Strong Enough

“Wait a minute, I have to come and get him, too? Are you serious?”

“Well, yes. I can’t just put him in a cab. He doesn’t have any money. And you’re not that far. Please, big brother. Pleeeease? For me?”

I groaned in agony, because I knew the exact face she was making right now. It never failed to pierce my armor.

She laughed. “Thank you. You’re the best.”

?

??I didn’t say yes.” But I sat up and tossed the covers off.

“I know you. You can’t say no to me.”

“Fine. I’ll come get him, and he can stay here tonight. But he better not stain anything.”

“He’s very clean, I promise. But you might have to lend him some pajamas or something.”

I got out of bed and headed for my closet. “Christ, Ellen. Do you want me to tuck him in, too? Sing him a lullaby?”

“What? No! You know you’re a terrible singer. I’d never subject anyone to that.”

Switching on the closet light, I grabbed the jeans and shirt I’d had on earlier. “Remind me how mean you are next time I’m trying to say no to you.”

“No way. But I love you. See you in a few.”

I ended the call, set my phone aside and got dressed. From my dresser drawer I grabbed a clean pair of socks, and sat on the bed to tug them on. Then I turned off the light and went downstairs, where I stepped into one of several pairs of sneakers lined up in the hall near the back door and grabbed my keys. For a second, I paused and imagined other shoes lined up there too. A little girl’s sandals. A little boy’s cleats. Or maybe two little pairs of Adidas like their dad’s.

Which was so stupid. Even if I hadn’t fucked it up with my ex and we’d gotten married, we’d probably only have one kid by now, and it wouldn’t even be out of diapers yet.

But still. I’d be a husband. A father. I’d have a family to raise. People who needed me and depended on me and loved me unconditionally, the way I loved them. Was there anything less complicated than the love between parent and child?

Stop it. You’re being ridiculous, and the longer you stand here feeling sorry for yourself, the longer it will be before you’re back in bed.

After checking to make sure I had my phone on me and my wallet in my pocket, I went out the back door and pulled it shut behind me.

On the drive to the bar, I realized I hadn’t double-checked the spare room to make sure it was properly made up, but I wasn’t really worried. I always kept it guest-ready just in case, and the hallway bathroom had been cleaned two days ago. My friends laughed at me for having a cleaning lady come every week, especially the friends who were married with kids, because how could there possibly be any dirt in the house when there was only one person living there, and that person was the most fastidious man on earth? Their houses were always a mess—stuff everywhere, as if someone had turned them upside down and shaken them like snow globes. Actually, Ellen’s house was like that too, and her car—oh my God, the amount of shit in her car was enough to spike my blood pressure every time I rode in it. Sometimes I wondered how we were related. Her entire life was like a bunch of loose ends scattered every which way, and mine was like a nice, neat line.

At a stoplight, I glanced into the back seat of my car, pleased to see absolutely nothing there. Nothing in the passenger seat either, and no old coffee cups or water bottles in the cup holders. No crumbs or napkins or stray French fries. It even smelled good. People who rode in my car said that all the time.

Wasn’t that a good thing? Weren’t you supposed to take good care of your house and your car and other things you’d paid a lot of money for? Ellen had dipped into her trust fund a million times, but I hadn’t touched mine after paying for school. I’d worked hard for everything I owned, and I wanted them to last. Besides that, appearances mattered. People judged you by them.

And what else did I have?

I parked in a downtown structure and made my way to The Blind Pig. A few people were coming out as I was coming in, and I held the door open for them before moving through it.

Ellen spotted me right away. “Hey!” She came around the bar, rushing up to kiss my cheek before grabbing me in a bear hug. “Thanks so much for this. You smell good, by the way.”

“Trying to flatter me?”

“Yes. But it’s also true.” Laughing, she let me go and glanced over her shoulder. “He’s sitting over there at the bar. I feel so bad for him.”

“And what’s your Russian orphan’s name?”

“Maxim Matveev,” she said with a thick accent.

“Wait, does he speak English?” For a moment, I panicked that I was stuck with someone who wouldn’t understand anything I said. My Russian vocabulary was sparse, to say the least. Da. Nyet. Vodka. I also knew perestroika thanks to a college history class, but I thought that might be a little difficult to work into a conversation.

“Yes. Don’t worry, you can tell him to wipe his feet and close the lid and hang up his towel in English, and he’ll totally understand.”