Colin: Are you at home?
Sighing, I quickly typed out a reply. Usually when I got that text, it was because he needed me to bring him something up to the practice field, and though I normally didn’t mind, I was still extremely irritated with him and didn’t want to leave the house, especially since I’d just gotten there.
Me: No, I’m at the SC house. I was gonna eat dinner with the kids. Why? What’s up?
Colin: Oh ok. No worries. I’ll just talk to you when I get home tonight. I had a question about our insurance.
Our insurance?! Was he serious? As if the belittling and patronizing me wasn’t bad enough, he’d offered up his boyfriend like he was loaning me his lawn mower or something . . . all without so much as an ‘I’m sorry’ afterward. And then he wanted to ask me a question about our fucking insurance?!
My blood boiled inside my veins as I thought of at least fifty different ways I wanted to tell him to go screw himself, but I refused to allow him to ruin my time with the kids. One of the best things I ever learned in my years of therapy is that I held the power to decide what kind of mood I wanted to be in. Other people only affected that mood if I let them, and right then, I wasn’t giving Colin that privilege.
Me: Yeah, it’ll have to wait. Or maybe you can call our agent yourself. His number is in your contacts.
I hit send and then turned my phone on silent-mode before tossing it back in my purse and making my way down the hall to JoJo’s room. Grateful to discover the door open, I peeked my head inside and found her lying on the bed, thumbing through one of those ridiculously fictitious weekly tabloids you find in the checkout line of grocery stores. I bit my tongue as I refrained from commenting on her reading selection and knocked on the wooden frame with a warm smile. “You busy? Up for a little girl talk?”
For a fleeting second, I saw a speck of happiness in her big brown eyes when she peered up from the bound glossy pages and saw me, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Shrugging her shoulders, she looked back down at the pictures in front of her and mumbled, “Not busy, but don’t feel much like talking either.”
That was about as much of an invitation as I was ever going to get, so I accepted it as just that and joined her atop the twin-sized mattress. For a couple of minutes, we sat together quietly, the crinkle of the pages when she turned them the only sound filling the room. I’d learned early on after JoJo had arrived at the house to move slowly with her in both conversation and actions; otherwise, she became cagey and defensive, like a trapped animal. After her lash-out the day before, the last thing I wanted was to set her off again.
“I’m not sure if you were downstairs yesterday when I announced that we’d signed the contract on the house,” I said once I felt confident she was okay with my being there.
She nodded, but didn’t look up. “Yeah, Heather told me last night. So I guess this means you really are gonna be stuck with me, huh?”
My chest constricted at her self-deprecating words, even though I knew most of why she said them was so I’d tell her how much they weren’t true. The fact she needed me to reassure her that I didn’t feel ‘stuck’ with her, and that I truly ‘wanted’ her was the problem at its core. For as much of a tough-girl act that Jojo put on most of the time, the truth was she was an insecure thirteen-year-old girl who’d never been made to feel appreciated or cherished.
Born to a heroin-junkie for a mother who would do anything for her next fix, including allowing men to take advantage of her young daughter, JoJo’s lot in life didn’t improve any when she entered the system and got placed in a home with a couple who was just looking to get the government money that came along with fostering kids. Their complete disregard of parenting and utter neglect to realize what was going on under their roof led to two of the older boys in the house sexually-assaulting JoJo on a daily basis. It wasn’t until a case worker showed up on an unannounced visit one afternoon and witnessed the act herself that anyone ever found out about it. That was one day before her twelfth birthday.
There were some days—particularly those when she screamed in my face that there was no way I could ever understand what it was like to live her life—that I wanted so badly to tell her how wrong she was. I knew exactly what it was like to have a mother that was so addicted to something that she’d turn a blind-eye to the destruction and devastation of her only child in order to keep it. Only my mom’s vice wasn’t drugs; it was fame.
“Don’t you mean you’re gonna be stuck with me?” I teased, brushing my shoulder against hers. “How long until you’re sick of hearing me singing Wilson Phillips off-key around the house all the time? And you don’t even know what this face looks like without makeup on. Colin hides under the covers when I come out of the bathroom at night so he doesn’t have to see this craziness. You may even try to take pictures and sell them to that tabloid you’re reading there.”
Finally, I got a small laugh out of her as she looked over and rolled her eyes at me. “Whatever . . . you’re like the most naturally beautiful person on this planet. You probably look exactly the same with or without makeup, and I’m damn sure Colin’s only hiding under the covers, because he wants you to meet him there for some action. You guys are so perfect it’s sickening. There’s nothing you two don’t have—you’re rich, you’re famous, and you both look like models. So sorry if I don’t feel bad for you if you can’t sing,” she playfully stuck her tongue out at me, “but I just may have to record one of your impromptu concerts and sell that to the magazines instead.”
A chuckle escaped my throat as I briefly imagined a home video of me singing “Hold On” as it aired over national TV. My rock-star dad would probably roll over in his grave, second-guessing the validity of the paternity test that claimed I was his, and I’d definitely receive a phone call from Mommy Dearest asking me not to embarrass her again. Yep, pretty perfect life.
“Yeah, that would be pretty awful.” I scrunched up my nose and shook my head. “But all joking aside, JoJo, no person or relationship is perfect. Anybody can put on a façade for the public, but it’s what kind of person they are behind closed doors that matters most.”
“So what kind of person are you behind closed doors, Monroe?” she challenged me, raising her eyebrows up into her forehead.
I knew she was just trying to be cute, not expecting a real, introspective answer from me, but with everything that had occurred over the prior couple of days with Colin and Oliver, it caused me to stop a moment and ponder the question. And for the first time in over a decade, I wasn’t sure what the answer was.
“The kind who wants to sing terribly off-key while not wearing any makeup, if it makes my favorite teenager smile for a few minutes,” I quickly replied, covering up for my momentary stall.
Thankfully, it worked. The edges of JoJo’s mouth curled up in a big grin as her cheeks brightened a rosy color. “Good, ‘cause I’ll have my camera ready.”
I ended up hanging out with JoJo until it was time for dinner, and then the two of us headed downstairs, where we ate spaghetti and listened to the room full of kids each take their turn telling what their favorite part of the day was. When it was time for JoJo to share, an activity I’d seen her not participate in countless times, she stole a sly glimpse over at me and said, “Finding out I’m getting a new home.”
My heart was still soaring when I stepped outside into the chilly night air after I’d said my round of goodnights to all of the kids. However, as I tightened my coat around my chest and looked up at where my car was parked in the adjacent lot, everything came crashing down when I saw Colin standing out in front of my hood. My first thought was something bad had happened, either with his parents or that he’d gotten injured at practice, so I scampered over to him, forgetting about all of the animosity I’d been harboring toward him throughout the day.
“Colin? What’s wrong? What are you doing out here? Why didn’t you come inside to get me?” I called out question after question as I drew near, but his face remained stoic u
ntil I was less than a foot from him.
Then, in a move that completely blew my mind, he swung around the arm that had been hidden behind his back and held out an enormous bouquet of flowers as he stepped toward me. I stilled, caught off-guard and still confused by what was happening, and waited for him to speak.
“Monroe, baby girl, I’m so sorry about last night,” he whispered as his troubled green eyes bored into me. “I messed up with both you and Seth. Big time. I know I acted like a massive selfish jerk and I said ugly things that really hurt you . . . and I never want to hurt you.”
My vision swam as the sobs built in the back of my throat, but when I opened my mouth to respond, he held his hand up to stop me.
“Please let me finish, and then you can yell and scream at me all you want,” he said with a nervous laugh before continuing. “You came to me with something that was weighing on you, and not only did I not value your feelings, but I completely demeaned and humiliated you. And I’m so damn sorry for that. I’m still worried if you get involved with this guy, everything could get really messy in our lives, I’m willing to listen to you and talk about it . . . if you still want to.”
Once my first tear broke free, an ocean’s worth followed, but as I grabbed the flowers from Colin’s hand and threw my arms around his neck, I clung to him, feeling the most overwhelming sense of relief. I didn’t think anything else would ever happen between me and Oliver, seeing as how he seemed pretty dead-set on forgetting the one kiss we had shared, but I knew that as long as I had Colin next to me, I’d be just fine.
“I love you, Monroe,” he murmured into my hair.
“I love you too, Clutch.” I smiled into his chest. “To the very end.”
“Her eyes
played
silence like
it was an
instrument the
world had never
known”
–Christopher Poindexter
Oliver
OVER THE NEXT couple of days, Monroe and I fell into an easy routine, setting up interviews with graduate students from not only Boston College, but several others from nearby universities that had notable Social Work programs as well. Our individual working styles meshed so well together it seemed as if we’d been operating as a team for years instead of a measly week. If I’d had any lingering doubts about her running her own MH house before then, they all would’ve been eradicated after seeing the way she meticulously ran my dining room table like the point-of-command of an exhaustive military campaign. Of course I didn’t have any reservations, as I was pretty sure the woman could’ve persuaded Satan himself to perform a Good Samaritan deed or two, so it was a moot point. But there was something about watching her work that made me fall even more in awe of her . . . and it wasn’t just the way her blouse would dip down and give me a teasing glimpse of her cleavage when she’d reach across the table for a piece of paper or a pen.
Well, maybe it was a little bit of that.
Okay, it was a lot of that . . . but hey, I was a straight, thirty-three-year-old guy who had a serious fucking crush on his coworker. Yes, she was married. And yes, I’d foolishly kissed her in a rash and reckless moment of weakness when I’d lost sight of who we both were, giving in to the overpowering need to feel her lips against mine. But ever since we talked the next day and cleared the air, I knew nothing was ever going to happen between us again, so it didn’t hurt to look just a little. It was only for a few mental snapshots I could use late at night when I was alone. God, I’m going straight to Hell for breaking no less than three of the Ten Commandments every time I’m around this woman. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Simply burn for the rest of eternity.
Even despite the incessant thoughts of my impending spiritual doom, I couldn’t help but stare at her ass when she stood up and strolled into the kitchen that first Friday afternoon we worked together in my apartment. I’d never seen her dressed casually before then—as she was in an evening gown when I’d initially met her, and after that, always wore stylish but modest business attire—but holy shit, the way those fitted jeans cupped her round cheeks and showed off that tiny little gap between her legs . . .
I discreetly adjusted the growing bulge in my lap, wondering if I should suggest that every day be Casual Friday. Unless, of course, we had appointments to meet with other people, and then I wanted her in the frumpiest thing she owned so they couldn’t gawk at her too. She was my denim goddess to worship. Make that four commandments.
“Do you want something to drink?” Monroe asked as she glanced at me over her shoulder, catching me red-handed as I ogled her ass that was bent over at the refrigerator.
The tips of my ears burned with pure mortification, and I had no doubt that they—as well as my cheeks—were glowing the guiltiest shade of pink. Lowering my eyes to the laptop screen in front of me, I cleared my throat to cover up the nervous bubble of laughter that waited in the back of my throat. “I’m sorry. What did you say? I didn’t hear you . . . I was really focused on this thing here on my computer,” I lied with the most unconvincing voice possible.
Turning around to face me head-on, she playfully shook her head as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Drink, Oliver. I asked if you wanted something to drink. Like water or a soda? Maybe a coffee to help you wake up?”
“Oh, right.” I gave her my best innocent look, which usually worked on my mom and sisters. “Do I, uh, have any fruit juice left in there? I can’t remember if I drank it all.”
With a mischievous smirk, she rolled her eyes at me then spun back around to look in the fridge, a muffled giggle escaping from her as she purposely cocked her hip in my direction. What the . . . ? That little minx!
“I don’t see any in here. What kind did you think you had?” she called out as she moved a few things around to scan the items in the back, her glutes tensing as she shifted her weight from foot to foot.
I wasn’t sure if the extra movement was for my benefit or not, but fuck if my dick cared what the underlying intention was. He sprang to life with visions of kinky kitchen sex dancing in his head, complete with spatula-spankings, whipped cream bikinis, and fruit-and-vegetable play. Go figure—the only channels I watched on TV were the Food Network and Penthouse. When I opened my mouth to answer her, it was as if Dick the Iron Chef had taken control of all my brain functions, because the only word that I could come up with was “Peach,” which I promptly tried to catch with my hand and shove it back into my mouth. Unfortunately, it wasn’t before she heard it loud and clear.
Then, by the grace of the dear mighty God above, who had apparently not given up on my sinning soul quite yet, my cell phone began to play the chorus to Billy Idol’s “Caribbean Queen” at the loudest volume possible as it vibrated across the table. Knowing who it was by the ringtone, I snatched it up quickly and accepted the call, eager to talk to my niece, but even more thankful for the impeccably-timed interruption.
“Hi, Callie! I’ve been waiting to hear from you! How’s it been going, baby girl?” I answered a little too enthusiastically as I gave Monroe an apologetic smile that wasn’t even the tiniest bit genuine.
“Hey, Uncle Ollie,” she chimed into the receiver. “Why do you sound so weird? Is this not a good time? I can call back later—”
My gaze remained locked and loaded on Monroe as she grabbed a couple bottles of water then sauntered back toward me with hips that swayed ever so slightly and an unreadable expression that I’d never seen on her before. “No, no! It’s a fine time,” I cut her off, trying my hardest to focus on the phone call and not the beautiful woman who was leaning over the table to set my drink in front of me, giving me clear access down the V-neck of her fuzzy black sweater to the matching black bra that covered her gorgeous fucking boobs. “I, uh, I was just, uh,” I stammered around, frantically searching my brain for something logical to say, but I physically could not tear my eyes away from her cleavage, “just finishing up a little tit . . . I mean bit . . . a little bit of work I had left
to call it a day.”
My ears and cheeks flamed yet again at my own daftness, and this time, Monroe made no qualms about showing how much she enjoyed my discomfort with her impish grin spreading from ear to ear. I pinched my eyebrows together and gave her a stern warning with the shake of my head, but that only made her erupt in a fit of laughter.
“Holy shitballs! Are you banging a chick right now, Uncle Ollie?!” Callie shrieked so loudly it caused me to drop the phone, and somehow, when I tried to catch it, my finger must’ve hit the speakerphone button, because the next thing I knew, her high-pitched, seventeen-year-old voice was being broadcasted throughout the entire apartment. “Is she hot? Did you play Michael Bolton for her? I bet you totally played Michael Bolton for her. No matter how ugly he is, I’m sure he gets mad pussy because of that sax.”
Dropping to my knees, I fumbled around trying to grab the damn thing, but it was like I’d suddenly sprouted six thumbs on each hand and then coated them in baby oil with the way it kept slipping out of my grasp. And all the while, she kept talking—without ever stopping for a breath. “I’ve always thought you probably scored a ton of chicks too. That’s why you had to move away from Kinderhook and go to the big city, right? Because you’d probably tapped everything that was available around there by the time you graduated high school and needed some fresh meat. You know that whole man-bun thing you’ve been rocking forever is finally coming back into style, so you can totally play up the whole grungy-hipster-musician-who-wants-to-save-all-the-children-in-the-world angle. I bet that’d be like hitting the pussy lotter—”
“Enough! Good Lord, that is enough!” I screamed when I finally grabbed hold of the goddamn piece of life-ruining technology and stopped the speakerphone option, afraid my ears would start bleeding if I heard my niece say the word pussy one more time. What kind of parenting job was my sister doing? And what had happened to the sweet, innocent kid who’d helped me hide Easter eggs for the little ones just that Spring? “My God, child, do you kiss your mother with that same filthy mouth? How do you even know about this stuff? Where’s Charlotte? Let me talk to my sister, so I can tell her that you spend entirely too much time watching stuff on TV and online that you have no business watching.”