Confessions of a Bad Boy (21 page)

I
’m driving
to meet Kyle at a taco place in Malibu, right off PCH. It’s a sunny Saturday, not too hot, and there’s the glorious kind of mid-day light over L.A. that almost makes you forgive living in a city of smog. But I’m gripping the wheel so tightly that my knuckles feel like they’re locked, and even the a/c can’t stop the uncomfortable prickliness running down my spine.

I park the BMW and get out, too lost in my own thoughts to even acknowledge the flirty comment from a girl in yoga pants walking past. Striding toward the stand purposefully, the rest of the world out of focus, I eventually see Kyle notice me and grin.

“Hey buddy!” he says, as we grab hands.

“Hey man, good to have you back,” I say, falling into our habitual way of talking, but still locked in an internal wrestling match.

“Believe me,” he says, already turning towards the stand, “not as good as I feel being back. Shit!”

“How was London this time?”

“Better the second time around. I never had to kiss so much ass in my life – not outside a bedroom anyway.”

“But you got the contract back?” I say, as we line up.

“Eventually. But having to go over there again means I’m way behind on my work for everyone else. I’m at the limit, dude. And this jet lag! How about you?”

“I’m good, same old,” I say, before turning to order, glad to be cut off from making small talk.

We grab our food and make our way to some benches, the beach off to one side, L.A. traffic on the other. I tear into my food like I’m really hungry, even though my stomach’s turning so much I can barely chew.

I’ve been visualizing this moment for days. Turning it over in my mind as if looking for the key. Short and sweet, no. That’s an invitation for a reaction. Take my time, let him know I’m serious. He probably wouldn’t let me get that far. I’ll do what I always do, try and go with the flow. Or maybe not.

“What’s up?” Kyle says, licking his teeth and wiping his fingers already.

“You finished that quick,” I say, nodding at his plate. “Maybe they think you can do more than one person’s work because you eat enough for a whole group.”

“Ha! Sure. Well, if you work like you eat,” he says, nodding at the taco I’ve been holding in my hand for a full fifteen minutes, “I’m surprised they even pay you.”

I try to laugh, and immediately realize how difficult it is. I suddenly have a whole new appreciation for people who fake emotions.

“Hey, I gotta tell you about this British chick I met. Jesus H. Christ!”

I raise an eyebrow and pretend to carry on chewing so I don’t have to answer.

“She was working in the hotel I was staying at. They made them wear these dorky uniforms, but even in those clothes this girl was enough to make your eyes water. I’m talking grade-A ass, dude. I seriously didn’t think the Brits made them like that. Anyway, so I call for room service one day, right? And…”

Kyle draws out the story and I make as if listening, familiar enough with his tone that I can nod and smile at all the right parts, but inside I’m tightening up like somebody’s got me in a chokehold. I look down at my half-eaten plate and suddenly feel disgusted, the noise of cars and people talking around us suddenly filtered through a fog. I put my taco down and wipe my fingers, concentrating on it so that Kyle doesn’t notice how seasick I’m feeling. I push every bit of strength in my body to the surface, bracing myself, tightening my focus to the job at hand. It only works when I think about why I’m doing this.

Jessie.

Her face. Her voice. Just thinking of them makes me feel a burst of adrenaline, a surge of strength. I imagine her smile, and it’s like a tonic for all the queasy shakiness in my gut. I haven’t even told her what I’ve decided yet, but if I can get through to her brother, maybe he can help me win her back. Because I think I’m finally ready to step up. Am I one hundred percent sure? Truthfully, no. But I’m willing to try. That’s what you do when you care about someone as much as I care about Jessie. And as for the pregnancy – even if she hates me, I hope she’ll at least let me be there for her. Help out however I can. Support her and…it.

A fresh wave of nausea washes over me, and I take a long drink of my beer. It doesn’t help. Meanwhile Kyle’s still talking, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

“…I was hoping for a repeat on the last night, but she texts me that she had to swap a shift. Dude, I was so fucking gutted. I’ll tell you one thing, though, she’s almost better over text than in bed. Shit, I never liked that ‘sexting’ crap, but this girl can say things that’d make porn stars blush. Plus, it’s the only action I’m gonna get now that I’ll be stuck to my desk twenty-four seven again. You think I should ask her to fly to L.A. for a weekend?”

“You spoken to Jessie?” I interrupt, trying to sound casual instead of strangled. I fail.

Kyle’s enthusiastic demeanor drops the second I mention her name, the thrill in his eyes when talking about the ‘British chick’ suddenly replaced by the concerned frown he usually wears when talking about his little sister.

“I tried to,” he says, his voice now tinged with indignant exasperation, “she says she wants to talk to me, but…well, you know how it is. I work a lot, she works a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“I get the impression she’s avoiding me, though. I know you’ll say that’s bullshit, but I tell you, dude, something’s going on. You know anything about it?”

This is it. There won’t be a better opportunity than this. I look up at Kyle, who notices that I don’t respond quickly, that I’m not jumping in with my usual ‘I’m sure she’s fine’ or ‘let her live her own life.’ His glare turns from casual annoyance to severe worry, and I think of her face once again to draw strength.

“Actually, yeah. It’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Kyle doesn’t say anything, just twists his lips as if preparing to get angry. I take a few deep breaths as I figure out where best to start.

“That day you came to her house, back early from your trip, and I told you I was there because Jessie had broken up with her ex. Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember, I spent the next three nights waiting for that asshole to come by again.”

“Right. Well, the truth is that I wasn’t there because of that. It wasn’t that she’d broken up with her ex.”

“What?” Kyle says, his frustration growing. “They didn’t break up? You mean she was still seeing him?”

“Not him. But…she was seeing someone.”

Kyle shakes his head as if it’ll remove his confusion.

“Who? Fucking hell, Nate. Just tell me who.”

Her face. Focus. Don’t back down.

“Me.”

Kyle’s face has never been the most expressive, but in the few seconds following my answer it goes through pretty much the entire range. Amusement, shock, intense rage, concentrated scrutiny, tortured uncertainty, and back to rage again.

“The fuck? Hold up…I don’t get it. What are you saying?”

“Jessie and I were…seeing each other. For a while.”

Kyle slams the bench so hard the metal rivets holding it to the ground probably loosen. In a smooth gesture of animalistic power he leaps up from it and moves backwards, pacing away from it, hand clutching his scalp like he’s trying to contain the ferocity of his thoughts. I get up as well and step to the side. Kyle turns around and starts stalking toward me, finger pointed, his stride sideways and low, like he’s already prepared to start throwing punches.

“This is one hell of a sick fucking joke, Nate,” he says, his face flickering between a humorous smile and gritted anger maniacally. “I’m under a lot of pressure right now, dude. Last thing I need is to be getting wound up like his.”

“I’m not joking,” I say, backing away, holding my palm up like I’m taming a lion without a whip. “I’m coming clean.”

Kyle doesn’t think about his next move, his arm is pulled back before I even get the last word out. He swings, hard and straight. He’s fast, but I’m faster. I duck it and sidestep, but only because Kyle’s too angry to read me, and I know how he throws first punches.

Shouts rise from the people seated at the benches around us, a few of them getting up quickly and moving away.

“Did you fuck her?!” Kyle screams, as I back away again. “Did you fuck my sister?!”

I back up into a bench, with no more room behind me, and Kyle bearing down on me still.

“Yes, but—”

There’s no time for me to get another word out as Kyle throws himself forward. I sweep myself aside once again, this time barely escaping, his fist catching my side a little. A little being enough to knock most of the wind out of me.

“But it’s more than that!” I call out now, partly because Kyle seems to be getting angrier, and partly because there’s a crowd being drawn around us now. “I care about her!”

“You’re my best fucking friend!” Kyle cries out, as I move around and put a bench of scared taco-eaters between us. “You’re supposed to fucking protect her – not
use
her!”

“I didn’t use her!” I reply, shimmying around to keep the table in between us. “I swear, it just happened.”

“Agh!” Kyle says, stopping to wince a little. “Don’t act like I don’t know you, asshole. You make fucking videos, dude! I bet you made videos when you were fucking her!”

There’s no time for a response as Kyle leaps up onto the table, half-eaten tacos shooting everywhere as his boots send them flying. I back up just in time to avoid having him drop the full force of his weight on top of me. It’s a close call, but it doesn’t leave me with anywhere else to go. The crowd closes behind him, and there’s nothing but a parking lot fence behind me. Kyle knows it, and he moves slow now as he squeezes me into the corner.

“You’re the one fucking guy I expect to understand, Nate. The one fucking guy I trust. You can have any fucking girl you want, and you do
this
? Why? Why do this to her? To me? To all of us?”

Kyle’s three steps away. He only needs two to throw a punch. I know it’s coming, and I know this time he won’t miss.

“Because I love her.”

Then everything goes black.

T
hey say
in tough times you realize who your friends are. What they don’t say is that losing your friends is the toughest time of all. I take Robinson’s advice for once and spend the next few days working from home. Partly because the only task I can muster up enough energy to do is order pizza, and partly because I don’t feel like coming up with a story to explain my black eye.

The throbbing, swollen bruise is nothing compared to the searing sense of dejection. I sit in my apartment, wearing nothing but boxer-briefs, and wallow in the miserable realization that if I never left the house again, the only two people who’d give a fuck are the two people I’ve just destroyed my relationships with. I check my phone for what could be the thousandth time since I got up three hours ago, and sift through the messages looking for their names. I don’t see them.

This is it; rock bottom. Knuckles raw from entire nights hitting the punching bag, trying to push the frustrating anger of my mistakes out of my flesh. Nights out that end with me blind-drunk in the back of a cab rather than bare-naked in some random woman’s apartment. My apartment trashed from the random rages that overwhelm me in the middle of the night, as if physical strength is the last thing I’ve got to depend on. If only it was that easy.

I could have taken Jessie seriously when she told me how she was feeling, instead of still regarding her as the immature kid that always followed us around. I could have at least tried to stop it when it was just fun, could have gone out and found another girl to fuck and see how I truly felt. I could have told Kyle the second we came back from the retreat. Shit, I should have stopped to talk properly with Jessie about what we were doing while we were there. Though if there’s one thing I can still forgive myself for, it’s not thinking straight when me and Jessie were burning for each other. Even now, even with the dull ache that thinking of her causes in my chest, I realize how amazing she is, how much I still want her.

I get up off the couch, but only to mope around the apartment like a caged animal. I used to like my place, until it started feeling a little small, but now it feels like a prison of my own making. A monument to what an asshole I am. The condoms I put in discreet but easy-to-reach places in all the rooms. The soundproofing in the door frames I had to put in when neighbors kept complaining about the sound of women orgasming too loudly. The ‘tasteful’ black and white nude portraits I have on the walls so I can brag about being a photographer. The spare room I keep as sparse and as non-descript as possible so I can film Bad Boy videos in it.

I walk through the rooms now and feel like a stranger, interpreting the apartment like a first-time guest. Who lives in a place like this? I don’t know, but he doesn’t live here anymore.

My mind goes back to Jessie, back to the party at my dad’s place. The way she glowed at the sight of her old home. The way she was still so connected to it. I looked at it and thought it was just the place she used to live, a run-down bungalow that wasn’t worth the trouble of knocking down. What did she see, though? Warmth, probably. Family, love, trust. All the things I took for granted. Things I never realized I had until I destroyed it all. Things I thought I was too good for, before realizing I was not good enough.

My cell rings and I sprint through the hallway to get at it, diving onto the couch like it’s second base and almost fumbling the phone as I bring it close enough to see who it is.

Dad. Reluctantly, I bring it to my ear.

“Hey,” I say, realizing how croaky I sound.

“Hello, Nate. When’s your lunch break? I’m in your neighborhood.”

“I’m not at work, Dad. I’m at home.”

“Even better! Come and meet me at Toaster’s, then. I’ll treat you to lunch.”

“Dad…” I say, realizing I sound exactly like I did when I was a teenager. “I don’t know if I—”

“You’re coming, and that’s that,” he says, most definitely the way he used to when I was a teenager. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t stick around at my birthday for the cake. We’re long overdue for a little chat.”

Instinctively, a mental stream of excuses begins popping up in my mind. The art form of selecting the best one has been well-honed and perfected through years of experience. But this time I stop myself. I don’t want to be that guy anymore. I don’t want to be the guy who’s too good at lying to face himself, too good at deception to ever be called truly honest.

Besides, isn’t the whole idea of family and trust about putting up with the rough as well as the smooth? Well, they don’t come much rougher than my dad.

“Sure,” I say, “I’ll see you there.”

T
oaster’s isn’t
the kind of place guys in their sixties typically like to eat. It’s a pretty hip place, with a menu full of exotic, overpriced sandwiches (either ‘vegan’ or ‘free-range’), coffees drinks with candy store flavors, and the kind of faux-artisanal dressing that’s far too local-organic-gluten-free to come across as anything other than self-conscious. Most guys my dad’s age would take one look at the place and walk down the street to the old pizza place that sells slices so tasty and cheap you’d almost get suspicious. The kind of clientele Toaster’s attract is a whole lot younger, trendier, and indulgent. That means lots of cute, well-dressed, and fit young women – and thus, my father.

I push through the glass doors and step into the hum and clatter of coffee machines, women’s laughter, and Macbooks being typed on. Heavy reclaimed wood tables sit next to industrial steel chairs. A giant chalkboard listing the daily specials hangs above the counter, and the walls are decorated with old movie posters and hand-written notes.

I notice my dad before he sees me, mainly because he’s exchanging sly winks with a couple of half-terrified giggling women standing near his table in the coffee line. He still dresses pretty well for a guy his age, in a checked shirt with a good cut and flattering jeans - though I know it’s only a by-product of taking so many young women shopping. I step over to his table quickly, before he interprets the waiting women’s laughter as an invitation.

“Hey.”

“Nate!” he says, opening his arms wide, then bringing them together to point at the chair opposite him. “Good to see you.”

I sit down, adjusting the aviators I’m wearing to cover the bruise.

“I hate this place,” I groan. “It’s like Captain Kirk and Captain Ahab decided to go into business together.”

“Uh-huh,” my dad says, assessing my mood. “What’s with the sunglasses? Late night?”

“Um…something like that,” I say, fumbling.

He eyes me a little, but before he can say anything else his attention is completely taken by the tall model-slash-waitress who steps up to our table.

“Hi there, welcome to Toaster’s. Can I take your order?”

I see the look of delight that comes over my dad’s face as he takes full advantage of the girl’s tight shirt and skinny jeans.

“Well hello young lady,” he says, smiling back at her. “That’s an incredible tattoo you’ve got there.” He takes her arm softly and angles it to get a better look at the graphic tribal design, and I try not to puke as I bury my head in the menu.

“Thanks,” the girl laughs. “It’s kinda new, I’ve only had it a few months.”

“Oh, nice. I hear they’re pretty addictive, tattoos. You getting any more?”

I glare at him for a second, but I may as well not be there. He’s got ignoring me down to an art, with twenty-nine solid years of practice under his belt.

“I’ll have the, uh, grass-fed organic cheese steak with hot peppers and a water,” I interject. “Dad? You want the same?”

He breaks away from the girl, a brief flash of frustration crossing his face until he processes what I just asked him.

“Sure,” he says, turning back to smile one more time and send her off with a wink. “But make my drink a beer. Anything from the Golden Road brewery. I’m in the mood for a little buzz.”

The girl grins and turns to scribble the order in her pad as she walks away, my dad’s eyes laser-focused on the sway of her narrow hips.

“What’s the problem?” he asks, his voice heavy, all the light-hearted humor he had for the waitress gone completely.

I pretend to take a lot of care sliding the menu back into the condiment holder so I don’t have to meet his gaze.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he answers, quickly. “What’s wrong? Is it me?”

“No. It’s not you.”

“I know it’s not me talking to the waitress, ’cause you’ve had a face like a melted waxwork since you got in here.”

I sigh deeply and run a hand roughly through my hair, realize how unusually messy it is, and that I probably look like shit right now.

“Forget about it.”

“It’s a girl, right?” he says, pointing a finger at me before jabbing it and putting it away. “Of course it is. It’s always a girl.”

“Can we talk about something else?” I ask, trying to keep it together.

“No. Because it’ll be like talking to a zombie. Come on. Tell me what’s going on.”

I sigh and stare at him, letting him see how frustrated he’s getting me.

“You gonna make me guess?” he says, digging his heels in. “I can sit here and guess all day, though I doubt it would take me too many tries.”

I stare at the table, then look around the restaurant. It’s funny. Before Jessie, all I saw were single women everywhere, but now, after everything that’s happened, it’s like all I see are couples.

“Okay. Fine. Yes. It’s a girl.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression on his face like he’s my therapist. “So what? She doesn’t like you back?”

“No. Not that. Let’s just say I had her, and fucked it all up.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, sounding unimpressed. “So forget her. Find a new one. What’s the big deal?”

I snort a little, then shake my head at him.

“You think I want to feel like this? Forgetting someone isn’t that easy.”

He laughs a little, deep, throaty, but still light and easy. The kind of laugh you develop from years of partying.

“Nate, you were always too intense. Let me tell you something: the only thing holding you back right now from feeling as good as you can be is the past. Your baggage. The world is full of girls, too many for you to get hung up on just one. When everything you know is causing you to struggle, you’ve got to start trusting in the unknown instead.”

I allow myself a small smile at the sheer ridiculousness of what I’m hearing. The comprehensive absurdity of sitting here, with my father, hearing him say those words.

“Where did you hear that?”

He nods and digs around in his pocket to pull out his phone.

“I’m gonna send you a link. You need to watch this guy. ‘Bad Boy’ his name is. The guy’s got this shit figured out. I haven’t seen a guy talk as much sense since the seventies.”

“Dad, wait…” I say, feeling a wave of discomfort as he starts jabbing at his phone.

“And you can bet this guy is getting way too much pussy to be dragging himself around looking like a mess in the way you’re doing.”

“
Dad
,” I say again, pushing his phone away, “I know about the ‘Bad Boy.’ He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

This time he regards me differently, as if the veneer of nonchalant humor and buddy-buddy superficiality he always gives me is broken a little. He scratches his head, looks around, then nods softly at me as he finally tucks the phone away.

“I see. It’s that serious, huh?”

I shuffle in my seat, the weight of the question’s answer bearing down on me.

“Yeah. It’s the most serious I think it’s ever gonna get for me.”

After a few seconds of us looking at each other, open and frank, oblivious to the noise and commotion around us, he leans forward.

“Do you love her?”

“Yes.”

He scowls. “When I say ‘love,’ Nate, I’m not talking about just enjoying her company, or wanting to make her yours. I’m talking about the real thing. The feeling that you’re half a man when she’s not around, the knowledge that nobody else you’ll ever meet will change you, connect you, move you as much as she will. I’m talking about someone you’d give everything for.
Everything.
So let me ask you again. Do you
love
her?”

It takes a few seconds to respond this time – not because I’m not sure, but because I’ve never heard my father speak this way before, and also because I’m so sure the word wants to explode out of me in a shout of conviction that I have to take a moment to tamp it back down. Despite my effort, the answer comes out in a roar that rumbles from the depths of my being.

“Yes!”

I look at my father, desperate for him to tell me what to do now, where to go, how to be, so that I can fix this. In the long conversations with myself late at night, I always reach this point, the point of zealous belief, of impossible confidence that I love Jessie, that I have to find a way to make this right, but it’s been a dead end every single time. I look at my father, and pray that he’ll know what to do. He nods softly again before speaking.

“I don’t think I ever really told you, Nate, but your mother was the only woman I ever really loved.” He looks down, licking his lips nervously, before meeting my gaze again. “And I fucked it up. Biggest mistake of my life. I spent the next twenty years trying to feel that again. The marriages, the parties. The girls, the drugs. But that’s all it ever was. Chasing that feeling of true, genuine love.”

I go to speak but he holds up his hand to stop me.

“Look, I’m not asking for pity, or saying I didn’t like it. I know what I’m doing. And I have no regrets. No more than the one, in any case. I should have never let your mother go. I should have done everything I could to get her back. But it took me too long to understand that. I don’t know about your situation, Nate, about this girl, or what’s happened between you. But I’ll tell you this. You’re young, and I can see how much she means to you. So don’t stop trying, whatever you do. Don’t give up on her. Not unless you want to live the same life I did.”

At the words of hope, coming to me in my father’s voice, something shifts. I’ve never heard him speak like this, and that alone would be enough to shake me, but the fact that he’s giving me a way out, a way forward, is enough to make me want to run out of this place and straight to wherever Jessie is right now. I let the words echo in my mind, resonate, as if the power of hearing them alone will make them come true, and see my father with new eyes.