* * *
• • •
A few years after they split, my parents took me to lunch together in Montrose. We hadn’t all sat at the same table in years. Lydia had mostly cut them off; she’d moved out, and moved on, and she’d told me to do the same, but what I did instead was order a Reuben.
The week before, my father had walked in on some guy jerking me off. It wasn’t anyone who matters. We’d met on some fucking app. My father opened the door, coughed, and actually said, I’m sorry, as he backed out of the room. The boy beside me made a face like, Should we finish or what.
That night, after he left, I waited for my father to bring it up. But he just sat on the sofa and drank his way through two six-packs. The incident dissolved in the air. Before he drove off, the guy had asked to see me again, and I told him I didn’t think so, because we probably weren’t actually going anywhere. I still hadn’t learned that there is a finite number of people who will ever be interested in you.
When our waiter, a skinny brown guy, asked if we needed anything else, I spoke a little too quickly. He smiled. Then my mother smiled.
You know you can talk to us, she said.
Both of us, she added.
My mother smelled like chocolate. My father wore his nice shirt. You’d have been hard-pressed to think that this was a man who’d thrown his wife against a wall. Or that this lady, immediately afterward, stuck a fork into his elbow.
Awesome, I said. Thank you.
About anything, said my mother, touching my hand.
When I flinched, she took hers back. My father didn’t say shit.
* * *
That night, my father dropped me off at the house. He said he’d be back in the morning.
Not even an hour later, I texted back the boy from the other day. When I opened the door, he looked a little uncertain, but then I touched his wrist and he got the biggest grin on his face.
I let him fuck me on the sofa. And then again in the kitchen. And then again in my father’s bedroom. We didn’t use protection.
He left the next morning, but not before we ate some toast. He was Filipino, with a heavy accent. He told me he wanted to be a lawyer.
* * *
• • •
One day, our second year in, I told Mike all of that. We were out shopping for groceries. He fondled the ginger and the cabbage and the bacon.
Halfway through my story, he stopped me to ask around for some kombu.
He said, Your folks sound like real angels.
And you, said Mike, you’re like a baby. Just a very lucky boy.
* * *
And then one morning Mike had already left our place for the restaurant. He’d forgotten his phone by the sink. I didn’t mean to touch it, but it flashed, so I did.
I did not and do not know the guy whose cock blipped across the screen.
Just for a second.
But then it disappeared.
You see these situations in the movies and shit, and you say it could never be you. Of course you’d be proactive. You’d throw the whole thing away.
When Mike knocked on the door, looking for his cell, I pointed silently toward the sink.
Wait, he said, what’s wrong?
Nothing, I said.
Tell me, said Mike.
It’s cool, I said. I’m just tired.
You’re not drinking enough water, said Mike, and he actually sat down to pour me some.
* * *
I never said shit about that photo. But I guess you could say it nagged me.
* * *
• • •
Mike figures we’ll make a bed for his mother on the pull-out.
Tomorrow you’ll get the bedroom, he says to her, looking at me.
His mother doesn’t say shit, but by now she’s stopped crying. She sets her bag on the counter, crosses her arms. We lift the mattress from the sofa, layering it with blankets that Lydia gave us, and when I slip into my room for some pillows I decide not to come back out.
The thing about our place is that there isn’t much to clean. Most of what I make goes toward half the rent, and Mike spends all of his checks on food. Which, when you think about it, leaves plenty for a ticket. That’s plenty of cash left over to fly halfway across the world.
* * *
They’re still shouting in the living room when I settle into bed. Something heavy falls out there. I don’t jump up to look. And once Mike finally comes in and shuts the door, I hear his mother sobbing behind him.
She’s taking it well, says Mike.
You hardly gave her any warning, I say. She flies in to catch you and you’re fucking flying out.
That’s unfair. You know exactly why.
It’s not fair to her either.
It’s fine. She’ll be fine.
You’re easy to love.
Ma’s low-maintenance, he says. You won’t have to do anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. After a few days, you won’t even know she’s around.
I start to say, Does she even speak English?
And then I swallow it.
And then I ask.
You’re joking, says Mike, throwing off his shirt.
I’m not, I say.
I’m not gonna call that racist, says Mike. But it’s fucked up. For a second there, I thought you actually gave a shit.
He kicks off his pants, toes them into his duffel. He’s gained more weight, but that’s nothing new. It’s never been an issue, never been something I look down on, but for the first time I sort of gag.
Mike catches me. He keeps quiet.
You can teach her, he says. If you care that much. Word by word.
You’re joking, I say.
I’m packing, says Mike.
* * *
• • •
My sister met him accidentally. It happened during Halloween, at a bar off Westheimer. I’d wandered away from him to take a piss, and when I made it back to the table, Lydia was stirring her Coke beside him. She wore some witchy getup, a costume with too many straps. Mike had on a toga. I’d gone as myself.
I was just talking to Mark, said Lydia.
You didn’t say you had a little sister, said Mike.