Page 78 of Meet Cute Reboot
I guess this is it then. Things just got real.
Chapter 16
Luke
Monday mornings are a time for most adults to commute to work or, for those blessed to telework like me, it’s a time to put on a pot of coffee and crack open our laptops from the comfort of home—unless you’re the boss, like me, then you get to make up your own rules. That means when I let Korg out for his morning pee and find the lawn soaked with dew, a layer of fog gently blanketing the street, and a temperature that doesn’t make me feel like fried bacon, it’s time for some yard work.
I start with the rock beds out front. They’re dirtied up with grass clippings, dead leaves, and sticks from previous bush trimmings. Luckily, I have just the thing: a three-hundred-dollar 51cc Husqvarna backpack blower that I bought yesterday at Lowes.
Fine. The leaf blower is the real reason I’m in the mood for yard work. This thing’s a beast, a hairdryer on a heavy dose of steroids. It’s powerful. It’s loud. Especially at nine thirty in the morning. Ed might send me a letter of noncompliance in the mail, but at least my landscaping beds will be free of debris.
After blowing leaves from the river rock, I turn the high-powered current of air on Korg and part his hair every which way. He thinks he’s at the doggie spa, which he loves because of all the cooing and doting.
Ten minutes is about all I can take. I tuck the blower safely in my shed and pull out my leather gardening gloves and a spade.
My garden is in better shape than it was a few weeks ago, but it could still use some work. I contemplate the square of weeds for a moment and decide it’s time to employ heavy machinery. I’ll focus on the thorny bushes today, get rid of those, and then rent a cultivator to uproot the more benign weeds. Then, I’ll throw down a thick blanket of annual rye to choke out any weeds that dare to germinate. I’m not a farmer, but according to an article on Google, it should work.
I throw on my gloves and make quick work of the smaller sticker bushes, tossing them to the side to discard later. My previous experience with these nasty little buggers taught me that the larger ones have big roots. This time, I’m prepared with my spade to dig deep and loosen the surrounding soil. Unless I want thorns in my zucchini next year, I need to pull out the entire tap root.
Speaking of thorns in my side, Macy called me last night asking for more money. This time it’s her transmission. I get that an old Ford Focus can’t last forever, but five thousand dollars for parts and labor? Really?
“That’s the cost of a new car,” I blurted into the phone.
“A new car costs five times that.”
“I meant a used car.”
Can you hear a shrug? Because I’m pretty sure I heard her shrug.
Here’s where I could have cut it off. I could have said, “Look, Macy. This is starting to feel a little weird. Um, Gabe isn’t myson, and why am I still giving you money when you cheated on me and had a baby with another man?”
In hindsight, I should have ignored Macy all those years ago when she offered to buy me another mint julep.
We were at the SkyBar at the Waldorf Astoria in Las Vegas. I was hiding from my roomie, Jen Potts. Technically, Jen was my date. Girlfriend, I guess. We flew into Las Vegas for the weekend. Seemed like a good idea until I had to share a room with her and discovered she snored. Loudly.
On our previous dates, I’d left her apartment to the nasal tune of, “Stay the night this time, Boo Boo. I need to spoon.” Why I thought she’d make a good traveling companion is beyond me. I was trying to get back into the dating scene, still not over Cassie. Not thinking straight at all.
That night Jen decided to paint her toenails while watching Love Island and humming the Wii theme song, all while wearing a red negligee that I suppose was meant to put me in the mood. I’d hardly slept the night before, so the only thing it made me want to do was scream. I decided to head up to the bar instead.
I ordered myself a mint julep and stirred it with my mini straw, trying to think of ways I could head back to L.A. without Jen noticing. My sullenness attracted Macy’s attention. She was there for a bachelorette party. The wife-to-be was loaded, had paid their way, and showered them with expensive drinks and plenty of gambling money. Her friends had gone to their rooms to pass out, while Macy stayed to hit on me.
Macy and I sat at the bar all night and talked. Deep stuff, like our bucket lists, our wildest dreams, our past relationship failures. It was the first time I’d really connected with a woman since Cassie. I convinced myself we had something.
When I got back to the hotel room, I was frank with Jen. I told her I hated being called “Boo Boo,” I wasn’t a fan of video games, especially not the Wii, and therefore we needed to break up.
Back in L.A., Macy and I started spending all our free time together. We had our first fight only five days into the relationship. That night we made up in the bedroom. It was powerful. The cycle of fighting and making up.
We bonded like Gorilla Glue on...well...anything. Imagine gluing your thumb to your pointer finger with some strong GG. That’s what it was like. Me and Macy. Stuck together with water-activated polyurethane, impossible to tear apart without deadly chemicals and a fair amount of pain. If it sounds unhealthy, that’s because it was.
For nine months I thought I was going to be a dad. Nine months of shopping for baby clothes and toys and furniture. Nine months of decorating and planning and picking out names and facing my fears about being a parent. Nine months of settling in, deciding, yeah, I can do this, I can be a dad. And then seeing the baby, bloody and fresh out of the womb, my child. I shed tears.
And then Macy said he might not be mine. I don’t know why she waited until the child was in my arms. To amplify the cruelty? I thought I might die under the crushing weight of my shock, disappointment, outrage. Sorrow.
I handed her the baby, collapsed into the stiff recliner next to her bed and cradled my head in my hands. I knew what this was. Karma. Me reaping what I’d sown. The weight of my past indiscretions with women, from flirting when I was supposed to be committed, to outright cheating, I felt it all. I deserved it. What I put into the world I’d gotten back ten-fold. I wasn’t a dad. I was just a guy nobody needed, with a string of failed relationships behind me. Maybe that’s why I agreed to help Macy, despite what she’d done to me. She needed my money. At least someone needed me for something.
But I’ve healed. I’ve changed. I’ve moved on. Now, I need her to stop calling me, stop depending on me, stop asking mefor money. It’s all gotten too...unhealthy. That’s why when she asked me for five grand last night, I said, “I guess.”
Well done, self. Well done.