Her All Along

A handful of kids were playing soccer on the big lawn between my house and the playground. They looked to be around Pipsqueak’s age.

I sent her a quick text as I sat down with my soda.

This is Avery. Your mother gave me your number. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.

I sent a similar message to Willow, who responded very quickly.

I am okay. How are you? I will add your number too.

I hoped she meant it. I’d been around those girls enough to know that they had a few rehearsed replies, one of them being when asked how they were doing. Then again, my response was just as rehearsed.

All good here. Let me know if there’s anything I can do or if your mother needs help.

“Mister!”

My head snapped up. I spied Pipsqueak darting across the playground and the lawn where the kids were playing soccer. I felt the corners of my mouth twist up a little, and I had to admit it was a relief to see her. She was clearly enjoying the summer to the fullest. She showed up in shorts, bare feet, a top that was maybe a little too skimpy, and a ponytail that swished from side to side as she ran.

She was carrying another bottle of lemonade with her.

By the time she reached the gate to my fence, her cheeks were a little flushed, and she smiled widely. “You’re alive again!”

I chuckled quietly. “Was I dead before?”

“It sure looked like it.” She opened the gate and widened her eyes. “I rang the doorbell a few days ago, but you didn’t answer. So, it’s possible I looked in through the kitchen window, and you were asleep on a mattress in the living room.”

I made a face. That couldn’t have been a flattering sight.

Pipsqueak skipped across the lawn and jumped up on the deck to have a seat in the chair next to mine. “I got your text.”

I figured.

“You have to try this one.” She extended the bottle to me. “It’s lemon, papaya, and kiwi.”

That explained the little black seeds swimming at the bottom of the otherwise-clear yellow liquid.

Having declined the previous two lemonades she’d brought with her, I reckoned the least I could do was try this one. I set down my Coke on the floorboards and accepted the bottle, then took a tentative sip.

Oh. I’d expected it to be either too tart or too sweet, but it was good. Really good. I liked kiwi. It was perfectly chilled too.

“You like it, don’t you?” Pipsqueak’s green eyes lit up in anticipation of my answer, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s good,” I admitted.

She beamed. “Keep it. We have twelve more bottles.”

“That’s sweet of you.” I took another swig—okay, two. “How’s your summer treating you? Did you do anything fun for the 4th?”

“We got to Skype with Jake,” she said happily. “We didn’t do a big barbecue, though. Aunt Britt is still upset, and Mom misses the guys.”

I frowned. “Did I miss something about your aunt?”

“She’s getting divorced,” she sighed. “I overheard her telling Mom that my uncle met a bunch of other women.”

I winced and peered down at the lemonade bottle. Part of me felt it hit too close to home, while the other part of me wondered what Britt had done to make her husband cheat. And…I knew that was a fucked-up thought that proved how low I’d sunk.

I didn’t believe in a black-and-white world where, if one was right, the other was automatically wrong. Life was a series of events, and some caused backlashes and reactions, such as my distrust of women. I could rationalize and analyze; I wasn’t stupid. My misogyny had its roots in my childhood, and the last two years of my marriage with Angie had made things much worse. But I knew, in theory, that not all women were deceitful little whores. I was just struggling to accept the reality. My genuine feelings for women had been blackened but were nevertheless real, and I honestly didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to go from wondering what Britt had done wrong to merely saying their situation sucked and being betrayed hurt.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d told Pipsqueak to avoid passing judgment, but I did it every time an opinion was voiced by someone with a pair of tits.

Last year had messed me up further, too. Because the majority of the women I’d screwed had been married. I’d purposely pursued women in relationships to see if they’d stay true to their men, or if they’d go home with me.

I wasn’t that fucking charming, and yet they’d let me use them. I wasn’t a kisser, nor was I in it for any tenderness. I wasn’t affectionate for shit. Even so, last year, I’d had a dozen or so bathroom hookups, motel encounters, and bedroom fucks. Why? Why would these women wreck what they had to let the biggest asshole on the planet screw them like dogs?