The Science of Loving (30 page)

“So what, you expect Bob to commit perjury?”

“You’d be surprised what people will do for you, if you ask.”

“So ask him.”

She grimaced. “He’s not taking my calls.”

“He’s pretty much a black and white kind of guy. He’s not going to lie for you.”

“He might not lie for me, but he would for you. Use that special relationship you have with him and ask for a favor. Just look at him with those big sad eyes, squeeze out a few tears…” She was unbelievable. “Don’t you shake your head at me. This is entirely your fault. We wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t gone crying to your father over that scene your boyfriend made.”

“Wow— Why would— Just— Wow… You know what? I’m done. This sounds like something you should discuss with your attorney.”

I practically sprinted for the door. This so messed up. I was reasonably sure conspiring to commit perjury was illegal. What was I supposed to do? Normally, I’d ask Daddy for advice, but I couldn’t this time. As for confiding in Mat, what if he really was only interested in me for my family’s money? I knew better than to overestimate my appeal, despite not seeing dollar signs in his eyes. But for the moment he was mine if my issues didn't drive him away first. And, after Monday’s events, I wasn’t about to share any more drama.

Jack answered my knock. “Hey, she just got home, so it’ll be a few minutes.”

“No worries, we’re just hanging out. How you doing?” I asked, offering my hand.

“Good… Good… Can I get you anything?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a beer.”

“Sure, make yourself at home.”

Handing me a sweating bottle, he settled on the sofa next to me as an episode of
Top Gear
filled the silence.
Holy shit
. Apparently, the show’s hosts seriously underestimated Louisianans’ propensity for violence, and were fleeing for their lives in graffitied cars, professing gay love and pro Hillary slogans.

“I’ll be glad once everything’s settled—the divorce I mean,” Jack said, not taking his eyes off the television. “I miss tinkering. I don’t know what to do with idle hands.” He took a slug of beer. “And, Angie needs her privacy, ‘though she’ll never admit it.”
Was this his way of saying he was okay with me bedding his daughter?

“Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take?”

“Optimistically? About six months. We have a prenup to deal with, but not all of it’s enforceable. Unlike Florida, where it was written, California’s a no fault divorce state. As soon as we’ve hammered out a separation agreement, I’ll start looking for a place of my own.”

“What part is unenforceable? I mean if you don’t mind me asking.”

“There’s a morals and infidelity clause, not that it matters, I’d never invoke it. I don’t want Angie exposed to that sort of ugliness.” How in the hell did such a good guy end up with someone like Stephanie?

“Hey.” Angie greeted me uneasily.

“Hey babe,” I grabbed her backpack. “Rough day?” I'd been around her enough to know something was weighing on her.

She shrugged. “Same as always. Daddy, are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. You got your phone? Mad money?” Jack turned to me. “And you, you take good care of my baby.” Silently adding ‘or else’ with a fatherly evil eye.

“Yes Sir.”

“Mad money?” I asked when we were driving down the street.

“Yeah, just in case things go south, I’m supposed to carry enough cash so I’m not stranded.”

“That’s cool. Have you ever had to use it?”

“Just once. The night of my one and only marriage proposal.”

“Go on…”

“Please, you don’t want to hear about that.”

“Oh, but I do.” I waited. If her fidgeting was any indication, this was one hell of a story.

“God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this… Okay, a few years ago, several months before my twenty-first birthday, a friend set me up on a blind date with this Navy guy. He was slightly plump, not fat really, just sort of doughy. But that was okay. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?” Christ, I hated when she put herself down like that. “It was even okay when he couldn’t read the menu at dinner. It was written in French after all, and I found his honesty and willingness to let me order for him refreshing. I’d chosen the restaurant knowing it was pricey, so I’d insisted on paying for dinner, but I asked him to pick up dessert so he could save face. Unfortunately, his idea of dessert was fruity drinks at a strip bar.”

“You’re shitting me.” I just couldn't imagine her in a place like that.

“Oh, I shit you not. He must’ve been a regular because they knew him by name and didn’t card me; they wouldn’t have let me in otherwise. Needless to say there was no second date.”

“So when did he propose?”

“Oh, on our way to get dessert. I think he only asked because he was living in the barracks, and he’d get extra money to live off base if he were married.”

“I wish I could’ve seen your face when you walked into the strip club.”

“Oh my God, this place wasn’t classy enough to call a club. The inside was red. Really, really red. I’m not talking about red accents and red furnishings; although, those were there too I think. It was hard to tell because everything was drenched in blood red light: Red floors, red ceilings, red patrons. It was like walking into a darkroom.

“There was this chubby stripper working its lone pole. She wasn’t really dancing, not like they do in the movies. She just wandered around in circles, randomly bending over to stick her butt in people’s faces. Her arms and legs had these dark splotches that I assume were bruises, and like everything else, she was red.”

“I can’t decide if I should laugh, or be horrified.” Laughter was definitely winning.

“Yeah, it’s horrifically funny now—” She returned my grin. “—but at the time, it was a little scary. I didn’t know what to do. I was trying to be a good sport, and not embarrass him in front of his friends. So, I smiled, laughed at his jokes, joined him on the dance floor when he asked. But when the D.J. and some of the other patrons started pressuring me to take off my clothes, I hightailed it outta there. Sadly, I never heard from him again.”

That was fucking hilarious, but if I ever met him, I was still kicking his ass. And any daughter of mine would definitely carry mad-money. “So I guess a lap-dance is out of the question, huh?” Or maybe not, going by the sparkle in her eyes. I hit the button on my visor and my steel doors rolled into motion.

“Are you offering me a lap-dance?” Her nervous blush ruined the coyness she was striving for—
oh, sweetness, you better believe you’re gonna get a lap-dance.

I pushed the button a second time to bring the doors back down. “Babe, I’m gonna rock your world.”

We sat in inky blackness once the doors clanked to a halt, shutting out the day, the engine ticking as it cooled. The leather creaked when she shifted as I cautiously reached for her shoulder strap; hoping I didn’t head-butt her in the dark because that would definitely spoil the mood. The back of my hand brushed over her breast as I followed it down to the buckle. When we got out the car’s cabin lights flashed on, shining long enough for us to reach the elevator which lit with the press of a button then rose with an electric hum to my sunlit living room.

After grabbing a couple beers, I settled on the couch, cuddling her in my arms. “So tell me about you’re same-as-always day.”

“Fruit-fly buggery’s not all that interesting,” she said, finding her beer suddenly fascinating. Yep, something was definitely up. “But on a totally random note: Did you know bonobos have orgies?”

“Yeah, they’re all about making love, not war.” I grinned; pleased I was able to surprise her. “I saw a BBC documentary on it. So what else happened?”

“What makes you think something happened?”

“Of course something happened; something’s always happening. Life is one long sequence of happenings—although, some argue only perceived events count in our personal realities.”

“If that were true, how can anyone’s existence be one long sequence? What about sleeping, or loss of consciousness?”

“Good question.” I pondered, stalling, trying to come up with some more bullshit. “How ‘bout this: Perhaps, life’s the compilation of a series of sequential happenings ordered by a singular awareness. Mmmmmm… But if that’s so, what about dreams? Do they count? Or only the dreams you can remember? And, if you can’t remember, did you really dream? What if you forget a real experience, does that mean it never occurred? Oh my God, what if you’re an amnesiac?! It’s a conundrum.”

“Yeah, especially for Schrödinger's cat.”

“Okay, enough channeling Timothy Leary, and quit trying to confuse me with sexy quantum mechanics references.” I dropped my voice. “Talk to me sweetness.” Her smile fled
—that’s right; I’m pulling out the big guns.
“Because I’m not fucking you senseless until I know what’s stressing you out.” I was lying of course, I was absolutely fucking her senseless, but she didn't need to know that.

“It’s nothing, really… I maybe had a small disagreement with my mom.”

“Uh huh. When, where, and about what?”

“This afternoon, at a restaurant.”

“And?”

“The divorce mostly. She wants me to convince Bob not to testify against her in divorce court.”
Motherfucker
.

“This is about the prenup, isn’t it?”

“Wait, how do you know about that?” She squirmed, trying to get free, not that I let her. “How does everyone hear about this stuff before me?”

“Your dad told me while I was waiting for you. Don’t worry; he’s not going to air your mom’s dirty laundry. Morals clauses aren’t enforceable in California.”

“Well, then I gave Mom good advice. I told her to talk to her attorney.”

“Okay, what else?”

“Men,” she said weakly.

“Men in general, or a specific man?”

“A little of both, I suppose.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“Shit. Let me guess, she thinks I’m not good enough for you.”

“No, she just pointed out our differences.” She sounded defeated, her voice tinged with bitterness. I waited for her to elaborate, hiding my smile when she gave in with a huff. “She said I wasn’t woman enough to keep a man like you.”
What. The. Fuck.

“I don’t care if she is your mom, that’s fucked up. You’re not buying into that crap, right.”

“No, of course not.” God, she was a terrible liar. Okay, I guess she needed to be shown. It would probably take all night… all day tomorrow… Mmmm… tomorrow night…

“Did she at least pay for lunch?”

“I didn’t stay for lunch, I lost my appetite.”

“Okay, dinner first. We can’t have you passing out from hunger while I’m demonstrating how much of keeper you are.”

“Sandwiches good for you?” Mat dragged me to the kitchen like a man on a mission, digging through the refrigerator, handing out packets of cheese and cold cuts.

“Sure.” I’d eat a bug if it stopped his questions. We worked side by side building our sandwiches. Mine, just a few modest layers of meat and cheese, with a bit of lettuce for some added crunchiness; his, a Dagwood, piled high with turkey, ham, salami, lettuce, tomatoes, two kinds of cheese, and—were those
jalapenos—
with a teetering slice of bread carefully placed on top—
there’s no way that’s going to fit into his mouth—
he admired it for a moment then using a giant paw, smashed it into submission.
Okay, it just might fit—barely.

We ate quietly, our mouths too full for conversation. I watched astonished, halfway through my second beer when he stuffed the last morsel into his mouth. “How can you eat like that and not weigh a million pounds?”

“You do see how big I am? This is just a snack to hold me over until an unsuspecting toddler strolls by—now, there’s a meal.”

“Any relation to Fat Bastard?”

“Yeah, he’s my Scottish third cousin twice removed… via Mexico… He’s known in the hood as
El Gordo Bastardo.
He’s the reason kilts and
mawashis
are banned at family gatherings.”

“
Mawashis
?”