Say Never (19 page)

“I’m on it,” I say, and Danny gives me a doubtful look. And why shouldn’t he? I haven’t exactly been reliable since I arrived, but I’m determined to prove myself. “Seriously, I’ll take care of the cake. Just tell me where I’m going. It’ll be my treat.”

“Deal,” he says. “I’ll write it down for you.

Great, just add it to the Encyclopedia of Childcare by Danny Monroe. In the index.

I glance at the clock on the microwave and note the time: 5:05. “Hey, bro. You always eat dinner in the afternoon? In New York, this would be a late lunch.”

He smirks. “I’m taking the kids over to see Caroline this evening. Visiting hours end at eight.”

“Got it.” I try not to smile, don’t want my brother to know how much I’m suddenly looking forward to a little alone time. Maybe I’ll log some miles on the treadmill or take a luxurious bath or listen to my iTunes or check my Facebook fan page. I should read and respond to my emails, too. Damien hasn’t called since this morning, which is odd since we normally talk six or seven times a day. I’ve only been here twenty-eight hours, but I feel like I haven’t checked in with my life in ages.

“You’re welcome to come with us. I’m sure Caroline would love to see you.”

Right,
I think.
About as much as she’d love to have an appendectomy without anesthesia.

“I wouldn’t want to be in the way,” I say brightly. “But tell her I said hi.”

“Of course we will,” Danny says.

I look over at him and catch him staring at me. I squirm in my chair. “You’re not going to…um…mention anything that might, you know, upset her. Right?”

He grins. “I would never purposely upset my wife.”

I would and with pleasure, the bitch.
But I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I choke down her meatloaf and fantasize about a six course meal at
Le Bernadin,
sans ketchup.

* * *

At quarter to six, Danny looks at his watch and instructs McKenna to get her shoes on. (I’m impressed that the five-year-old can do this by herself until I see that the shoes are slip-ons with Velcro. Yeah. Real hard.) I offer to clear the plates and take out the trash so that Danny can get Tebow ready and go. Not that I want them out…oh, who am I kidding. I can’t wait until they’re gone.

I walk them to the front door and watch them pile into the Camry. Danny straps the kids in their seats quickly and effortlessly and I have to admire his skills. When we were kids, I was the efficient, capable one and Danny was the clumsy, klutzy one. My brother couldn’t even dress himself properly until he was ten. He’s come a long way.

When the Camry is finally out of sight, I close the front door and lean back against it. I stand there for a full sixty seconds, just drinking in the quiet of the house. For the first time in my life, I understand what it must be like to be a parent, the overwhelming sense of freedom a mom must feel when she has a brief respite from her charges.

But I am not a parent. Only a surrogate. And a terrible one at that.

I look at my surroundings: the LEGOs and Barbies and baby blankets strewn around the living room, the 8x10 family pictures on the walls, the worn sofa and DVD collection made up of Sesame Street and Little Einsteins, and I suddenly feel depressed. A week ago, I learned that if I want to have children I’d better get my ass moving. But a week ago I had no idea what motherhood entailed. Now I have an inkling. And I realize that even if I wanted to procreate, I would totally fail at it.

Shut up, Meg. You have dishes waiting.

In the kitchen, I find a Sprite in the fridge and make myself a vodka cocktail to sip while I work. Compared to my kitchen in New York, this is palatial, although my own refrigerator is absent the myriad photographs of smiling kids and the kitschy magnets with legends like ‘Got Formula?’ and ‘Chef Mom’ and ‘I Love You!’ and the finger paintings of suns and flowers and stick figures that are supposed to be Mommy and Daddy and Brother and Me. My refrigerator is stainless steel with a defrosting drawer and room for catering trays even though I never entertain, and absolutely no adornments on the exterior. I long for my wonderful trash compactor, but am slightly envious of Danny’s garbage disposal, as I am not allowed to have one in my sink, per co-op regulations.

The truth is, I could probably fit my entire apartment in my brother’s kitchen, dining room and foyer. But I love my home, mostly because it’s mine. Still, I admit I sometimes wish I had a backyard with a nice square of lawn and room for some flowers and plants. My apartment has a small balcony, which is considered something of a luxury in Manhattan. But it’s no good for any living thing other than the pigeons. If I had a dog, the balcony wouldn’t be enough—the dog would probably commit suicide by jumping from the twelfth floor if it weren’t spirited away by the brazen birds first. New York City pigeons are a tough lot.

My cell phone vibrates from the back pocket of my jeans. I withdraw it and see that I have a text from Adam. I allow myself to smile, not because I miss him per say, but because he’s the closest thing I have to a significant other. I swish my screen then call up the text.

Lst nite was hot! Ready 4 round 2? B there in 10. Get naked now. A.

I’m still trying to process the text linguistics when my phone vibrates in my hand. Another text pops up under the first:

Oops. LOL. Sorry, Meg. Last one wasn’t 4 U. Hope ur having fun. A.

Fucking hell. My un-boyfriend is screwing someone other than me and accidentally (
Oops. LOL.)
sent me a lascivious text meant for her. Wonderful. I pretend not to care and busy myself by collecting the paper plates from the table and stuffing them into the trash.

Adam and I aren’t exclusive. We don’t have a commitment. This doesn’t bother me.
I keep repeating these sentences to myself as I wrap the remainder of the meatloaf in tinfoil and place it in the fridge.
After all, I wasn’t exactly the paradigm of monogamy following my birthday, now was I?

I stare at my reflection in the kitchen window, trying to pinpoint how I’m feeling. I would never want Adam to know, but I’m stung. It’s the pride thing at work. How could he want to be with anyone else after being with me? I’m good in bed. Really good. I bump and grind and mash and lick with the best of them. So what if I close my eyes when I’m riding him and pretend he’s Russell Crowe? Don’t all women do that with their beau-hunk of choice, even the ones who are madly in love?

I refuse to think about the woman awaiting my lover’s arrival. (
Refuse
might be too strong a word, considering that I can’t help but think about her.) Probably young. Twenties with a killer body and huge breasts. I wonder if she’s in love with Adam, or he with her. By the tone of his text, I’d guess not, but who knows? Maybe he’s found his soul mate, and that’s why the sex
lst nite
was so freaking
hot.

Enough!
This is so not worth the energy I’ve already expended on it. I force all thoughts of Adam from my mind, with the aid of my cocktail. I slug down the rest of the drink, then tie up the garbage bag and head for the back door, Godiva at my heels.

Night has fallen, and a cool breeze caresses me as I step out onto the porch. I set the trash bag down on the patio and zip up my Splendid sweatshirt, then grab the bag and head for the barrels. Godiva bounds to the lawn and starts vigorously sniffing the area, as though she’s a police dog looking for a corpse. If she finds one, the joke will be on me.

On the side of the house, I find the three bins marked
Trash
,
Recyclables
, and
Vegetation
. I realize I should have recycled the paper plates and the Sprite can, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to forage through the trash bag now. I lift the lid of the brown bin and drop the bag in.

“Hey there.”

I recognize the voice immediately. I never forget the voice of a person who has insulted me. I wander to the wooden fence and peer over it. Matt Ryan sits in a patio chair in an alcove on the side of his house, a few feet from a blazing space heater. He wears faded jeans and a tattered blue long sleeve t-shirt. A guitar fits snugly in his lap. In the ashtray on the small table beside him rests a joint; I can tell by the sickly sweet smoke wafting into my eyes. Next to the ashtray is a bottle of Patrón and a shot glass.

“Hello.” My tone is curt. Not because I look down on pot-smokers and tequila drinkers, but because I’m still annoyed by the dressing-down he gave me this morning.

He strums the guitar once, then proceeds to noodle on it for a moment. I don’t think he’s trying to impress me, but I recognize talent when I hear it. Still, I keep my expression neutral.

“How’s it going?” he asks. He stands and places the guitar, strings down, against the chair then approaches the fence. His dark hair is tousled, his five o’clock shadow is peppered with the barest hint of grey. His dark blue eyes shine in the dim light.

“Fine,” I reply. “Just taking out the trash.”

He peers at me over the wooden slats. “No more AC/DC?”

I cock my head at him. “I traded it in.”

He nods and gazes at me appreciatively. “Better.” A chuckle escapes him. “Not that you didn’t rock the AC/DC tee.”

“Oh, sure. According to you, I looked like a head-case.”

“You’re not still peeved about that, are you? Come on. I bought you some quality beans this morning. Surely you can forgive a guy for making a joke.”

“I’m not good at being the brunt,” I admit.

“Allow me to make peace with you then,” he says. “I’ve got a bottle of tequila and some ganja. Prescription stuff for my dodgy shoulder. You can lambaste me properly for being an ass and we can move on.”

I shake my head, completely taken off guard. “No, thanks. I have to, uh…I’ve got a bunch of stuff…I really need to…”

He waits patiently for me to finish. As I struggle to come up with an excuse, I can’t help but acknowledge what a freaking hunk of a babe Matt Ryan is. If I were twenty-five and sitting in an Irish pub in New York, with the Knicks game on the TV, and Bugs Moran and the Trouble Boys playing their dance tunes on the stage in the next room, this would be the man I’d want to take home at the end of the night.

“Come on, Meg” he says. “Just for a few minutes.”

Godiva ambles over to me and licks my hand. Without a word to Matt, I tug at her collar and lead her into the kitchen. Then I close the door and tiptoe back to the barrels. Matt is still there, just beyond the wooden slats. He smiles when he sees me.

“The gate’s open,” he says, gesturing toward the front of the house.

One minute later, I’m on the other side of the fence.

Eleven

Barry:
Our guest today is the creator of the online dating site HeartsandSouls.com, and she’s going to tell us how to find true love. Um…Meg, where are you going?

Meg:
I’m just going to give myself a quick lobotomy, Barry. Be right back…

* * *

I shouldn’t do a shot. I know I shouldn’t. But the way Matt Ryan holds the shot glass out to me, a mischievous smile playing at his full lips, makes it hard to resist. And it feels so nice to just be me, not Auntie Meg or Big Sis, not playing a role or needing to be responsible for anyone other than myself. I know that tomorrow morning I will be back on duty, and I know that I cannot mess up. But right now, at this moment, I can do a shot with a handsome man and not worry about the consequences.

I glance at the ashtray. “This seems like a serious party for a Tuesday night.”

“I would think it’s tame, by New York standards,” he replies.

“Yeah, well, I’m not in my twenties anymore.”

“How old are you?” he asks. His tone is casual, as if it doesn’t make the slightest difference to him what my answer is. And why should it?

“Thirty-nine,” I say. The lie slides smoothly out of my mouth, but then, I’ve had a lot of practice with this particular falsehood. I take the shot glass from his fingers and down the tequila with one swallow. “So, what’s the occasion?”

Instead of answering, he picks up the guitar and starts plucking out the notes of the ‘Tequila’ song.’ When he finishes the stanza, he switches to ‘Tequila Sunrise.’

“You’re pretty good at that.”

“Thanks.” He stops playing long enough to do another shot. “This isn’t a party,” he tells me. “If it were a party, I’d have a piñata.”

The shot mixed with the vodka I ingested earlier is having a very mellowing effect on me. “Piñatas are great. I’ll take any excuse to swing a bat at an inanimate object that can’t fight back.”

He chuckles, a low throaty sound that vibrates through my bones. “I just had one of those days,” he says. “The kind that can only end with tequila and reefer.”

I think of South Coast Plaza and those five long minutes of sheer panic that felt like an eternity.