No Monday night football for this guy means I get to watch the game from the comfort of my couch like everyone else in America.
“My parents are fighting because my mom went shopping and blew her monthly budget and I didn’t want to listen to them argue, so I figured I’d come here and bake cookies.” She cracks an egg over the metal mixing bowl. “Chewy and I went for a walk already.”
“You can’t come here every time your parents fight.” I refuse to become a refuge for wayward teens; I am not one of her teenybopper girlfriends. Shit, next thing I know, she’ll be inviting all of them over and the house will become infested by hormones and I’ll—
“Nah, it’s not like that. They’re probably having make-up sex right now and I don’t want to hear that either.” She shudders. “Gross.”
Jesus Christ, could this get any worse?
“How was your date this weekend? I didn’t see Chandler’s car leave until Sunday morning.” I try not to notice the kid wiggling her eyebrows in my direction, but it’s impossible—she has bushy, unkempt brows that could use a waxing.
“My date is none of your business.”
“Um, hello! I’m the mastermind behind the date—if it weren’t for me, there wouldn’t have been one.” She stirs her batter by hand, folding flour into the egg concoction or however cookies are made.
“How do you know I wouldn’t have asked her out? You don’t know everything.” I bend down to scoop up the apples, at least the ones Chewy hasn’t stolen and run off with. He’s on his dog bed in the corner, happily gnawing away at a Granny Smith like the cat who ate the canary.
Five more minutes and I’m ending your little snack fest, bud. I don’t need him shitting on the living room rug.
He obviously can’t read my mind and goes on ignoring me, chewing as if his life depends on it. As if he knows the apple is going to be taken away at any moment.
Because it is.
Molly lifts the wooden spoon out of her batter and points it at me. “I know you wouldn’t have asked her out because that would have made you feel vulnerable and you hate that.”
Um, what?
“Oh please, that is so not true.”
The intruding neighbor girl lets out a scoff to rival mine. “Are you serious? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re like, the poster child for toxic masculinity.”
“What did you do, eat a dictionary for breakfast?”
“You know I’m right.” She begins spooning small blobs of dough onto the cookie sheets. “You think you have to project this image of manliness, which you hate doing, so instead you act like an asshole.”
“I know what it means,” I tell her with an air of authority I don’t confidently feel. “And that’s not what that means.”
I don’t think…
Anyway, who the fuck is she to tell me I have toxic masculinity?
Molly stops production to pull her cell out of the back pocket of her jeans and tap out a few words. Nods knowingly, then reads out loud. “Defined as: male gender role that stigmatizes and limits emotions boys and men may comfortably express while elevating other emotions such as anger.”
She stuffs the phone back into her pocket.
“That means, because you’re big, and strong, and work in a male-dominated industry where strength and toughness are expected, you can’t display emotions like…” Molly hums. “Sadness or love. This is why you don’t act lovey-dovey even when you want to.” She points to Chewy. “You’re like that with the dog, but not with other people. I hate to say this, but if you aren’t able to tell Chandler how you feel, she won’t stick around long.”
“What do you mean ‘tell her how I feel’?” And how the hell would she know? She’s a teenager, for fuck’s sake.
“I know women like her—she’s young and independent, which means she’s not going to settle for some meathead who can’t express his feelings.”
Meathead? “Are we still talking about me?”
“Yes. You’re the meathead. You’re the total definition of one—all looks and no substance.”
My mouth drops open.
Closes and opens, closes and opens—like a guppy floundering in the water.
I have no clue how to respond.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, okay?” It won’t work.
“Take my advice or don’t take it—it’s all the same to me. It’s just going to suck when Chandler stops coming around. She’s a cool chick.” Molly ignores me to slide the cookie sheets into the oven and stares at them a few seconds through the tiny window. “These are going to be good.”
I’m still too shook to respond, standing like an idiot in my own kitchen, a spectator in my own damn life.
I scoff. “I know how to tell someone what’s on my mind,” I announce with more bravado than I can deliver on.
Molly puts her hands on her hips. “Oh really? What’s the general mood about Chandler exactly?”