She laughs, and then she twists on the couch so her body faces me completely, drawing her legs up onto the cushion again. “Okay, so when I was working for the Brutes I had this assistant.” A smile takes over her lips, and she gets lost staring at my chest for a second, presumably remembering someone she hasn’t thought about in a while.
“Whenever I’d email her and put her on a task she didn’t want to be on, she’d reply to the email and she’d literally add everyone in the company, I swear. Like the team manager, she’d add, as if he gave a shit about anything except the players and the game. But seriously, she’d do this thing where she’d type zzg, and in computer talk, that’s the same as tagging everyone. Essentially, she’d throw a tantrum and put every person on the email response. It was so freaking dramatic and over the top. It became a running joke with Beck and me. Whenever either of us were being dramatic, we’d just look at each other and one of us would say, “you are being very zzg right now,” and then we’d just laugh it off.”
She laughs a little, and I feel a chuckle in my chest, but I trap it ‘cause the pieces are coming together. The image I had of Goldie being a spoiled brat on Beck’s front porch months back no longer feels right. Feels like the same way she clearly judged me; I did the same.
“Realizing you ain’t ever been happy ain’t…zzg.” I hold her gaze because it’s the only way I know how to give the statement power. I want her to know I’m not just making conversation, I believe what I’m saying.
“It’s not easy realizing you aren’t happy. Especially when you feel age creepin’ in. Puts panic in ya, like, fuck, if it ain’t happened, maybe it won’t. Then you just start to settle into that headspace. Teach yourself to be okay with being a slightly less happy version of yourself.”
She swallows, and I notice how her eyes trace my lips before she speaks. “Is that what you’re doing? Being okay with not having what you want?”
“I love my job,” I say, “and I love my parents.” I think of Mere, and the sheer agony of her absence in my life, day in and day out. My parents, too. They don’t show it because I’m the weak link. They can’t even feel sad about losing their kid because their alive kid is so fuckin’ sensitive about the whole thing. Years later.
Mom’s right. I’m stuck. Maybe I’ve known it but only now do I care.
“Do you want anything else from your life?” she asks, tucking soft hair behind her ear. I get a vision of my hands gripping the sides of her face, that silky hair tangled in my fingers, our eyes locked as I take long, deep strokes between her legs, our hips kissing when I’m the deepest I can be.
I restack my feet as a warning to my hardening cock. “You mean am I wantin’ my own little nuclear family?”
She shrugs. “I don’t mean that. I mean, I know I never planned on being a mother so my vision isn’t of a nuclear family. I just want a best friend who is also my partner. Someone who doesn’t tell me shit I want to hear but tells me the truth, with love, someone who can love me even when I’m being ugly and small. You know?”
“I know.”
“Is that what you want? Or do you want the nuclear family like you were raised in?”
I shrug now because I haven’t really thought about this too much. I never let myself go there. I’ve always told myself I can’t have it because Mere can’t have it, and that’s fair. Unsure how to answer and not feelin’ so comfortable talking about this, I just grunt, then add, “don’t know.”
There’s a moment of silence between us, and then Goldie rises from the couch, finishing her wine. “I think you know, but it’s okay if you don’t feel like talking about it.” She takes my glass and finishes it, too. “I know all about not wanting to talk about it.”
“Can I ask you something?” Fuck, I’m surprising myself with how freely the questions come around her. The talking, period. I ain’t said more than ten things to Miller in the last two weeks, and in two days I’ve told Goldie more than I’ve told anyone.
She burps without covering her mouth or saying excuse me. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“Do you not want kids because you just don’t want ‘em?”
“As opposed to what?” she asks, her tone growing defensive. I hold my hands up because I don’t mean to fight. I just… want to know. I haven’t met too many women who don’t want kids.
“I’m not judgin’ you; I’m just wonderin’ if you don’t want ‘em because it ain’t your thing or did your Mom fuck you all up and make you think you can’t, or you’d suck at it or some shit?” I stand up, too, now that I can. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think there’s anything you could suck at if you put your mind to it. You seem like a determined individual.”
She snorts, and I’m learning this is her real, organic laughter and that I’ve only ever heard it when she’s with me.
“My Mom did fuck me up pretty decent, but… I’ve never had a vision in my mind of me holding a baby with a man over my shoulder looking down at said baby. Really. I mean, the truth is…” she trails off a moment as she taps her chin. “I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve just written it off my entire life.”
I get that. I haven’t thought about dating and relationships because I made a choice after Mere passed and… here I am.
I just grunt because I get it, and I don’t got much more to add.
“By the way, adetermined individual? Okay, grandpa!” Her laughter makes me smile, and she points at me again with victory in her body language. “I got you to smileagain!” Her face grows somewhat serious as she ties her hair up into a wad on the top of her head. “I really don’t think I’ve seen you smile or heard you laugh any time but this weekend.”
“Must be you. You’re the secret ingredient,” I reply, and even though she laughs it off like it’s a joke… no part of me feels like I’m joking.
From there, we make dinner together. I don’t need her help, and hell, I don’t even want it. She says she isn’t tired, but I’d be a lot happier if she’d just sit down and let me fix her some food.
I ain’t never wanted to take care of a woman like that.
But I can tell she wants to help, so I let her make the salad at the table while I steam noodles and cook up some meat. When I pop the garlic bread in the oven to toast, the rest of the meal is ready, so we sit at the table and wait.
“I’m really impressed with your cooking,” she says as she wraps a loose end of a tea towel around her hand over and over. Nervous energy.