Man Cuffed Page 21

  And I answered every single one as patiently as possible. It’s a terrible thing that happened to them. I can’t bring their daughter back. But I can make this small difference in their experience by listening and being available in their time of need.

  It’s goddamn humbling is what it is. “Bad shit happens in varying degrees to everyone,” I’d explained to Lance just before the end of the day. “What matters is how you learn to cope with it.”

  “I dunno, dude,” he’d said. “I just don’t understand why you want to spend your days on crimes you aren’t even allowed to solve.”

  That’s only partly true, though. A calm, informed witness is a useful witness. But never mind. I prefer to think that Lance just misses me. I miss that crazy doofus, too.

  But, let’s face it, I miss Meg even more. I mean, our breakup is still for the best. But I shouldn’t have lost my shit like that. I really wish I hadn’t. We parted on bad terms, and it’s all my fault.

  I admitted as much to my sister Rosie, who is super mad at me. “You are so much dumber than you look!” had been her response. I’m still puzzling over whether or not that was a compliment.

  Probably not. She’s still so mad at me that I can’t ask. And so is her friend Aubrey, and also my mother. Word gets around. Everybody keeps telling me they were “pulling for Meg,” whatever that means. Like she and I were engaged in a battle, and they wanted her to come out on top.

  But it wasn’t a battle. She was never mine to win. Some people just can’t change on a dime, and I’m one of them.

  I take another sip from my cold but bland beer and wonder when my family will just get over it. I’m here, aren’t I? At least I showed up for my date with Morris. Part of me wonders if my mother isn’t standing outside, peering through the windows just to make sure.

  Paranoid, I turn around and check.

  Nope. I only see my brother pushing through the doors in a big fat hurry, his phone pressed to his ear. “I’ll get the diapers, honey, I swear. Cross my heart. Gotta go!” He hangs up. “Jesus,” he pants, flinging himself down beside me. “Shit. I’m sorry I’m late. That was rude.”

  Stunned, I check my watch. “It’s two minutes after six, dude. I wasn’t ready to send out the search party.”

  “Still. Not very thoughtful of me.”

  When were you ever thoughtful? I choke back that statement, but just barely.

  “Honestly, I wasn’t sure you were coming,” Morris babbles. “I thought maybe you’d blow it off.”

  “I thought about it,” I admit. “But obviously I’m too afraid of what Julie might climb up onto next.”

  He gives me a sideways glance, and then we both crack up.

  The noise draws the bartender toward us. And when he sees Morris sitting there, he does a vicious double take. “Holy shitballs. Do you two know each other?”

  Morris and I exchange a smirk. “Barely,” he says slowly. And we both laugh again.

  The guy looks at us like we’re insane. Which, come on, we totally are. “You know I thought you looked a little off,” he tells me, setting a cocktail napkin down in front of my brother.

  “That’s what everybody says,” I mumble.

  He brings Morris an identical beer and chilled mug, and then he leaves us alone.

  Morris points at my beer. “He just brought you that without asking, didn’t he?

  “Basically. But I don’t know. It’s a little mild for my taste.”

  “Ah.” My brother takes a sip. “That’s because it’s non-alcoholic.”

  “What?” I pick up the bottle and squint at it. Sure enough, it says NA in the corner. “Why are you drinking non-alcoholic beer?”

  Morris gives his head a shake. “Now there’s a long story. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. But I had to give up alcohol a few years ago.”

  “I had no idea.” My brother is an alcoholic?

  He shrugs. “I asked the family not to mention it to you.”

  “How come?” I know lots of people in recovery. And I’m not judgey.

  “Well, it’s embarrassing.” He picks up his non-alcoholic beer and takes a sip. “I mean, you’re the one who was wronged, and I’m the guy who couldn’t handle it.”

  “What?”

  Another shrug. “I was wracked with guilt, I guess. Julie and I almost called it quits after the first coupla years. She said I had to stop with the booze or she was leaving me. It was right around the time you were graduating with high honors and I was flunking out of community college.” He shakes his head. “Water under the bridge, though.”

  My head is spinning, and I can’t even blame the beer. It never occurred to me that Morris wasn’t happy with the life he’d stolen from me. Wracked with guilt. “Is there any other use for the word wracked?” I ask suddenly. “Can you be wracked with joy? Wracked with hilarity?”

  Morris laughs, and it’s a funny sound. He laughs like Ernie from Sesame Street. It’s so familiar that it makes my hair stand up.

  I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten so much. “Mor.”

  “What?”

  “Why didn’t you and Julie just tell me.” The question just pops out. But now it’s here, and I have to follow through. “All those years ago. Why did you make me find out by accident? Like it was some sick joke you were playing on me.”

  His face drops. “I’m sorry about that. You have no idea how many times I tried to, like, rewind everything in my brain. I knew that Julie and I were meant to be together. But after our first big slip-up I wanted to hold off and figure out what to do. But she…” He cuts the sentence off, unsure what he ought to say.

  “She didn’t,” I try.

  He hangs his head. “She said she couldn’t wait. And I was weak, man. I thought if I made it complicated, Julie wouldn’t choose me. I loved her, but I wasn’t confident. I really didn’t understand why she’d pick me in the first place. And I wasn’t willing to risk it. I’m sorry. I knew I fucked everything up. I knew it even before you walked in that night.”

  And I am speechless. That’s a whole lot of honesty from a man that I thought wasn’t capable of it. For ten years I made up my own stories to explain his behavior. That’s a long time to live in your own reality. I’d gotten real good at it.

  I clear my throat. “Well, I wasn’t going to stand you up tonight. Because I want to know my nephew. I might be a shit boyfriend and I’m never having kids. But I could be a good uncle.”

  He swallows hard. “Okay,” he says. “I want you to be that. We could hang out without Julie. You know, if that’s weird.”

  “Eh.” I shake my head. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be weird. I can barely remember being twenty-five. It really feels like ancient history.”

  “Okay.” We both take twin gulps of shitty beer, because that’s a lot of talking for us. “You really think you’re never getting married?”

  “Nah. Old dog. No new tricks.”

  He sighs. “I don’t believe that, though. If my dumb ass can stay married, surely you can give it a whirl.”

  I take a swig of the nonalcoholic beer. It’s actually growing on me.

  I could do a lot of things here. Change the subject. Joke around. Bring up things from childhood. But something in me fights against all that. My brother and I have already lost most of our adult lives to fighting. I don’t want to lose another lifetime in not being honest with him. “I broke it off with Meg.”

  Morris nods. “She do something stupid?”

  “Nah,” I say.

  “Then why’d you break it off with her?”

  “Because she’s…” I pause here. What am I supposed to say? Because things were getting too real? Because I wanted her too much? Because when I stopped long enough to envision a future life for myself, I envisioned waking up next to her? “I honestly don’t know,” I say. “I think she’s just too perfect for me.”

  “That bitch!” Morris says, and he smiles.

  “Yeah. She’s kind and hot and passionate. And she’s so much trouble
.” Now I’m smiling too.

  “You always did like trouble.”

  “Yep.”

  Morris looks a little awkward. Something I’m not used to seeing. “You know, let me offer you a little advice here. As your big brother, I feel it’s my duty to do so.”

  “You’re my big brother by two minutes!”

  “And so much wiser than you.”

  I shake my head. This is good. I’ve...missed this. “Okay, so what’s your advice?”

  “Apologize. Make it up to her. Do whatever you can to get her to come back to you, because if she’s too perfect for you, then she’s the one that’s going to keep you on your toes. She’s going to make you want to be a better person. She’ll call you on your shit and she won’t settle for anything less than the best. And that’s what you need, Mac.”

  “I need to be challenged?”

  “Yeah. You need someone to rescue you.”

  My brother and I shoot the shit some more. I have another beer, a real one this time, and we leave things with an impressive dude-hug and a promise to get together soon. And...it’s easy. Surprisingly so.

  When I get home, I’m looking forward to crawling into bed with Meg and then I remember. That’s not an option anymore. And it’s not even possible. She’s not even here.

  Nope.

  She’s in Chicago filming with that fucking superstar who’s probably nuzzling her neck right now and promising to frisk her.

  Dammit. That’s my line. No one should say it to her but me.

  I take a breath. I remind myself that it’s better this way. Pretty nearly perfect. I’ve got my nice quiet apartment. My stack of books to read. I finished The Sun Also Rises again, and now I’m looking at the thrillers on the New York Times bestseller list. Maybe I’ll read a police procedural just to pick apart all the details they get wrong.

  I sit down on my couch. Get back up to heat up a frozen pizza in the oven. Sit back down. Open the book. Read. But not really.

  Timer buzzes. I get up. Get the pizza. It’s hot.

  Head back to the couch.

  Pick up the book.

  Take a bite of pizza.

  Still hot.

  Read a page.

  Read another page.

  Take another bite. Swallow.

  Damn.

  It’s fucking quiet in here.

  Like, dead quiet. I can barely concentrate.

  I used to sit here and listen to Meg next door. She sings full out all the time. Sometimes she doesn’t know the words, but she sings shit anyway. I would hear her bump into things. Hear her practicing her lines. Sometimes she plays the other characters in the scene with her and it’s hysterical to hear her voice go all deep and manly.

  Sometimes I’d just knock on the wall. Four quick taps. And she’d come over. Slip inside my apartment, and then I’d pin her against the wall. Against the counter. On the bed. One time on the balcony outside. Cover her with kisses. My tongue lapping at the slight salt of her skin. I’d cup her breast in my hand, pull down her shirt, take her nipple in my mouth. She’d moan.

  I’d bury my face between her legs and just taste her. Best fucking taste in the world. And when she pulled my hair and moaned my name, I’d stand. She’d open to me, and I’d just slide right up into her.

  The last few times, we’d pause there. “Just stay,” she breathed. “Stay right there. Nice and deep.”

  The shape of her smile. The sound of her voice. Her laughter. I can almost hear the echo in my heart.

  Right now I just hear...me.

  My stomach gurgles.

  The stove ticks as it cools.

  I turn the page.

  “What is fucking wrong with you?” Lance asks. Actually, first he tosses a roll at my forehead and then he asks me what’s wrong with me. He’s on desk duty today. I think he asked for it because he misses hanging out with me now that I’ve got my new position. Today, I’m on desk duty too. I’m not accomplishing much. Mostly filling out the endless stacks of paperwork.

  He tosses another roll at me. This one lands right between my eyes with a thump.

  “How old is that roll?” I ask. “That fucking hurt!”

  “Awwwwww, poor wittle baby. You want me to kiss it to make it better?”

  I think about it. “Nope. I’m okay,” I decide.

  “You’re okay?” he asks. “No you’re not! You know what you are?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “You’re a moper! You’re moping!”

  “I am not!” I say.

  “Are too!”

  “Am not!”

  And this, my friends, is how low I’ve sunk.

  Lance just looks at me. “Moper,” he says.

  “If you reach for another damn roll and toss it at me, I’m going to arrest you.”

  It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

  Two minutes later, he tosses another fucking roll at me! This one hits my ear.

  “Dammit!” I shout.

  And then I just sit there.

  And mope.

  I have had a long week at work. I’m helping people, yeah, and that’s super satisfying and also super depressing. Because there shouldn’t be this many people who need comfort and guidance after going through a traumatic experience. There shouldn’t be this much pain in the world, and yet there is. I do the best I can. I’m making a difference, I think, a little at a time. One person, one family at a time.

  When I get home at night, all I want to do is cook up something, pour a drink, and knock on my hot neighbor’s door. I want to tell her about my week. Ask her what she’s up to. If she’s lining up another acting gig, or if she’s ditched her restaurant work and has started somewhere new.

  Only she’s not my hot neighbor anymore. She’s still hot, of course. But she’s not my neighbor, and she’s certainly not mine.

  Ain’t life grand, getting exactly the thing you wanted? This was what I asked for, isn’t it? The beautiful and rich life of a single guy.

  I grab a beer. Sit down. Grab a book.

  This silence is killing me.

  I look at my cell phone to confirm the date.

  Meg’s been gone for twenty days.

  It feels like a year.

  Why aren’t I fucking someone new? I should be.

  I open my phone, scroll through the contents. There’s a dozen or so hookups I could call, but instead I just start deleting them. One by one.

  I have another beer.

  You know what? Now would be an excellent time to talk to Lance! I miss Lance! Lance is my friend! I could call Morris, but I’m not quite ready for that step of the healing process. Actually, I’m not quite ready for that because I had too many drinks and Morris doesn’t drink.

  I am, however, plenty drunk enough to call Lance.

  The icons on my phone shimmy a little when I look at them. I hit the video call icon. It rings.

  The screen is black, and then I get a nice big close up of Lance’s armpit hair.

  “Why are you in bed!” I scream. I meant to just say it, but hey, sometimes the vocal volume goes up when you’re drinking alone.

  “Cuz I’m in fucking bed you fucking moron!” he says.

  “Hey. Hey, Lance. Hey,” I say.

  “Whhaaaaaaaat?” He’s annoyed. I can tell.

  “I want you to look up that Cosmo quiz thingamabob.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, NOW!” Oops. That was loud too.

  “You do realize it’s 3:30 in the morning?”

  I contemplate that. Huh. No wonder it’s so dark. “Dude. This is important. I need the Cosmo.”

  “Fine,” Lance grumbles.

  I watch him stumble out of the bed and get a quick flash of Lance in a thong. Arrrggghhh! It burns. IT BURNS!

  Then the phone jerks a bit as he carries me, apparently, to his kitchen.

  “Look,” he says. “I’m pulling up the Cosmo questionnaire. Which one do you want? How Much Of An Asshole Am I For Waking Up My Friend? Or Love Me, Love Me Not?”

&nb
sp; “That second one,” I say. And then, in case he’s wondering, “I love you, man.”

  “I love you too,” he says. “Now drink some fucking coffee.”

  I nod. Excessively. And then I make the way to the coffee pot and shove in a pod and hit the button a few times. It keeps dodging out of my way. Little bugger is hard to catch but finally I do. There. The coffee gurgles.

  “Okay. Hit me!” I say, and I pat my chest for emphasis.

  “First you have to put on some clothes.”

  I look down surprised to hear this suggestion and then realize Lance is observant. I’m 100% buck naked. Huh. “You ask me the questions, and I’ll get drunk.” I pause. “I mean dressed.”

  He starts asking me the questions. I’m going to ace this test. “How often do you think about her? Once a week? Once a day? Once an hour?”

  “What about once a minute?”

  He scribbles something down on a pad of paper and keeps asking questions. I flop down on the couch when we reach question three. I already know how this ends. I knew it the first time I took the quiz, but I fudged my answers.

  This time, I’m totally 100% honest.

  “Okay dude. You ready to hear the result?” Lance asks me when we’re done. “You got a lotta points. Hang on. I’m still adding them up. Carry the two… and then carry the four…” He scribbles madly.

  “STOP!” I yell. “Don’t add them up.” I don’t want to hear it.

  Deep down, though, I already know.

  And Cosmo knows.

  “Then why did you wake me up?” Lance grumbles.

  “Because I’m a goddamned idiot. I’m afraid it’s a permanent condition.”

  “Dude,” Lance says. “You think you’re like Hemingway, with your short, choppy sentences and your manly wisdom. But he knew some things you need to learn.”

  “Like what?” I’m so groggy all of a sudden.

  “Dude got married three, four times, right? He loved women and he loved falling in love.”

  Fucking Lance. Always psychoanalyzing me. “Sorry I woke you up,” I grunt.

  I set down the phone on the coffee table, stumble toward my bedroom, crawl under the sheets, and close my eyes.