The Perfect Life (10 page)

Instantly, my eyes overflowed with a deluge of tears—appreciative ones for Colin for knowing I needed him without me saying a word, sad ones for Allison as she dealt with a life-threatening condition, and angry ones for cancer for ruining so many lives on a daily basis—all blending together in a waterfall of overwhelming emotional release. Stumbling toward the bed through my blurred vision, I crawled up next to my husband and allowed him to hold me tightly against his comforting body as I told him all about what had happened at lunch with Allison and Oliver. Sometimes you just needed a hard cry and a good snuggle to reset your balance in the world. And that’s what Colin did time and time again—he was my rock. My life-sized rock stuffed animal.

“If you ever

want your soul

to dance in the clouds,

you will at some point

have to juggle lightning

and taste the

thunder.”

–Christopher Poindexter

Oliver

AS I LUMBERED
toward my departure gate at O’Hare with a one-way ticket to Boston in my hand, I suddenly realized I had no fucking idea what I was getting myself into. The two weeks between Allison telling us she had cancer and me clearing airport security that Sunday afternoon had been a whirlwind of events that left me feeling like a chaotic mess. After preparing my kids and staff at the Mending Hearts house for my extended absence, arranging for my mail to be forwarded to my new address and my neighbor to take care of my plants, and packing up the majority of my wardrobe and my alto sax that I couldn’t live without, I was forced to make the nine-hour roundtrip car ride to my small hometown so that my parents could ‘foster’ my cat, Coltrane, while I was gone. The furnished apartment that had been rented for Allison didn’t allow animals, so as much as I hated parting with the bastard of a pet he was, I didn’t have much of a choice.

Naturally, my mom and dad made a big deal when I came into town, inviting my two older sisters, Mallory and Emma, and their husbands and kids for a big family dinner where they served my favorite meal—chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob. I have to admit it was great to see them all at a time other than the usual Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas holidays that we always gathered for, but the empty chairs where my youngest sister Charlotte and my oldest niece Callie typically sat were definitely noticed. Because they lived down in Nashville, they couldn’t pop on over for dinner last minute like the others could; however, I did promise Callie over a phone call that she could come stay with me for a weekend once I got settled in Boston. I knew my sister could probably use the break from her seventeen-year-old daughter as much as my niece could use the break from her mom, but my agreeing to the deal was proof-in-point that I was rapidly losing my mind.

With nearly two hours to kill before my flight, I located the nearest bar to my gate and found an open stool to get comfortable on, hoping I could toss back a couple of beers and relax while I waited. All I wanted was a small break from having to think about any of the shit that had kept me awake for the last fourteen nights.
Allison battling cancer. Something happening to one of my kids while I was gone. The pipes in my apartment bursting while no one was there. My mom stealing Coltrane and never giving him back. My whole family harping on me about not having a girlfriend or starting a family yet. My inability to stop picturing the same perfect face every time I closed my eyes . . . and every time I stroked my cock. Monroe-fucking-Ca
—

“CASSIDY’S GOT A MAN WIDE OPEN DOWN THE FIELD! THIS COULD BE THE GAME, FOLKS . . .”

My chin snapped up the second I heard her last name from the announcer’s voice on the TV behind the bar, and my eyes focused on the big screen just in time for me to see Colin throw a touchdown pass to win the game. I may not have known much about football, but I was a grown man living in America in the twenty-first century. And unless I was around Monroe, I usually wasn’t an idiot.

“HE DID IT! HE DID IT AGAIN! THE PATRIOTS REMAIN UNDEFEATED THROUGH WEEK TWO OF THE REGULAR SEASON, THANKS TO NONE OTHER THAN THEIR STAR QUARTERBACK, CLUTCH CASSIDY, WHO BROUGHT HIS TEAM FROM BEHIND WITH A HUGE DOUBLE-DIGIT FOURTH QUARTER COMEBACK!”

The camera panned around the field, first capturing the receiver’s celebration dance in the end zone, and then locking in on Colin as he jogged to the sidelines, surrounded by people patting his helmet and slapping him on the ass. A few more seconds of following him while he was congratulated by teammates and coaches, and then . . . there she was.

Plastered across the giant screen in her navy number-three jersey, the smile on her face couldn’t have been any bigger or brighter if she tried. She jumped up and down in place while triumphantly punching her fists in the air, and maybe it was just me, but it seemed like the cameraman lingered the focus on her chest as her boobs bounced around under the clingy fabric. My dick stirred to life in my jeans as I wondered for the ten-thousandth time what those round, perky breasts would feel like cupped in my palms.

“Hot damn, that is one fine ass woman,” a random forty-something guy sitting next to me announced none-too-quietly. Glancing over at me, he cocked his eyebrow and chuckled crudely. “What a guy like one of us wouldn’t do to tap a juicy piece like that . . . mmm hmmm. I bet she smells like sweet Georgia peaches, and man-oh-man, I’d wear her ass out until she couldn’t sit for days. Then I’d have her wrap those pretty pink lips arou—”

“Dude, what the hell? Are you serious?” I exclaimed, slamming my beer onto the polished wooden surface while pinning the douchebag with my murderous glare. “Not only do I not know you, but you’re talking about somebody’s wife, who is a real person with feelings and shit. Plus,” I paused to look around the crowded pub-style setting we were in, “there are women all around us. Work on the whole respect thing and you may find someone who’d be interested in letting you
wear her ass out
and whatever else you were going to say.”

A fleeting wave of shame washed over the guy’s face, but it was immediately replaced with rage and retaliation. Raising up to his full height, he snarled down at me, shouting directly in my face. “
Feelings and shit?!
Are you a fucking faggot, man? Is that why you’ve got all this long hair and wear those tight, pussy-ass jeans, huh? ‘Cause your boyfriend likes to treat you like the whiny little bitch you are when he’s pumping you from behind?”

I felt the color drain from my face as his tirade went on and on and as everyone around us stopped to witness the debacle. The more he yelled, the more embarrassed I became for him, but instead of trying to cut him off or to diffuse the altercation, I held my position, silent but steadfast, until he finished spewing his load of ignorance. But before I had a chance to say anything back, though I truly had no idea of how to even respond to such absurdity, two armed officers emerged from the crowd in the terminal and escorted the man away with minimal resistance.

Then, almost as if nothing ever happened, everyone around me went back to doing whatever it was they were doing, while I was left wondering what in the world had just transpired. Why had I said anything to begin with? From the time I was a kid, I’d always been the non-confrontational type, avoiding playground skirmishes and my sisters’ daily quarrels at all costs. Conflict and hostility filled me with an overwhelming uneasiness that threatened to make me physically ill, and when that happened, my fight-or-flight reflex was firmly set in the
flight
position.

The fact I’d reacted to the foolishness coming out of that fuckwad’s mouth in the first place was extremely out of character for me, and it wasn’t like it was the first time I’d heard a guy spout off a lewd comment about a chick. Shit, even some of my friends would occasionally be crude and vulgar when we hung out at a bar or club, and though I never talked like they did or agreed with it, I never chastised them over it either. Especially not by calling them out in public.

But when he said those things about Monroe, a switch went off inside and a surge of adrenaline coursed through me, demanding I defend her. Only one other time in my life had that happened before, and that was to protect my baby sister from a monster . . . but I barely knew Monroe, and she wasn’t in imminent danger. The guy was an asshat, but basically harmless. Why hadn’t I just minded my own damn business?

“Hey,” the bartender interrupted my wayward thoughts as he set another beer in front of me, “those ladies at the opposite end of the bar ordered you another and picked up your tab. They wanted me to tell you, ‘Thanks for being one of the good guys.’”

Jerking my head in the direction he pointed, I found two quite attractive women around my age smiling brightly at me, one offering a little wave while the other shyly twirled her hair around her finger. I grabbed the amber-filled glass and lifted it in the air, tilting it toward them as I politely mouthed, “Thank you.”

The young bartender smirked and wagged his finger at me. “You keep up that chivalry act, dude, and you’ll have ’em lined up waiting for you. Maybe I should give it a try.”

“It’s not an act, man, and you shouldn’t have to try,” I retorted after taking a sip. “Just don’t be an asshole. It’s that easy.”

Too disgusted to continue talking to the clueless bartender, I stood up before he could reply. All I wanted was to get to my new place in Boston so I could convince myself that I was over-analyzing the way in which Monroe Cassidy affected me.

“Hey, Monroe, great game yesterday, eh? I saw you on TV.”

“Hey there, Monroe! The team’s looking great! How’ve you been?”

“Monroe! It’s so great to see you again. Looks like the Pats are on their way to a championship this year!”

Sighing at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I tucked the unruly, dark curls behind my ears and groaned. I was ridiculously lame. Who in the hell over the age of eighteen practiced how they were going to greet someone? I mean, it was a hello for fuck’s sake, not a marriage proposal. Forget that it had taken me nearly fifteen minutes to choose what I was going to wear, only to end up in the original light blue pinstriped shirt and gray slacks I’d first retrieved from the closet. Then, I’d spent another ten messing with my hair. Down or pulled back? Were man-buns too hipster? Would I appear to be unorganized and unprofessional if I left it hanging free? Maybe she thought ponytails on guys were stupid?

I literally wanted to punch myself in the face. I should never have agreed to fill in for Allison; failure was inevitable. Why didn’t she ask Jason, the director from the Indianapolis house, to do it? Sure, his wife was like nine months pregnant and due to deliver at any time, but they had good hospitals in Boston, right?
God, I sound like a pussy. I need to man the fuck up.

My phone chimed with a text from my mom—a selfie of her and Coltrane reminding me to brush my teeth and wishing me good luck on my first day, like I was thirteen instead of thirty-three.
And I wonder why I have issues . . .
However, like the good son that I was, I took a selfie of my own—with my eyes crossed and my lips puckered in a fish face—and shot a message back, assuring her I even remembered to wear deodorant and clean underwear. It was no secret I was her favorite—a momma’s boy from the day I was born—but beginning the day Dad was sent away during my junior year of high school, I’d felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility to keep our relationship strong and do whatever I could to keep her happy while he was gone. I’d even stayed at home and pursued my undergrad degree at nearby Quincy University so I could help out in his absence. And even though my entire family had bonded together and supported each other during that difficult time, I would’ve given anything to prevent the events surrounding it.