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I served the food and stood in the corner where she’d told me to stand, watching them eat—this man who’d taken me under his wing and the woman he married. His love.
This man I wanted so badly to be like, because he had everything I wanted. Respect, money, security, skill.
Mrs. T wore a black dress cut low in the front, her tits half hanging out, diamonds dripping from her ears, down into her cleavage, sparkling on her fingers. She cooed at her husband, talking about their wedding day.
“The happiest day of my life,” she said.
The next week, I fucked her in his bed. She wanted me to take her from behind. I climbed on top of her, did her until she scratched at the sheets, arched her back, came with a yowl like a cat.
I remember holding her hips, pushing into her. A mindless pistoning piece of meat.
No better than an animal.
My mother’s love is a disaster, but I wasn’t doing any better for myself until I met Caroline.
I came to Putnam thinking love was a weakness and sex was a tool. Maybe I was right. I think, with the life I’ve had, I’d have to be some kind of dumb-fuck not to be at least a little afraid of the way I feel about Caroline.
I’ve been worried that deeper is an undertow that will take away my control and leave me as helpless and deluded as my mom. I’ve thought if I let that happen—if I let myself get distracted by Caroline, broke the rules, said fuck it to my common sense—then I couldn’t respect myself, because I’d be no better than my father. No smarter than my mom.
But here I am, hustling steaks and salads and quinoa cakes to one couple after another, smiling and being charming even though I fucking hate this, I hate all of it, I hate everything when I’m not with Caroline, and I’m thinking the whole time, What’s it going to take, a mallet to the head? A neon fucking sign?
I love Caroline. I want her. I want everything she’ll give me, and it’s not going to stop. It’s never going to stop.
And I’m not my father.
I look just like him, but I’m not him. I’ve known that for a long time.
What I need to get through my head, maybe, is that I’m not my mother, either.
I’m not in love with a woman who doesn’t deserve me. I’m not throwing myself at passion like it’s a drug and I need a hit, begging it to take me in, shoot me up, wreck me if it has to.
I waited more than a year to even kiss Caroline, and I had plenty of time before then to learn what she’s all about.
She’s good. She’s smart. She’s fucking fierce.
Honestly, I’m glad she told me off. I was being a dick, and she called me on it. The woman I’m in love with is strong enough to insist I treat her the way she deserves.
I haven’t. I haven’t told her anything about me, my life, my family, my people, because I’ve been afraid she’d use it against me. Pick me apart. Break me open.
But why would she do that? She’s not my father. Not my enemy.
She’s Caroline.
Three weeks without her has taught me the same thing I should have figured out in the eighteen months since I met her: That she’s amazing. That I’m in love with her. That passion feels fantastic.
Loving Caroline hasn’t thrown me off a cliff.
I’m still me. Not my father. Not my mother
.
If I get called home, I’m going, because I have to. It’s not negotiable.
I don’t know what’s going to happen before then—not with Caroline and me or with anything, really. I could have to leave tomorrow. I could get bite it in a convenience store holdup. We could all die from fucking bird flu.
But tonight, it’s Valentine’s Day.
If the world ends in the morning, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it ends with Caroline in my bed, her hair on my pillow, my hands on her ass.
