Page 4 of Because of Them

Dad: I know it’s your RDO but call me. As a son, not an employee.

Well fuck, his message hits a chord, but it’s the chain under it that catches my attention.

A little blue dot next to Audrey’s name. She messaged me. In my haste to open the thread, I fumble with my phone, dropping it to the counter. Picking it up, I have to read the message four times before the words sink in.

Audrey: Hey Michael, can we chat?

My body screams to typeYesand hit send, but my brain holds me back.Chat?In what way?

There’s chatting like how I used to chat with multiple women at a time, trying to find the one that felt right. I haven’t done that since I met Audrey though. Or chatting like catching up on each other’s lives. Or—and God I hope it’s not this—chatting like a final talk. I have no idea where she wants this chat to go.

The message log says she sent the text this morning, while I was doing my stupid leg workout. My stomach cramps, part hunger, part a ball of anxiety at the thought of calling her back. I have to call my dad back too, even though it probably will be work related despite his message. I reach for a banana, needing fuel before I attempt anything else.

When I’ve shoved the final bite in my mouth, my stomach feels a little better. Audrey first, then I’ll tackle the call with my dad.

The phone rings twice, but when Audrey answers, the sound of cartoons blasts into my ear.

“Maisie, turn it down!” Audrey yells. I hear her shuffling away down the hall, muffling the obnoxious music.

“Sorry Michael, how are you?”

She sounds out of breath. Dread mixes with the anxiety in my stomach, swirling against my pre-breakfast snack.

“Audrey, I’m … good. How are you?”

“Oh, you know, work, motherhood, life.”

I don’t know. The conversation is all forced small talk, doing nothing for the storm inside me.

“Audrey what’s—”

“Can we see—”

We cut each other off. “Sorry, you first,” I prompt.

Audrey blows out a long puff of air. “Can we see each other? Like, go for coffee or something?”

My cheeks burn. She wants to see me, finally. I can’t help but wonder what prompted her swift change of heart. But then, I suppose it must have felt the same for her when I started calling her again too.

“I’d like that. Today?”

“Not today, I have to get Maisie to school and get to work.”

Right, I forgot the whole world doesn’t get these blissful days off like the trade industry.

“On the weekend. I’ll see if Maisie can go to her dad’s. Can I text you?” Audrey gulps down her words.

“Okay,” I strip the concern and confusion from my voice. “I’m looking forward to it.”

I try to convince myself it’s true as I end the call. I try not to think about the way each word caught in her throat, or how she sounded on the verge of tears. I try to imagine all the ways it could go right, instead of focusing on the way my hairs stand on end like they know something I don’t.

I wait until what’s left of the morning has passed before calling my dad, delaying the inevitable berating as long as possible. I eat a proper breakfast, binge some more of my favourite true crime podcast and take Baxter for a walk before the clouds give up. I wipe down all my weights, order a delivery of groceries, trim the fraying ends of my shoulder length hair and contemplate cutting it off altogether. I fill time with mostly meaningless crap, until enough has passed that whatever work crisis my dad thoughtneeded immediate attention will be long past, or at least he would have dealt with it himself.

“Son.” His voice echoes down the line as he drives. I despise when he calls me son, it’s too formal, like we belong on some prissy upper regency drama show.

“Father,” I respond in jest, adding an unnecessary inflection just to spite his choice of language.

He scoffs. “Quit the shit. It’s been hours. What if your mother was sick?”

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