoever to stop doing what he was doing.
“Who’re you texting, anyway?” asked Doug. “Your girl?”
“Maybe,” said Alan.
Terry tore open a bag of tiny washers, which rained down on the floor like summer hail. “Proud of you, buddy. Back in the game.” He punched his own palm a few times, which, as far as Mitch could tell, symbolized sex.
“You guys, shut up,” said Alan. “I’m working on something here.” There was another buzz, and then he held his phone up in triumph. “There it is. Check this out.”
The Husbands abandoned their IKEA posts and gathered around Alan’s outstretched arm. Terry put on his reading glasses. For a moment, they didn’t know exactly what they were looking at.
“Is that…?” said Terry.
“What is it?” said Doug.
“Is it a boob?” asked Terry. “Am I looking at tits here?”
“No, it’s not a boob, you Neanderthal,” said Alan.
“Wait, no, it’s a shoulder,” said Mitch. “That’s definitely a shoulder.”
“Yeah,” said Alan. He sighed like a lovestruck fourteen-year-old on a ten-speed. “She’s got all these freckles. I’m obsessed with them. Look. Aren’t they sexy?”
In a delightfully PG-rated move, Alan’s new girlfriend had sent him a close-up of her own freckled shoulder.
“Oh, right,” said Doug. “Look at those. They are sexy. Not for nothing, though, she should probably have a regularly scheduled appointment with a dermatologist.”
“They’re on her chest, too,” said Alan. He swiped his thumb to the left and there was a second picture. Another close-up—probably PG-13 on this one. Little brown freckles between two clavicles, the shadowy hint of cleavage at the top of a sundress.
“Man,” said Doug. “The female anatomy, right? It’s just the best. Undefeated. Bravo.”
“Whatever,” said Terry. “We’re adults. I’m not gonna eye-fuck some girl’s shoulder. Call me when you get nudes.”
“Why are you so dead inside?” asked Mitch.
The Husbands went back to work, but their enthusiasm for Project SVÄRTA had waned considerably. And then it fell apart altogether when Alan got yet another text and suggested that it might be time for a break.
“No way,” said Terry. “We’re nowhere near done yet. Look at this piece of shit.”
Mitch saw something in Alan’s smile, though, and knew something was up. “Why?” he asked. “What’d she just text you?”
Alan shoved a few half-built pieces of SVÄRTA aside. “Well,” he said, “she’s with three friends down at Ale Mary’s in Fells Point. And she’s asking if they can come over.”
There was silence, except for Jim Palmer, the broadcaster on TV. “That’s a nice pitch,” he said. “Right at the knees.”
“Hmm,” said Doug. “That definitely sounds like more fun than this.”
“Fuck,” said Terry.
He went into the kitchen and came back with four beers. The Husbands opened them together, as they’d done countless times, in bars, at O’s games, in one another’s houses, at the beach, on road trips, in backyards, in parking lots, at concerts, and at a million other places.
“My kids are gonna kill me,” said Terry.
35
They were reading a story about a bear in the forest whose hat gets stolen by a rabbit. It was a delightful book, and the simple fact that it wasn’t Go, Dog. Go! made it that much better. Jessica found herself reveling in the beautiful silliness of it.
“How do you think the rabbit stole it in the first place?” asked Emily.
“I don’t know,” said Jessica. “Maybe he snatched it while the bear was sleeping.” She pointed to a line of words on the page, which meant it was time for Emily to read. There was a drawing of the bear talking to a turtle that stood next to a rock.
“Have you seen my hat?” read Emily.
When the book was over—the hat found, the rabbit dealt with—story time transitioned into cuddle time, and Jessica and Emily lay together in silence for a while, Emily’s head resting on Jessica’s shoulder.
“If E.T. comes into my room tonight, it’s okay, because Jude taught me how to be brave.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m pretty sure he won’t, honey, because he’s not real, like we’ve talked about. But how would you be brave?”
“By counting.”
“Counting?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She scanned the clutter on the surfaces and in the corners of the room. All kids are hoarders, but Emily was reality show–worthy, and Jessica promised herself that she’d do another purge at some point that spring. Out with everything but the essentials.
She felt her iPhone buzz in her back pocket. Mitch, probably. She didn’t look, though. He was with the Husbands for the night, and frankly, she was relieved to have him out of the house. Their time together since Mitch’s date with El had been exhausting. She never could’ve guessed how much energy it would require to appear perfectly fine and downright cool with the fact that he’d had sex with another woman.
“Your shirt looks pretty awesome,” said Jessica.
Emily was in her new Orioles T-shirt, which she’d insisted on wearing to bed, even though it wasn’t jammies. It needed to be washed, of course, because, along with being hoarders, kids are hopeless slobs.
“Mm-hmm,” said Emily, drifting. “Can we read Go, Dog. Go!?”
No, God. No! Jessica thought. She had a recurring fantasy in which she opened the back door and tossed Go, Dog. Go! out into the pitch-black suburban woods.
“Not tonight, sweetie. Tomorrow. You’re nearly asleep.”
“Well, can you tell me the dog story about you and Daddy, then?”
“Why do you wanna hear that old thing?” She eased her arm out from under Emily’s head. She’d be asleep in ninety seconds.
“ ’Cause I like it.”
Jessica slung one foot onto the floor. When your kid is on the cusp of sleep, exiting their room is a delicate operation, like backing away from a bomb. “It was our first date,” she said. “Your daddy picked me up in an old Honda he borrowed from your uncle Alan, because he didn’t have his own car yet.”
“Lame,” said Emily. She always said “Lame” at this part of the story, and giggled.
“He didn’t have any money then. None of us did.”
“Where’d you go?”
“We went out for pizza near Hopkins. The place isn’t there anymore. It’s an LA Fitness now, but it used to be a weird little pizza spot.”
“What did you eat?”
“Taco pizza.”
“Gross.”
“It actually was, kind of, but I didn’t tell your dad that.”
Emily’s eyes were closed. “Why not?”
“Sometimes you know something will hurt someone’s fee
lings, so you don’t tell them.” Jessica thought about the three-question rule. Of all their thrown-together guidelines, that one was both the most infuriating and essential, because she knew that all the questions she wanted to ask Mitch were ones she’d never want to answer herself.
Emily pulled her comforter up and rolled onto her side: her go-to knockout position. “What happened when you were done eating?”
“We talked for a long time. The people at the pizza place started mopping the floors and putting chairs on the tables so we’d get the hint.”
“Yeah. Did you?”
“We did. When we went back out to the street, there was a car parked near Uncle Alan’s. It was crooked, up against the curb, and the engine was on. Someone had left it running.”
“What was in it?”
Even when she was about to be out cold, Emily kept up her end of the story, delivering her lines well. Jessica’s lines were mostly the same, too, like muscle memory.
“That was the weird part,” she said. “There was a dog in the car all by itself. A big yellow Lab. And it was sitting in the driver’s seat. It even had its paws up on the steering wheel, like it was about to drive off.”
“That’s funny,” Emily whispered.
“I know. We stopped to look at it. We would’ve taken a picture, but we didn’t have camera phones back then.”
“What did Daddy say?”
It was Emily’s favorite part of the story—Mitch’s silly quip from twenty years ago, the one that cemented his status as the funniest guy Jessica knew. Alas, Emily would have to wait until next to time to hear it, because she was fast asleep.
Jessica checked on Jude next. He was also asleep. Beneath his peeling constellation of sticker stars, she turned off his reading light and left as quietly as she could.
The blinds weren’t usually open in the upstairs hallway window, so when she walked past it en route to her room, she noticed Luke outside again, on his stump. She shook her head and moved on, heading toward her room, where she flopped down on the bed. At that particular angle, stretched out on her back, her iPhone dug into her rear end, and she remembered the text message.
Last Couple Standing Page 18