Page 4 of Sweat

Then again, as soon as I’m back in the Tacoma with my adrenaline running on fumes, I realize how fucked up I already am because of him. There’s just something about him. The way he stands, the way he speaks, and the way his eyes consume me like he can see me from the inside out. Any delusion I had that Rowan Hughes may have grown out of being a dickwad douchebag is completely dispelled.

I must be real goddamn pathetic, because as badly as I want to hate his guts, I just can’t. I couldn’t hate him when I was twelve, and I can’t hate him now. Why? Because he’s Rowan Hughes, and he was right about what he said all those years ago. I am a fag. At least, sort of. Enough that when he admitted to hooking up with Lese, the thing that pissed me off the most was how jealous I was my girlfriend got to be alone in a room with the most freakishly perfect human I’ve ever met. Enough that the memory of Rowan licking his lips three inches from my mouth makes my dick twitch in my joggers.

The entire trip home, I’m white knuckling my steering wheel with one hand and palming my cock with the other. By the time I’m pulling back into Ma’s driveway, I’m so shamefully hard that I have to tuck my boner up into my waistband.

To make matters worse, I get inside and Lese is there on the living room sofa playing Mario Kart with Maverick. It all looks like a riotous good time until I shut the door behind me. Then, Lese becomes sheepish as Mav torpedoes himself from the sofa to my hip.

“Tommy, Tommy! Guess what we did today?!” he starts in just like he does every time I come home after dark. It’s easy to ignore Lese and focus on my nephew as I scoop him up and carry him with me toward the dining room where there’s still one place setting left uncleared.

Mav is halfway through a babbling tale of going to the plaza and seeing ducks in the wishing fountain when Ma pokes her head out the kitchen to scold me for missing supper. She follows it up with bringing me the plate she kept warm in the oven for me, proving once again I don’t deserve her. As soon as Mav tires himself out, Ma starts in on the interrogation.

“So, where were you?” she asks, hands on her hips. “I texted you dinner was at six.”

“I’m sorry. I was at McKinley.”

“What were you doing there?” She asks like I was buying crack or something, even though she knows McKinley is in a decent neighborhood. Rowan probably grew up around there, in one of those swanky two-story houses on a full acre with a pool and maybe even his own personal soccer pitch. Dude sweats entitlement. Dude just sweats in general. His pores were weeping tonight, his black running shorts sticking to his quads. Under the solar park lamps, his whole body glistened.

Lese is watching me from the sofa, so I can’t tell Ma the truth, not that I ever would. Even if I wanted to tell her about Lese cheating again, I can’t tell my mother I got into a fight. She’d beat my ass. Actually, she’d just give me one of her looks and one of her lectures, and I’ll feel beaten down all the same.

Moving my fork through Ma’s signature chili casserole, I say, “I was, uh, just kicking a ball around with some guys from school.”

The tension leaves Ma’s body with a sigh. Her hands leave her hips as she says, “You’re playing again?”

“It was just for fun.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder. The one that still aches from when I fell sideways like a domino. Makes me wonder how much Rowan is hurting right now. Hopefully, a ton.

“I need you to fix little man up for bed once you clear that plate,” Ma says.

I’m already nodding when Lese jumps up and announces she’ll handle bathtime, but her eyes won’t meet mine. As annoyed as I am that she’s here at all, she is great with Mav. Sometimes, I think he prefers Lese over me, but that might just be because she’s a pretty girl.

Vibrating with excitement, Mav squeals, “We can play Aquaman!”

“Hell yeah, little dude.” Lese races up to the table and tickles Mav’s sides with her long acrylics. “I’m Aquaman this time, though.”

Mav giggles like mad in a way that’s usually music to my ears, but I’m too busy being pissed at Lese to appreciate it.

She smells like that cupcake-y body spray she hoards from Bath & Body Works. I used to love that scent. Always made me kind of hungry. Lately…I don’t know. Smelling like a cupcake just isn’t enough to make me want to put up with her shit anymore.

“Don’t you two go getting water all over the place again,” Ma says before laying her hand on Lese’s head and saying thank you. That’s how I know Ma thinks of Lese as her own. Ma only ever lays her hand on top of her kids’ heads to tell themthanks or I love you. First time Ma did that was a year after I started dating Lese, and it made me feel weird then same as it does now. Like that hand on her head is a commitment I’ll have to uphold somehow. Like I’m not allowed to really end things with Lese now that she’s basically family.

But I never asked for her to be my family. All I asked was that she quit riding other dudes’ dicks.

Ma puts her hand on my head next and reminds me to say goodnight to Erica before I turn in. Just the fact Ma is reminding me at all says Erica isn’t doing any better today than she has been.

After I finish supper, I dip into Ma’s bedroom that’s been Ma and Erica’s bedroom for the better part of a year. When Erica got sick, she and Mav moved back in, and Ma shoved her bed against the wall to make room for Erica’s medical one. It’s a narrow bed, but the chemo’s thinned her out so bad, it’s not a thing when I fit myself beside her. She’s got some nighttime soap opera playing on the TV, but she’s dazed. Half-dead looking, if I’m honest. So bad it hurts to look at her sometimes without crying, so I stare at the TV instead.

A sharp cheek bone rests on my shoulder while a skinny hand lies on my leg. Erica’s hoarse, tired voice asks, “Was that Annalese I heard?”

I clear my throat like that’ll harden me as I put my hand over Erica’s, feeling how cold she is. “She’s giving Mav his bath.”

“She’ll be a good mom someday. Maybe someday soon?”

The hope in Erica’s voice nearly breaks me. Seems like the only hopes she has these days are about what a great man Mav will grow up to be, and what a great wife Lese will be to me. It’s as if she spends all day now imagining our happily ever afters. Happily ever after has never really been my thing, though.

“Not with me,” I say, because I’m too grouchy tonight to lie. Too selfish to play into my bed ridden sister’s fantasies.

“Don’t be cynical. She’s good for you.”

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