Fuck Buddy (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

LUKE

“If you eat them one at a time they won’t make you fat.”

“They won’t?”

He shook his head and grinned. “That’s what abuela said. She said
‘tell the surfer to don’t fear the tamale.’ ”

I laughed. “Don’t fear the tamale, huh? Well, tell her I’m not scared.”

Juan was well aware I was conscious of what I ate, and that I chose to avoid foods that may made me feel overweight or unhealthy. For whatever reason, his grandmother decided to send a dozen tamales with him as a gift for me. Contrary to what I suspected his beliefs were regarding his offering, I accepted the package eager to find time to enjoy his grandmother’s cooking.

I nodded my head in appreciation. “Have you tried them?”

He grinned. “They’re pork and Anaheim chilies. They’re my abuela’s specialty and they’re my favorite.”

“You be sure to tell her I said thank you. And tell her if they’re her specialty, I don’t give a fuck if they’re going to make me fat.”

“I’ll tell her, but I won’t say the ‘F’ word. She’d smack me so hard my grandkids will feel it. That’s what she tells me,” he said with a laugh as he swatted his hand through the air.

I walked to the refrigerator, placed the tamales inside, and grabbed a bottle of orange soda.

I sat down on the bench and set the bottle of soda down beside me. “Have a seat.”

He sat on the opposite end of the bench. “I’ve never seen you drink one of the bottles of pop. Not one.”

“I don’t drink soda.”

“But you always have them in the cooler.”

I had them there for one reason and one reason only. Juan liked them.

“They’re for my guests.”

He grinned and nodded as he opened the bottle on the end of the bench.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” I said.

He took a drink of the soda, glanced in my direction, and waited for me to continue.

“You’re a pretty good artist,” I said.

He raised one eyebrow slightly. “According to who?”

“Well, when you were tagging all the buildings along the boardwalk, it was pretty apparent.”

“Oh.” He chuckled. “Yeah, I like to draw and stuff.”

“Have you ever seen an airbrush?”

He nodded. “My uncle in Oceanside uses ‘em. He paints motorcycles.”

“You ever use one?”

He shook his head as he lifted the bottle of soda to his lips.

“You interested in learning?”

His eyes widened. “You gonna teach me?”

“Well, here’s what I was thinking,” I said. “About half of the boards I make have custom paint on them. It takes me as much time to paint them as it does to make them. So, I could make twice as many in the same amount of time if I didn’t have to paint the fuckers.”

He pursed his lips and gazed beyond me as if thinking. “Makes sense.”

“I’ll teach you how to use the airbrush. I don’t think it’ll take long. Then, once you’ve learned, I’ll pay you to paint them.”

His eyes widened slightly. He tipped the bottle of soda up and took another drink.

“I’ll give you $200 a board. How’s that sound?” I asked.

He jumped from the bench, coughed, and choked on the soda. Pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he nodded eagerly.

“Sounds good,” he responded in a nasal tone.

“You okay?”

He released his nose and nodded eagerly. “Swallowed wrong.”

I stood. “So, that sounds fair. $200 for each board?”

He wiped the back of his hand against his nose. “Yes, Sir. So, when do you think you might be able to teach me?”

“Well, right now is good for me. So whenever works for you, we’ll just make time to do it.”

“Right now is good.” His eyes fell to the floor. “Well, after I mop the pop up off the floor.”

During the period of time that I had the shop, I never made a board in advance or in anticipation of a customer’s desire or need. Instead, I chose to make them as customer’s placed their orders, not necessarily needing the money or even caring much to provide the service.

In less than an hour, Juan had mastered the airbrushing technique, and was proving to be a natural at painting beach scenes.

I pulled my mask from my mouth and rested it on my chin. “I’m thinking we should have a few boards on display. You know, for sale.”

He pulled his mask down and furrowed his brow. “We?”

“Well,” I said. “If I’m making ‘em, and you’re painting ‘em, what does that make us? Hell, we’re damned near partners.”

As the pride filled him he straightened his stance slightly. “Can I watch you? When you make them?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m not ready to give that part of it up. At least not yet. But you just as well learn.”

He grinned and pulled his mask over his mouth.

“One more thing,” I said.

He turned toward me and raised his eyebrows.

“No more Mr. Eagan. From here on out, I’m Luke,” I said.

He pulled the mask down just long enough to respond. “Okay, Luke.”

On that afternoon, Juan painted every piece of cardboard I had in the shop. By the end of the day the paint booth was filled murals of palm trees, sunsets, and beaches. One particular painting – a surfer riding the most perfect shaped wave – stood as a testament of Juan’s ability to imagine and to convey his imagination accurately with paint.

We later shared a late lunch of tamales, and then he went home to tell his family the good news. I stuck around for a few more hours and fabricated a wooden frame for the picture of the surfer.

I hung the picture on the wall, stood back, and imagined the small speck of a man on top of the wave was me.

And for that short moment, my life was picture perfect.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

LIV

“That was sure nice of you,” I said.

He shrugged. “It gives me a little more time to do whatever. And, if I have a few boards in the shop for sale, whenever someone shows up, I won’t feel like they’re interfering with my schedule. I think it’s an all-around good deal.”

Luke’s decision to let Juan paint the surfboards was obviously a way for him to deal with his feelings. I didn’t know for sure, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he had repressed the memories of what his mother did – only to remember them after she showed up at the hospital.

Either way, he seemed to be almost unaffected by the tragedy. I, on the other hand, was nothing short of obsessed with it. I guessed he had a lifetime to accept it, and I had only two days. Nonetheless, I was consumed by it completely.

When I looked at him I no longer saw my Luke. The man I had been in love with since childhood was gone. In his place a little boy whose innocence had been lost. A man with sexual desires developed at the hand of a sickening monster. He had become a childhood friend. A dinner companion. An associate.

I didn’t want to touch him, and at least for the time being, I didn’t want him to touch me. I wanted to go to sleep, wake up, and have it all be a dream.

As sickening as it made me feel to harbor the feelings, I couldn’t change how I felt. I didn’t blame him for anything that happened – and I accepted that he was the true victim – but it didn’t seem to matter. Somehow I was convinced his mother’s actions had developed his odd sexual appetite, and I felt my acceptance of his desires was in turn accepting his mother’s behavior. Nothing was further from the truth. I had evolved from wanting to hurt her to wanting to kill her, and I wasn’t a violent person.

I tried my best to act as if nothing between us had changed, but I doubted I was very convincing.

I forced a grin. “It sounds like a great plan.”

He lowered his fork, peered over the table, and sighed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I nodded. “Just tired. I’ve been feeling sick.”

“Hopefully you’re not getting that shit that’s going around.”

“Hope not.”

“So, Matt’s going to go stay at dad’s when they let him out. Kind of goes without saying, but he’s going to be in a wheelchair for a while.”

I continued to stare down at my plate. “That’s good.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

I nodded, glancing up this time when I did. “I just don’t feel good.”

When we made eye contact, I smiled. I felt I had to. It seemed strange, but I didn’t want to look at him. At least at that particular moment, he didn’t interest me in the least. He was broken, and I felt I wasn’t. My sexual appetite was developed because someone dropped me on my head, or maybe my mother ate too much raw fish while she was pregnant. Maybe my diaper wasn’t changed often enough, who knows?

But I wasn’t submissive because my father made me fondle his dick, or because my uncle played with my teenage twat. I was just the way I was because that’s the way things were.

I wanted to hold Luke and provide him comfort – because I loved him. But at that moment I didn’t feel that I loved him in a romantic sense. It was more of a feeling of obligation as his friend than anything else.

“Maybe we should just eat and go to bed,” he said. 

“I think it would be a good idea if you stayed at your place tonight. “I’d hate to get you sick,” I said.

“If that’s what you want,” he said.

“It’s not what I
want
, but I think it’d be best.”

He finished his food, rinsed his plate, and placed it in the dishwasher. I continued to pick at my plate, hoping he would just leave. I felt like crying, screaming, and punching him in the chest all at the same time.

I felt confused, angry, lied to, cheated, and deceived. I rearranged the pieces of avocado in my salad trying to make myself believe that nothing was his fault, and that he was the same person regardless of what happened to him as a child, but nothing seemed to work.

As I became frustrated and pushed my salad to the side, his voice startled me slightly.

“I guess I’ll go ahead and go.”

“Okay,” I said over my shoulder.

I heard the door close behind him, and instead of feeling sad or lonely, I felt relieved.

After I dumped my half-eaten plate of food into the trash, I walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The skin underneath my eyes was black from lack of sleep. I didn’t have on any makeup. I realized the clothes I was wearing were the same clothes I wore the day before. I stood and stared at myself wondering if I even remembered to take a shower.

My hair was flat.

I looked like death.

Everything inside of me was coming unraveled, and I knew it.

I realized I needed to address everything, and I knew the sooner I did so, the better I would feel about it. Instead of addressing it, I walked into my bedroom, climbed into bed, and went to sleep.

When my entire night’s sleep was repeatedly interrupted by nightmares, I knew something needed to change.

And the thought of it made me sick.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

LUKE

Point Loma was located due west of San Diego, where the land literally fell off into the depth of the ocean below. A great location to meditate, and as beautiful of a piece of land as God ever offered the inhabitants of the earth to enjoy, it was a place I frequented when I needed time to think.

Long before we began having sex I knew how I felt about her and chose not to act on my feelings for fear of losing her. I had spent a lifetime preserving something I held sacred, knowing no one or nothing could ever replace her. Now, it all seemed to be for not.

Liv seemed different after we spoke about my mother, and I felt foolish for telling her what happened. She didn’t have to tell me how she felt, I could see it in her eyes. I had no idea if she was receding temporarily, or if something within her changed permanently. Either way I didn’t like what I was seeing.

I sat on the edge of the cliff and watched the waves crash into the formation of rock below. Each and every one, be them slight or fierce, made an impact on the structural integrity of the earth beneath me. Over time, change would take place. Caverns would form, land would wash away, and more tide pools would develop.

Small causes having a large effect.

The butterfly effect.

In theory, something as small as a butterfly flapping its wings in Argentina may cause a tornado to develop in Oklahoma. The butterfly doesn’t create the tornado, but the flapping of the wings at a particular time during certain weather conditions causes a change to the condition itself. Had the butterfly chosen to be still at that exact moment would the same thing have happened?

I stared into the tide pool and wondered. A small fish darted from beneath one rock to another. My mind drifted to another scenario.

Dropping a rock into the ocean creates ripples that cause the path of a swimming fish to be altered. Scheduled by nature to become a meal for a larger predator of the sea, the fish swims along a different path as a result of one ripple in the water. An alternate life begins, and over time the fish previously destined to die develops into the predator himself.

Because a pebble was dropped into the ocean.

My mother’s actions changed me. I chose to reveal my mother’s behavior to Liv, and in the end, my deepest fear seemed to be turning into reality.

Change, it seemed, was as inevitable as the tide.