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Davis
The entire week has been one big mind-fuck.
Try as I might, I cannot wrap my head around the fact that I spent the entire weekend in Merrick’s bed. I no longer break out in a cold sweat when I think about all we did together, so that’s progress. Keeping my distance from him hasn’t been easy. But it was necessary. Very, very necessary.
Because the thirst for the bottle has faded these past months, my ability to sleep without it has been hit or miss. I fully admit it…I slept like the dead with Merrick next to me, which is something I refuse to mentally explore more than I absolutely have to. The subsequent nights in my own bed, however, have been anything but restful.
I sometimes feel like one of those side-show acts, sawed in half at the torso. There is a very vital part of me that knows what Merrick and I have together is good. It’s right, in every way. Practically perfect. The remaining part of my split-in-half body is less inclined to think any good thoughts about it or him or….that. I’ve never, ever looked at a man and felt my insides turn to mush.Hell…I’ve never looked at a woman and felt that way either. It’s fair to say that my reaction to him is rare. Special. But am I drawn to him by necessity or need?
Sick to death of brooding about things I can’t change, I decide a day of yard work will do me good. There’s every chance I’ll see him, and the one part of my torso that has a semi-functioning brain attached to it looks forward to that chance. The dismembered remaining part isn’t quite convinced that would be a good thing.
I’m once more pondering the rose bushes when Chantal steps out the front door, throwing me a hostile side-eye. Her large purse is draped over one shoulder, hand poised on the strap so that is falls over her breast. She uses the accessory like armor, just as she does her high-priced clothes and snazzy car. It’s all nothing but window dressing that hides the bitter, sad woman she’s become.
We’ve been completely at odds since her Sunday evening text, and the argument that followed once I arrived home. She’s fighting the divorce, using all the tools in her arsenal to keep the two of us tied up in court for the ensuing future. She’s pushing for alimony, is threatening to sue me if I insist we go forward with the sale of the house, and is basically being the all-out bitch she has turned into over the years. She hired a fancy lawyer, well aware that I can’t afford the same. And here I thought I was being a nice guy keeping it simple and using one of those do-it-yourself online joints: Sign the papers, sell the house, split the money and be done with it. Cheap and easy. No nonsense. No fuss. No arguing, no court.
Not happening. That’s the phrase she repeated upwards of ten times Sunday night. The divorce isnot happening. The cheap and easy…not happening. The no-nonsense, no fuss, no court….not happeningeither. Well…the court will be, if she has her way. Not if I have mine. At this point, I’m considering suingherfor alimony, as her income is about five times what mine is.
I told her I’m moving out regardless of what she does. She can have the damn house for all I care. If her vile outburst—calling me names and accusing me of trying to intentionally disgrace her—didn’t convince me that I needed to walk away, the thick stack of legal papers she literally threw at me did. Regardless of the imposed violence or threats, I’m done. Finished. Moving on.
“Someone has her panties in a knot.”
I turn around to find Gunner standing at the fence, hand on his hip, broad smile across his face. He’s dressed casually in the most garish way that only he can pull off; pleated plaid shorts, vibrant green silk shirt, sweater draped around his neck preppy-style, brown loafers on his feet. He’s wearing a straw hat that matches his shirt, large round sunglasses, and I swear there’s gloss on his lips. Crazy as only he can be.
“Hey man.”
His eyes roll suggestively over my body, before he winks and drawls, “Hello handsome. How the hell are you?” He turns to watch Chantal pull out onto the street, and wrinkles his nose in disgust when she tears rubber down the block.
I shrug and toss the rake aside, completely disinterested in the task. I guess I should be shocked by Gunner’s outrageous attempt to flirt with me, but something about the man and his wild behavior makes me happy. I can’t really explain why that is, except to say what you see is what you get. He’s not like me….hiding behind the pain of his past or pretending to be someone he’s not. He’s 100% himself; outspoken, brash, and completely authentic. “Getting by. You?”
“Fabulous as always.” He pops the other hip and lowers his glasses, peaking at me over the top of the black frames. “What are you up to today, besides looking like an ice cream cone that I want to lick all over?”
Chuckling, I shake my head at his audacity. “Need to get some yard work done, but I’m not feeling it.” I ignore the lick-me comment. Not sure what I’d say anyway.
He grins and bats his eyes at me. “You could feel me. That would give you something to do.”
My face heats at his suggestive comment, too tongue-tied to respond. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s trying to shock me like this. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Laughing, he says, “You’re adorable when you blush.” He waves his hand, in a sort of do-over attempt. “Okay. Since you’re not actually busy, how about we go for a stroll?” He laughs again when my eyes widen in surprise, and I wonder if this is his way of trying to ask me out. “Calm down, gorgeous. It’s just a walk. To stretch our legs is all.” Leaning across the fence, he cups one palm to the side of his mouth, mock-whispering, “I promise to behave.”
Somehow I doubt that. “Uh…sure. A walk would be cool. Give me a sec.” Trotting toward the house, I lock the front door, pocketing my keys as I stroll to the sidewalk to join him.
Gunner is the most outrageous man I’ve ever encountered. He wears his sexuality proudly, confidently walking next to me like a runway model, chin held high, chest out. I wonder what my neighbors must think about the two of us. And then….I don’t. I don’t give two fucks what some strangers think about me or my friend. Guess that’s the difference between me and my almost ex-wife. Her fucks to give are numbered in the thousands.
We head down the block in the opposite direction from where Merrick and I usually jog. It occurs to me as we pass by people in their front yards who greet us, that I’ve never really spent time in my neighborhood. Sure, I run down the same streets day after day, have driven down them on my way to and from work, but I’ve never actually gotten out and seen the sights. Other than the old guy across the street—and now Merrick—I don’t know anyone. I’ve spent years living in my home, but have never once taken the time to explore my surroundings.
Most of the houses are well maintained and filled with families. Bikes litter the sidewalk, mini-vans sit with doors open, and there’s a general sense of family in the air that makes my heart ache. There won’t be any bikes or mini-vans in my future.
Gunner chats about nothing of importance as we reach the end of the block and turn right, moving at a slower pace. He manages to be slightly flirty yet perfectly pleasant as we stroll, making me wonder what exactly his motive was for getting me out here. I’m too afraid to ask.
We turn left at the next corner, where there’s considerably less commotion than the first few blocks and the road begins to incline. My hands are shoved in my pockets, and when he reaches over and weaves his hand through my arm, I suppose I should be surprised or embarrassed that this flashy younger man is hanging on me like he is. But he is so organically himself that I can only admire him.
“Merrick and I have been friends for quite a long time,” he begins, giving me a hint to his motive that I should have suspected in the first place. “He’s a really good guy.”
What do I say to something like that? Of course Merrick is a good man. He’s been nothing but good and kind and understanding since the first day we met. “Uh…yeah. I know.”
He glances at me and smirks. “I’ve been trying for years to get into his pants.” Loud, exaggerated sigh. “But alas, it hasn’t happened.”
“Um…okay.”
