Push. Claire Wallis

Eleven

      Emma—Present Day

      David doesn’t say another word, but I can hear him walk down the hall to the bathroom. I finish making the salads and put the chops on a plate. I set the table, putting out utensils, napkins and place mats. I want to get us something to drink, but then I realize I don’t know what David likes to drink.

      “What’s your poison?” I ask him when he returns from the bathroom.

      “You mean other than redheads in heels?” he asks. I immediately walk out of the kitchen and put my shoes back on. I try to do it as seductively as I can, but I think it might look more cheesy than sexy. He’s looking at me in surprise, though, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger, so I know it worked. Me and my heels walk back into the kitchen where he can’t see me smiling.

      “Yes,” I say, “other than that.”

      “What are you having?” he asks.

      “You mean other than a good-looking, cocky bastard?”

      “Yes,” he chuckles, “other than that.”

      “I’m having a glass of red. But I have beer, too, if you’d rather have that.”

      “Yeah, um, about that, Emma,” he says, sheepishly, “you actually don’t have the beer anymore.”

      I put down the corkscrew and peek around the corner into the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa again, just like he was before. He looks over at me, and I put on my best ‘what are you talking about?’ face.

      “I had to get two of my guys to help me finish your kitchen today, and I gave them those two six-packs when they left,” he says.

      “Oh. Well, I guess this fine-ass kitchen was worth a couple of six-packs. Were they some of your friends from Saturday night, then?”

      “Yes. But, don’t worry, I made them go up to my place to use the bathroom. I don’t want them looking at your stuff,” he says. “Ever.”

      “I’m not worried one bit,” I say sarcastically, “especially now that I know we aren’t spending any energy on all that jealousy bullshit.”

      “Very funny,” he says. “Seriously, I was just as worried about them stealing something as I was about them looking in your bathroom drawers.”

      “I’m sure the tampons would have thrilled them,” I tease.

      “That’s the truth, Emma.” He is teasing me back now. “After seeing what you did on Saturday night, those fuckers probably would have jacked off in there if they could have.”

      “Someday I will have to meet these gentlemen,” I mock. “It’s a rare breed that is willing to jack off to a box of tampons. They sound like people I might like.”

      “Maybe you could introduce them to your grandma,” David says in complete deadpan.

      “Now there’s an idea!” I carry the full plates out of the kitchen. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m completely famished now. And my grandma died a long time ago, so your friends are out of luck. Unless they are into that, too....” I cannot believe I just said that.

      “Wouldn’t surprise me,” David says, in jest—I hope, anyway.

      When he gets to the table, he adds, “This looks great, Emma. Thanks.”

      I open the bottle of red and pour us each a glass. We sit down opposite each other and start to eat.

      “So, if you weren’t here eating with me, where would you be?” I ask him out of pure curiosity.

      “Probably upstairs eating a sandwich or something. I’m not much of a cook. My mom died when I was eight, and my dad pretty much raised me—if you wanna call it that. He didn’t even know how to turn on the oven, let alone cook something in it. We ate a lot of fast food.” I can’t tell if he looks sad or if it’s merely resignation on his face.

      “Oh. I’m sorry about your mom. Mine’s gone, too. She died when I was eighteen, a few months after I went to college. Car accident,” I say quietly. “Is your dad still around?”

      “Yeah, but he lives in Illinois, where I grew up. I haven’t seen him in years. We didn’t get along so well. Actually, he might remind you of your stepdad.”

      “Oh, I doubt that,” I say, pouring on the inflection. “Michael is one hell of a fucked-up asshole. I don’t think anyone is rotten enough to deserve that comparison.” I sigh softly, then I quietly add, “I don’t know what kind of man your dad is, but he can’t possibly be like Michael.” I am hanging my head now. For some reason I can’t put my finger on, I feel ashamed of myself. Ashamed that Michael is—was—part of my life.

      “What did he do, Emma?” I can hear the apprehension in David’s voice, but I can’t bring myself to look up at him. “What happened?”

      There is no way in this fucking world I am going to tell David about Michael. Frankly, I have never told anyone about the extent of Michael’s depravity. About all the crap he’s done. I don’t want David’s pity. I don’t want anyone’s pity.

      “He’s just a fucked-up asshole,” I say again emphatically, looking up at David. “That’s all.” He’s staring at me now, and I can tell that he wants to ask me more, but he doesn’t. He just cocks his head to the side and takes another bite of dinner.

      “Well, my asshole dad was a drinker. He probably still is. And the trouble with Pops is that he was never a nice drunk. Rather belligerent, actually. Things at my house were usually completely out of hand. I just tried to stay the hell out of his way,” David says. “The only good thing he ever did for me was make me his apprentice. He’s a master carpenter and has his own construction business. Eventually I became a journeyman, and I worked for him for a couple of years before I moved to New Orleans when I was twenty-one.”

      “How long did you live there?” I ask, thankful that the subject is no longer Michael.

      “Almost three years,” he says, “then I moved here because I needed to get the hell out of New Orleans.”

      “The fucked-up girlfriend?” I ask.

      “Yeah, pretty much,” he says with a shrug, not offering anything more.

      We sit in silence for a few minutes, eating and drinking. I admit that I am almost relieved to hear that his family is nearly as messed up as mine. I feel as if he’s less likely to judge me because of it, and that makes me happy.

      “So, you’ve got a couple of brothers, huh?” he asks. Michael’s words from the other night bite into me. “Older or younger?”

      “They’re both way older than me. Evan by six years and Ricky by eight. By the time they graduated from high school, they were a couple of complete football-playing dicks, but looking back on it, I learned a lot about life because of them, I guess. I definitely learned to stand up for myself. And they kind of taught me how to watch my back. Mostly because they never had my back, so I had to look out for myself, you know? Let’s just say they did not turn out to be protective big brother types. Quite the opposite actually.” Not for the first time, I wonder what life would have been like if Michael had never entered our family. “What about you? Brothers or sisters?”

      “Nah. It was just me,” he answers. “My parents didn’t even want the one they had, so they definitely weren’t going to make any more.”

      “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. I wonder how he knows his parents didn’t want him, but I decide I’d better not ask. I probably won’t like the answer.

      We both empty our plates and finish our wine, and as I carry everything into the kitchen to wash up I realize I never actually thanked him for my fine-ass kitchen.

      “Thank you, David, for my new kitchen,” I say as he follows me into the kitchen. “I love it, and I know that you said that Carl is paying for it, but