“Fucking hell,” I muttered to the garage door. “What am I saying? He looks at me like I’m a piping hot supreme pizza and he’s spent days eating nothing but raw beetroot.”
I finally got ahold of myself and made my way out to the SUV. Sliding into Tiller’s “backup” car was always a treat. It was smooth, buttery leather with a hundred percent less shitmobile ambiance than my ancient Volkswagen Golf. I loved the SUV so much, Tiller had suggested I change the tag to a personalized one that said MIKEYV. I may have even considered it for a brief moment while petting the steering wheel one day, but in the end I’d reminded myself I was perfectly happy with my shitmobile. Most days, anyway.
Not today. Today I needed all the Big Dick Energy I could gather. I had plans to march into my father’s house and declare my relationship none of his beeswax. For that, I needed to get into the mindset of a pro football player with a giant ego.
I also needed an iced coffee from Starbucks and possibly one of their cookies.
Once I was well armed, I made my way into my parents’ house and called out. “Mom! Dad! I’m here.”
Crickets.
I finally found my mom out back talking to Mrs. Nibert over the fence. I tried turning back around before either of them saw me, but it was too late.
“Mikey!” Mom called out with a smile. “Come see Mrs. Nibert’s odd gourd.”
I waved and smiled. “Oh, no, thank you! I saw it last night.”
Mom frowned at me in disapproval. “What in the world has gotten into you, Michael Vining?”
Oh lord. This wasn’t how Big Dick Energy was supposed to work. I sighed and wandered out into the yard. “Yes, Mother.”
Twenty minutes later, after I’d seen more late-season gourds than anyone had a right to make someone look at, my mom finally followed me inside and told me Dad had headed into work already.
Hellfire and damnation. I could have avoided all of this nonsense if I’d headed to the practice facility first.
I decided to float a test balloon. “Mom?”
“Mm-hm?” she asked while dropping a complimentary gourd in the trash can and washing her hands at the kitchen sink.
“I’m kind of… seeing someone.”
“Oh honey, that’s wonderful,” she said, looking up as she dried her hands on a dish towel. She looked truly happy to hear it. I wasn’t surprised she hadn’t known. My parents didn’t have the kind of relationship where they talked about mushy-gushy things like dating and relationships. Theirs was more of a “What time are we meeting the Niberts for dinner at the club?” kind of marriage.
“Yeah,” I continued. “But I kind of need some advice.”
Her face dropped. “Sweetheart, I’m not sure I know how to advise you about dating a man.” Then she seemed to realize what she’d said. “Well, I guess I do, but it’s been a while since I’ve dated one myself.”
“Not that kind of advice,” I said. “I’m dating a player.”
“Meaning he dates lots of people?”
Bless her heart. You could trace my mother’s entire family tree going back hundreds of years and you’d never find an Albert Einstein perched on a single branch.
“No, Mom. Meaning, he plays football for the Riggers.”
“Oh. Ohhhh. Hm.” She pinched her face together while she thought it through. “Are you worried you don’t have much in common?”
I blinked at her. “Well, I wasn’t. Until you said that. Jesus, Mom.”
“Honey, why don’t you tell me what the problem is, exactly?”
“Dad’s going to freak out. And I don’t want him to retaliate on Tiller because he’s dating me.”
Mom clapped her hands together and smiled. “It’s Tiller? Oh, I love him. He’s so handsome and kind. What a nice boy. Plus, it doesn’t hurt he’s one of the most successful NFL players in your generation. How exciting! Tell me everything.”
I loved my mom. She had her fair share of pros and cons, but in general, her heart was usually in the right place. “I really like him, Mom. He’s so sweet and thoughtful. He treats me like the most important person in his life and we’re not even really dating. At least… we haven’t said we are.”
“Will dating Tiller interfere with your job?”
She meant my job working for him. I still hadn’t told my parents about the cookbook deal or my dream of opening my own restaurant, but they had to know I had a ton of savings built up by now. Enough to give me options. “No, because I quit.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Why? Mikey, that job is perfect for you. You love working for Tiller.”
“I love taking care of Tiller. It’s not really the same thing. Yes, I did love working for him, but I don’t want to work for him if we’re dating.”
“What are you going to do for work?”