Page 40 of Boyfriend Maintenance

“It’s not the same.” I turn my back to him.

“Have you thought about the fact that maybe you’re the one who’s insecure about your career?” He has my attention again, but if looks could kill, he’d be six feet under right now. He continues, “What if no matter who you’re with, you’ll never feel equal in your relationship. Maybe it’s not them, it’s you.”

I haven’t punched him in more than a decade. I don’t know if it’s acceptable to beat the shit out of your little brother at nearly thirty, but I’m thinking that it should be my brotherly right no matter what age I am. All the shit he’s spouting is just that … shit.

“Whatever, man.” I shake my head.

“The sooner you can admit it to yourself, the sooner you’ll be happy.”

“I am happy.”

He laughs at this. “You are not happy, brother. Not at all.”

“Whatever,” I grumble again.

He casually turns back to the television, focusing back on the game. As he reaches for the remote, I assume to turn up the volume, he lands one more blow to my newly bruised ego. “It’s your life to fuck up. It’s no sweat off my sack. Emmy should be relieved not to be dragged down into your pit of self-pity and insecurity.”

The heat in my veins starts to boil. I ball my fists and shove them in my front pockets. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from letting all the words filtering though my head explode out of my mouth. Turning my back, I walk as calmly as I can to the bathroom.

I will not hit my brother.

I will not hit my brother.

I repeat the phrase over and over. Gripping the bathroom counter, I hang my head and breathe deep, yet shaky breaths as I count to ten. Then I splash water over my face and dry it off with the towel hanging nearby. I shake the frustration out with a full-body shake starting from my head, to my shoulders, and then arms.

I walk back into the living room and find him engrossed in the game.

“We are done with this conversation. You can either shut up about it and watch the game or get the fuck out.” I don’t sit down just yet, I need to hear his answer first. I’ll either grab another beer or I’ll be slamming the door as he leaves.

He gives me side-eye and pretends to think about it. I cross my arms. “Well?”

“Well, the beer is free here, so I’ll shut up and stay.”

I nod and grab another beer.

Kevin ended up staying about an hour after the game ended. I ordered a pizza, and he ate half of it. After the ultimatum I gave him, he did shut up about Emmy and that bullshit about being insecure. We were actually able to enjoy the rest of the game. It was a good one, too. The Mets won by three.

Now, as I sit here on my bed getting ready to turn in for the night, I stare down at my phone. My home screen still shows a missed call and voicemail. I’m drawn to her name on my screen. I want to listen to the voicemail, but I need to think everything through.

I think about all the shit Kev spouted off about today.

Maybe I am insecure. I love what I do, but it doesn’t mean I’m not worried about finding someone who’s okay with being with someone who is just a simple man living a blue-collar life, as I’ll never make the big bucks.

I might have grown up in a single-parent household. One where my mom worked two jobs at one point. I always told myself that someday when I was married and had kids, I would support my family. I would do everything in my power to make sure my wife was happy and had everything she needed. Maybe because my mom didn’t have the same opportunity, I wanted to be able to give my wife the option of not having to work if that was her choice. That mentality was stuck in my brain before I realized that being a handyman was my calling. It’s been hard to align my truth with my somewhat stunted belief of who should be the breadwinner in a family.

Truth is, Emmy will always have more than me. What could I ever give her that she doesn’t already have access to?

Nothing.

That thought nearly breaks me.

In the end, I open my voicemail screen and delete her message.

It’s probably for the best, anyway.

Chapter 17

Emmy

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