My mind kept churning during the night, thinking about what would happen if my parents make good on their threat. And about how much I would miss the company if I lose my job. How much I would miss being a part of something greater than myself. I thought about how disappointed my parents might be over that, and how they likely wouldn’t relent, even with time, because when my mom says something she actually means, she’s not easy to talk out of it. She never could be swayed. It sucked as a kid because she actually followed through with the punishments she threatened.
I felt bad about the date too. I gave Rowan a hard time, and I wasn’t nice to her. I pressed her hard and pushed her until she actually showed a bit of the rage I worked her up to. It wasn’t exactly my proudest moment, and the way the date that wasn’t a date ended… I seriously didn’t plan it, and I did feel bad that she had to catch a cab.
I’m not sure what I planned to do instead. Walk Rowan to her front door like a gentleman? Kiss her goodnight? For some reason, I don’t hate the idea as much as I should. The stiffening in my jeans is proof of that. Some of those restless moments from last night might have been spent thinking about Rowan’s finer details.
Her beautiful eyes with the dark, thick fringe of lashes. Her dainty, straight nose. Her sharp cheekbones and sweet jawline. Her full lips with their beautiful natural coral pink color.
I cut the thoughts off before they became anything more than PG-rated, I swear I did. Any thoughts about Rowan’s womanly assets were above clothes only. I didn’t want to think about her in any form, so I made sure to change the direction my mind was going before a total train wreck occurred.
I still have to maintain communication with her for two more dates. I won’t even be able to talk to her on the phone if I had thoughts about her that were less than gentlemanly.
What’s going on in my jeans right now can’t be helped. My dick just happens to have a mind of its own, and right now, it wishes I could have given Rowan a goodnight kiss and maybe even more. Would she have asked me up to her apartment?
Of course not. Fake dates and dry runs don’t include humping on her couch for a few hours after the fact. Get a serious grip here, asshole.
That’s right. I am an asshole. I called myself an asshole all night, and I’m starting to realize that even in the light of morning, I’m still an asshole. Maybe if I hadn’t acted like an asshole for so many years, I wouldn’t be here now.
The windshield finally clears off, along with the windows. I put the car in reverse and back down the driveway. When I hit the street, I turn on the music, which is paired with my phone. It’s Sunday, and normally that means game day somewhere, a few beers here or there, or good BBQ, but I don’t currently feel like doing any of those. I do want to talk to someone—if just to work through my confusion and frustration—but there isn’t a single person I can think of who I’d actually want to do some serious unburdening to, which says a lot about me and my current choices over the years.
Actually, I can think of one person, but she’s off-limits. Totally off-limits.
What did Rowan say to me last night? Right. That I’m basically an immature trash can with a pile of rotting garbage—like garbage in the summer heat. It pissed me off to hear that last night, but after a night of unfortunate soul searching that I should have followed up with a cold shower to show my dick who’s boss, I can see how the things she said to me might have some merit.
Instead of hitting up a coffee shop, I find myself en route to my parent’s house. It might be lame to unburden myself to my dad, but I happen to know my mom has a crocheting circle with her friends on Sunday mornings every week. My dad does all his errands on Saturday, so Sunday morning, he saves for doing absolutely nothing.
We’re not one of those families who knocks. I know the passcode for the door, so I let myself in. I find Dad in the living room in front of the TV, enjoying what is probably his eighth cup of coffee for the morning, and it’s just past ten.
Dad always did get up early, even on the weekends.
Neither of us says anything when I walk into the room and sit down on the other end of the couch. It’s leather, but it’s well-worn in and comfortable now. I wait. Dad waits. I wait some more. Finally, Dad sighs.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?”
I already know what’s coming, but I play along anyway. “Sure.”
“Kitchen’s that way,” Dad points. “Help yourself.”
This is an old joke between us. My dad stopped doing things for me around the house when I was about twelve and was old enough to learn how to put my own dishes in the dishwasher and pack my own lunch. The same went for coffee. If I wanted it, I could make it for myself.
I nod and plod into the kitchen. My parents are old-school and have a regular coffee maker. I think it cost twelve dollars when it was new, and they’ve had it for somewhere right around five hundred and forty-two years. The coffee
