You & Me

We took Landon’s car, a slick, shiny, low-slung BMW. It purred under the hood, and the inside looked like a NASA spaceship. Super high-tech.

I almost fell through the floorboards when I tried to climb in. The front passenger seat seemed to be all the way in the back seat.

“Sorry!” Landon said. “Bowen was in here. You’ll have to scoot the seat forward.”

I did, holding my ankles up in the air as we waited, and waited, and waited, for the seat to arrive at a position where I didn’t feel like I was sitting in a child’s high chair. We were both giggling when I was finally seated, the heaviness of our conversation in the stadium gone like a helium balloon had popped and left us giddy.

“What are you in the mood for?” Landon asked.

“Anything. I’m an adventurous eater.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows rose. “Do you cook?”

“I’m an adventurous eater when I go out. Cooking in—” I grimaced. “Well, Emmet hasn’t died of malnutrition in the past year. That’s probably because he lives on protein shakes and cereal.”

“You take your wins where you can.”

“You’re clearly a top chef.”

“What?”

“You have the vibe of one. You have copper pots and pans, don’t you? The fancy ones from Williams Sonoma. And a bunch of cooking dishes from… what’s that ridiculous French line called?”

“Le Creuset?”

“Yeah, that one. You knew the name, so you must have their dishes. Ergo, you’re a top chef.”

“I’m flattered, but I don’t think your deductive reasoning is on point here. Just having the dishes makes me a top chef? I could own it all for show, or own it all and abuse it in the kitchen. Make grilled cheese or heat up green beans from a can.”

I arched my eyebrows. He had the grace to at least try to look ashamed through his grin.

“You’ll have to come over and eat, is all I’m saying, if you’re going to accuse me of being a good cook. You need experiential proof.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but sure. I’ll take you up on the challenge.”

We were both smiling as Landon pulled into a cozy parking lot in front of a small strip mall behind the Target. In front of us was a neon sign that advertised Shiner beer in a set of blacked-out windows. “This looks mildly shady.”

“Doesn’t it? I’ve never been here before, but I’ve heard rave reviews.”

“Where are you taking me?”

He kept quiet as we clambered out of his sports car like we were doing squats. His entire car didn’t come up to the floorboard of my truck.

The whole way to the front door, I peppered Landon with guesses about where we were. I followed him like he was the mother duck and I was his duckling, and as soon as he opened the blacked-out door, I peeked over his shoulder.

The place was a sports bar and counter-service barbecue joint, exceedingly local, the windows blacked out to prevent the glare of headlights from bouncing off the TVs mounted on the walls. There was a scatter of tables covered in red-and-white-checked tablecloths, topped with rolls of paper towels, ketchup, and mustard. I smelled barbecue, vinegar, the tang of a deep fryer.

Landon twisted toward me as we walked to the counter. “I didn’t even ask if you like barbecue.”

“I’m Texan.”

“Are you all born loving barbecue and football?”

“Barbecue, yes.” I shrugged. “The football genes missed me. So, what’s good here? What are you getting?”

“I’ve heard the baked potatoes are as close to seeing God as you can get. Pick your meat: brisket, pulled pork, sausage, or burnt ends. They’ll make a loaded baked potato and smother it with your meat, then you smother it with BBQ sauce, and—” His eyes rolled back, and he bit the air. “Heaven.”

“I’ll get two baked potatoes,” I said to the lady behind the register. “With…”

“Brisket,” Landon said. “But what are you doing? I was going to buy you dinner.”

“You’re going to cook for me, right? I’ll buy tonight.”

Landon huffed and dramatically put his wallet back in his pocket. I caught the edge of his gaze lingering on me as I paid, but when I turned to hand him his soda cup, he was checking his phone.

He was right, the food was divine. I gorged myself on my baked potato, eating so fast my cheeks ballooned. I had to bring one of these home for Emmet. He’d love it. I hoped.

“What do you do?” Landon asked. “Other than now being a part of the coolest parent group in the town. Where do you work?”

“I have the world’s most boring job.”

“You’re an accountant?”

“That might be more exciting,” I warned. “I’m a health insurance broker. I sell insurance plans to midsize companies. If your company needs new health insurance—and it seems everyone is trying to change their plans each year—they come to me to seek options.”

Landon nodded. His expression was perfectly polite, perfectly neutral. “And is that what you always wanted to do?”

“Absolutely not. I started as an account coordinator almost twenty years ago.” I scrubbed my hand over my face. The years were adding up. “I needed a job and that was who hired me. We found out we were pregnant with Em when I was still in college. Riley was a graduate student. She was brilliant, but not the most employable. Grad school was where she thrived.”

He nodded. “Reality sets in quick when you have a child.”

“It does. I thought I’d be there for a year. Maybe three, until I found my footing. Here I am.” I balled up my napkin and tossed it into my empty food basket. “There went being interesting and fun. I used to be a punk rocker and an art major. Now my days are full of policy reviews and actuarial tables.”

“Oh, what kind of art did you do?”

“Drawing, mostly. Pencil and inks.”

“Do you still?”

I gnawed on the inside of my lip. “I haven’t, not since Emmet and I stopped coloring together. My muse disappeared, I guess.” I leaned my elbows on the edge of the table. “What about you? What do you do? Is it what you imagined you’d be when you were in college?”

“We Mormons really like our life plans. So, yes, I wanted to be a lawyer, and here I am. I majored in pre-law at BYU, worked for a firm, went back to law school.” He rattled off his achievements with rolls of his hands. “But my life is nothing like I imagined it would be when I was younger. I didn’t think I’d be living in Texas, for one. And I had no idea it was possible to be this happy with myself.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” All my memories rattled again, like ghosts in chains. My marriage, the slow disintegration of it. The me that was a debauched twenty-two-year-old, and the me now at forty. “I think that’s where Riley and I struggled. Our lives ended up so different from who we imagined ourselves to be. Or maybe who we even wanted to be.”

“Who do you want to be?”

Myself. I wanted to be me, but I wasn’t sure who that was anymore. The dreams I’d had twenty years ago didn’t fit. Now, I was a man defined by my relationships with other people: Riley’s widow and Emmet’s father.

“I’m not sure. Guess I have to figure that out, like you did.”

Landon held my stare as he reached for his soda.

“As an apostate, you’re allowed to drink soda and coffee now?”

He laughed again. I smiled whenever he laughed. It was so joyous, so unexpected. So loud and warm and open. “I drink Diet Dr Pepper every day, but I never acquired a taste for coffee. I do drink red wine, though, and let me tell you, that was a big day when I took my first sip of alcohol.”

“You’re a regular sin wagon, aren’t you?”

He grinned and checked his phone. “We’ve got twenty minutes until we need to get back. I’m going to order a potato for Bowen. You want to get one for Emmet?”

“Yeah.”

We ordered for our kids and then bundled back into Landon’s BMW. “Crap,” I said as he passed a 7-11. “Can you swing around? I need to pick something up.” Landon parked me at the front door of the mini-mart ten seconds later. “I’ve got to get milk for Emmet,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt.

“Protein shakes?”

“It’s unbelievable how many of those he drinks, and how much milk we go through.”

“I looked into getting a cow once. I thought it might be cheaper to build a barn in the backyard and make Bowen milk it every morning.” Landon pulled out his wallet and passed me a five. “Can you grab a gallon for Bowen, too?”

“Of course. But tell me more about the cow. That’s a brilliant idea. Would it work?”

“It was the cost of feed that ruined my plan. It would be like having another teenager in the house. Maybe if we went halfsies? Split the milk between our boys?”

My cheeks ached as I moved through the mini-mart. What was this I was feeling? I was goofing around with Landon, and it felt good. Real good.

We made it back before the end of practice, in time to catch the last few minutes of the junior varsity scrimmage coached by Bowen, Emmet, and Jason. According to the scoreboard, the defense was formidable—a brick wall—and there had been no points scored. Good job, Em.

Landon and I waited for Emmet and Bowen by the end zone while the players filed out. A few stayed back to ask questions, and I got to see Emmet in coach mode. He wasn’t effusive or gregarious, but he was patient. Focused. Intense. And he gave a flicker of what could have been a smile to Bowen when he clapped his friend on the back and said, “Great practice.”

Before I left with Emmet, Landon asked, “See you tomorrow at the game?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

I’d left the milk and Emmet’s potato in the truck with the air-conditioning going. Emmet gave me a look when he saw the front seat was occupied by a gallon of milk, but other than that, the drive home was less tense than Tuesday. It was still silent, but there was a less vicious edge to Emmet’s ignoring me. He tapped at his phone screen with less hostile rage.

He slammed things around less in the kitchen, too, while he made his protein shake. As predicted, he ran out of milk, but I passed him the new gallon and he grunted something that might have sounded like thanks.

I reheated his potato and put it on a plate. “Try this. I think you’ll like it.”

He stared at me, but the promise of calories was a siren’s lure. I’d picked pulled pork—he used to eat pulled pork sandwiches when he was nine—and I hoped that was still an acceptable meat choice.

Apparently it was, because after a tentative first bite, Emmet dug in. He alternated shovelfuls of baked potato with sips of his banana-flavored protein smoothie. The mixture made me want to gag, but this was twice we’d eaten near each other. That had to be progress.

“The team dinner was cool. I liked watching you practice.”

“You left practice.”

“Landon said Bowen doesn’t like a lot of people seeing what he’s doing out there. He said he usually only watches a little bit.”

Emmet shrugged and chewed. “You going to the game tomorrow?”

“I am.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

I bit back on a curl of hurt. “I’m learning. I wish your mom had taught me everything she knew years ago, but now, Landon is teaching me. Hopefully he’s as good a teacher as Bowen was with you.”

Wrong thing to say. I could tell as soon as the words left my lips. Emmet glowered. Shut down. He glared at the table, tossed his fork onto the center of his empty plate. Rose, and dumped both into the kitchen sink with a clatter before he retreated, heading upstairs to hide in his room.

“Good night Emmet,” I called after him.

Footsteps thunked up each step. There was a pause at the upstairs landing. “Thanks for dinner,” Emmet grunted. A moment later, his bedroom door shut.

Later, after I’d brushed my teeth and fell into bed, and while I was staring at my ceiling and turning the day over in my mind, my phone buzzed on my nightstand.

Landon had texted. I think you’re still fun and interesting.

I smiled. I didn’t feel fun, and I didn’t feel interesting, especially not compared to Landon. But tonight had been, hands down, the best night I’d had in years. Thanks, I texted. You’re fun and interesting too. It was great to chat and hang.

It was. I’m glad you signed up to volunteer.

Thank you for making me do this.

Let’s keep talking about that cow. 😉

He could make me laugh, even at home, alone in my cold and empty bed. We need to consider the manure situation as well.

Oh crap.

Literally.

We’ll have to befriend a farmer. They like manure, right?

I think they like manure once a year. For fertilizing.

Every third Texan is a rancher. I leave the manure situation in your capable Texan hands.

I huffed again, chuckling. Every third Texan is not a rancher. You made that up.

Maybe. 🙂 But at least I was right about all Texans liking BBQ. Thank you again for dinner.

I expect gourmet cuisine in return.

The pressure is on!

Chop chop!

There was a lull, several minutes that passed without a text. I kept the screen from going to sleep as I lay on my side and waited.

What was I doing? Staring at my phone as I waited for a text from my new friend? I powered off my screen and set it on my nightstand.

Only to roll back over and grab it when it buzzed. Sorry, Bowen barged in. Teens believe they’re the center of the world, don’t they? I was never like this, I’m sure.

I snorted. You ask your mom or dad about that? They might laugh in your face. I flinched after I hit Send. Landon hadn’t mentioned his parents, and I didn’t know how they’d taken his coming out. Was he an apostate from his own family as well as the church?

My mother did laugh when I told her this. Long and hard and very rudely.

Thank God. Sorry, I meant to ask if you were close with your parents. That could have been a bear trap.

Yes, it could have. Luckily for you, my parents and I are fine. My siblings… Not so much.

Big family?

Mormon. Four brothers, one sister. I don’t talk to any of them.

I’m sorry.

Their loss.

Yeah. Their loss. I tapped the edge of my phone, then quickly typed, So what’s up with Bowen?

Eye roll emoji. He needs to dress up at school tomorrow for the game. All the captains do. Does Emmet have something to wear? Nice slacks and a button-down shirt? He’ll need a tie, too.

Uhh. Did Emmet have anything like that? He was my height but significantly more muscular. My clothes could fit inside his clothes with room to spare. I’ll need to check.

Bowen apparently hadn’t washed the one pair of khakis he owns, or his favorite button-down, since he came back from Utah. It was still in a ball in his suitcase. God, teens are gross. So now those are in the washer and in about an hour and a half, he’ll be ironing.

I’m going to go check on Em.

It was after ten, and I was already in boxers and a T-shirt and ready for bed, but Emmet was still awake. I heard his keyboard clacking and the soft pulse of hip hop as I knocked. “Em?”

There was a long pause before he cracked open the door. He looked at me like Dracula must have looked at anyone who disturbed his slumber. “Dad?”

One word had never stretched so far to hold so much confusion and disdain.

“You need to dress up tomorrow for the game. Are your clothes ready?”

He pushed open his door. He had a pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt hanging on the back of his closet. They were rumpled and wrinkly, like he’d left them too long in the dryer before taking them out.

“Do you have a tie?”

“I’m borrowing one from Bowen.”

Who was probably borrowing two from Landon. “I can give you one of mine.”

He shot me a look. Not quite a glare, not quite a refusal. I held out my hand. “I’ll iron those for you.”

Another long stare. He didn’t move, not until I shook my hand at him. Emmet grabbed the hanger with all the reluctance of a prisoner and passed it over while keeping as far from me as he could. He wouldn’t look at me, and he didn’t say anything.

“I’ll leave them on your doorknob when I’m done.”

He grunted.

Back in my room, I texted Landon a picture of Emmet’s clothes wrinkled and rumpled on my ironing board. Two for two.

These kids. He sent me a laughing emoji.

Ironing ate up twenty minutes. I hated ironing, but we didn’t have a ton of money for dry cleaning, so I did it. Every weekend, five polos or button-downs and three pairs of slacks. I could add Emmet’s clothes in, if he needed them. I could do that for him.

Picking a tie for my son was harder. What would he hate the least? I barely wore ties anymore. I had a few that Emmet had picked out for me over the years, from Father’s Day or Christmases. One of my favorites came from him, a silk tie patterned to look like a handkerchief. It was a subtle nod to Texas, and looking at it, I wondered what Landon would think. I pulled it and a plain navy blue one and laid them over the shoulders of Emmet’s shirt. He could pick which to wear.

I flopped back in bed and grabbed my phone. Well, he won’t look like a heathen tomorrow. At least, his clothes won’t.

You’re a good dad. I’m making Bowen iron his own clothes. Teaching moment.

I was a guilt-stricken dad, desperate to love on my son. If I could iron for him, I would. Or keep him stocked with milk. Or buy him a cow.

Landon texted again as I struggled with what to say next. I’ll see you tomorrow at the game. Night, Luke.

Night. And thanks. For everything.