Page 3 of To Feel Like This Again
I’m running a company generating annual sales of more than $65 billion, while he works remotely for a mid-sized company owned by his dad’s golf buddy. He can’t even take the time to come with me on my work-trip to Jamaica even though I asked him three months in advance.How does that even make sense? He works remotely.
Cancelling my 4:00pm meeting, I leave work early — by my standards — hoping to have a nice evening with Alex before my trip to Jamaica the following day. Call me silly for still believing that one day things will go back to the way they were inour first few weeks of dating. When I get in, Alex is in the recliner watching highlights on ESPN, with a beer in hand.
“Hey honey… you’re home early,” he says without even looking up; eyes fixated on the Australian Open highlights. Totally uninterested in me.
He doesn’t even watch tennis.
“Hey sweetie. I was hoping we could go out for dinner. It would be nice to spend some time with you before my trip. Plus, I could definitely use a drink after the day I’ve had. Ugh.” I sigh, as if I had had a genuinely rough day.
Still, his eyes cannot leave the sexy tennis chick in her cute little skirt, grunting after every play.
“Oh right. I forgot about that trip.” Taking a sip of the beer, he continues, “Sorry honey, I can’t tonight. I’m heading over to the Williamses for poker night. When you get back from Jamaica, we can check out that new Greek restaurant you mentioned… last week I think it was.”
By this time, he’s now preoccupied with the English Premier League recap. Still unable to spare a glance in my direction, I go into the kitchen and load the dishwasher. Dirty dishes he has left unattended since yesterday have now piled up in the sink.
He doesn’t even watch soccer.
Ever since the Greek restaurant opened some eight months ago, I’ve been asking him to go. I eventually gave up on him and went — once with a friend, the other for a business meeting.
“Or we can go there for your birthday.” It sounded more like a question and less like a statement.
How convenient that that is the only time we ever go out on a date. And it isalways justdinner, never a thoughtful gift in the mix. Or a concert. Or a hiking trip. Or a beach trip.
It’s been this way for over thirty years now, I wistfully tell myself, as I put the last plate in the dishwasher. At least when my son was younger, we’d go on family outings. I’d give anything to relive those times. I’d even sign up for the rollercoaster if it meant spending time with him, even though I almost threw up the last time I went on one of those rides with James, some twenty years ago.
Pouring a glass of white wine, I make my way up to the bedroom to resume binge-watchingBridgerton, alone. But as I climb into the bed and launch Netflix on the 85-inch TV, one of my all-time favs,Pretty Woman, pops up onToday’s Top Picks for You.And since I haven’t seen it in at least five years, I press play. And I watch it like it’s my very first time.Why the hell not?
Shortly after, Alex yells from downstairs, “I’m heading out now, honey. Have a great trip. Send me lots of pictures, okay?”
I pause the movie to respond but can’t be bothered to.
When he closes the door (clearly not interested in waiting for a response), the sound echoes around the house… and I feel lonely.
Well, at least I have my glass of wine and one of my all-time favs to keep me company. I pull the sheets up to my neck, take a sip of wine and resume watching the movie. A few sips later, I’m feeling better. I’m feeling downright good. I pause the movie right before the best part and retrieve my vibrator from the nightstand drawer.
Chapter 2
Nicholas
Click. Click. No response.Shit.
Everything is on the line; I am desperate for Google Chrome to open.Give me something, please.
Feeling jittery, like I had had three cups of coffee, make thatfourcups, I glance at the clock at the bottom right-hand corner of the laptop screen. It changes to 12:52pm. But just to be sure, I flip my left wrist and tap my watch face to confirm the time — 12:52pm. No surprise there.
I’m taken back to when I took the SATs and the examiner bellowed, “One minute left!” Heart pounding, I had inched forward in the chair and looked up at the 14-inch analog clock at the front of the auditorium, squinting my eyes to confirm the time as if I had a say in the matter. This robbed me of the crucial seconds I had needed to answer the three remaining questions, which left me with no choice but to shade the letter C for all three questions.Circle C when you’re guessing, right?
Any moment now, it will be my turn to present at the senior management meeting for State Foods Jamaica. With time running out I restart the laptop hoping for better luck, but the machine is taking forever to reboot, like the last two minutes of the NBA finals.For fuck’s sake, it’s beginning to update.
Reflexively, I reach inside the left pocket of my pants.Nothing. Of course, I don’t have my phone. I had left it at Jessica’s apartment last night (this morning, if you want to get technical). Jessica Bell — the one that got away, as they say in the chick flicks. First, we were best friends or as she liked to say, besties. Then we became friends with benefits. One night, we fucked in the back of her dad’s corolla in the parking lot of a supermarket. And in case you are trying to picture how this scene would look in a Netflix series — Season 1, Episode 1 — the car was not tinted, which made the ride even more thrilling.
Her father had found the condom wrapper on the back seat and made a big deal out of nothing, threatening to kill me at a football (soccer) game in front of my boys.So much for being responsible.
“I’ll shoot you in the face if you ever look at my daughter again!” he had hollered at the match, lifting his t-shirt high enough to reveal his holster.
“Good shot, Richie,” I shouted from the sidelines.Pun intended. Ignoring Jessica’s father’s comment, I cheered on my cousin as he tried to score a goal. This riled him up more.It wasn’t even a good shot. C’mon Richie.What the hell was that?
Charging towards me, he repeated himself louder, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time, “I’ll shoot you in the face if you ever look at my daughter again!” My boys then formed a shield around me, forgetting they were not bullet-proof, while random spectators held him back as he tried to break free.
