Andrew
Commitment issues.That’s bullshit.
I have no problem with commitment. If anything, I have a problem with holding on to things way past their expiration date. Like my car for example. I love my Mazda3. It’s reliable, or at least itwasfor the first five years I had it, roomy with its hatchback trunk, and I got it used for a steal eight years ago. I love that car, despite the rising maintenance costs as it’s starting to wear and tear past a hundred forty thousand miles on the odometer. And if I really want to dive into the many ways my supposed “vacillating nature” is a completely erroneous accusation, I can whip out my Keurig. I’ve had that baby for almost a decade. How can I have commitment issues when I’ve been brewing my coffee the same way for ten years?
I realize I’m comparing human companionship to inanimate objects. At the risk of slapping some weirdly specific sentient qualities onto my coffee maker, I’m really not helping my argument. Especially when my friends have a point. I can’t remember the last time I refused to go beyond a third date for an actual reason. I guess poor fashion choices like mixing brown and black leather or wearing Yeezys because it’s trendyisn’t really an actual reason. Though I’d like to argue that Yeezys should absolutely be a deal breaker.
But Grace probably wouldn’t mix brown and black leather. She’d stick to one, adding rings and bracelets accordingly. Or if she did, she’d do it so flawlessly, I wouldn’t even notice. Just like she’s somehow managed to make a caftan look sexy while sitting poolside in my sister’s backyard. Maybe it’s the low-cut neckline that shows the small glimpses of her green bikini underneath it or the way the silky material seems to flow around her like an elegant train, outlining the shape of her body, but all I want to do is slip my hand under it to see what’s underneath all that fabric.
The weather forecast showed low nineties when I checked it early in the week, and it delivered. Sweat starts to gather in every crease my body has. Under my arms, behind my knees, along my neck. Luckily, Teeny and Everett’s infinity edge pool is the perfect remedy for the heat. I came to Teeny’s place early to help set up, but Teeny insisted that the guest of honor should relax so I made myself useful by keeping Everett company outside. It was easy to focus on the smoky meat as Everett slathered sauce between poking at the hot coals to make sure his smoker remained the perfect temperature. But as soon as Grace walked into the backyard, all bets were off. Everett could’ve been talking about the Louisiana Purchase, and I would’ve probably just nodded along, all while gawking at Grace from across the pool.
She’s finally slipped off the concealing smock, whipping it over her head and revealing her skin inch by inch. Her sunglasses get knocked askew and the knot her hair is pulled up in sits lopsided at the top of her head. It isn’t a sultry, seductive act, but when she tugs at the elastic holding her hair together and shakes her head to let her silky waves run loose down her back, everything moves in slow motion. With her back slightly arched and her neck craned back, the ends nearly touch the top of her round ass. An ass half exposed in a green bikini bottom.And the way one knee is bent, adding to the curvature to the small of her back, makes me want to run my hand over her skin, following those dips and bends like they’re a guide to an interactive map showing me the pathways to her own erogenous zones.
“You want medium or medium-well?”
“What?”
Everett looks at me as he lifts a burger patty with his spatula for inspection. The juices drip onto the grate, causing it to sizzle over the hot grill. “Your burger. Medium or medium-well?”
“I—uh, I guess I’ll take medium.” I tilt my drink back, taking a long refreshing guzzle to douse the searing thoughts of Grace a few yards away.
But, of course, my eyes slip over to Grace again, now in the water, swimming around Sadie and Teeny. I do the thing where I stretch out an arm, hoping I look natural with each glance over the curve of my bicep. My eyes pause on Everett’s new flat screen mounted under the outdoor cabana, another attempt to watch Grace from my periphery. She laughs at something Teeny says, and it reminds me of how loose she becomes when she’s a little tipsy. Or how giddy she gets when her stomach is full. I can see how when she’s around people she enjoys spending time with, everything lights up around her. Teeny laughs like no one is watching, and even Sadie squeals louder, clinging onto her Aunt Grace like she’s her favorite person in the world. And a sudden pang hits my chest. I miss her. I want to be the one laughing at something she said. I wish I could ask her to join me for a drink after this. Or see if she’d want to raid a nearby gas station for all its chips and chocolate bars. Just so I can lure out a laugh like the one she’s giving Teeny right now. I probably wouldn’t even mind if she talked with a mouth full of potato chips and gummy bears.
“Grab a plate,” Everett instructs. He looks like a meat master. He has a grill-slash-hibachi blazing in front of him with thesmoker a few feet away and the tools he uses are lined evenly up on a small folding table set up just for his precious grilling accessories.
I do as he instructs, adding a fresh bun to my plate, and wait patiently as he gives the meat one last flip. “So how do you know if they’re medium or well done?”
He presses his spatula into the charbroiled patty, emitting a low hiss from the fire. “By how firm the patty is,” he explains with his focus zoned in on the grill.
“Impressive.”
Everett’s laser focus on the grill doesn’t waver as he adds a few more fresh patties, so he doesn’t notice when my dad steps up behind him. He peers over Everett’s shoulder, watching Everett work through a layer of smoke with pride. “Do you need me to take over?”
Everett shakes his head. “Nope. I’m good here.”
My dad pats Everett’s shoulder with a pleased smile on his face, a clear sign of approval for all his grilling efforts. While the grilling bug bit my dad when I was a kid, it seems he’s passed on the inherent talent of perfecting meat temperatures and marinades to his son-in-law instead of myself or my brothers.
I watch as Everett beams at my dad like he’s brought him a report card with straight A’s, and my dad responds with equal delight and satisfaction. I hold back an eye roll, wondering how much cheesier the pair would look if they had matching “Kiss the Chef” aprons and chef’s hats.
A squeal from Sadie turns a few heads, and when I look at the water, I notice Sadie and her friends splashing water at each other while managing to toss a beach ball back and forth. Teeny and Grace watch the group of girls with smiles, and Grace’s eyes catch mine for a split second. She quickly looks away, turning her back to me with some measly attempt to avoid me by reaching for a pool floaty. But I keep watching her. The waterglistens over the curve of her spine while thick strands of loose hairs stick between her shoulder blades. The knot of her bikini sits just at the nape of her neck where I know if I gave it even the gentlest of tugs, it would unravel. Her fingers skim over the ripples of the water, enjoying the cooler temperatures of the pool while I stand in the baking heat.
“How’s work going?” Everett suddenly asks just as I’m pulling my attention away from Grace and the wet rivulets of water running down her neck. Just as well. With the way I’ve been tracking her movements, it almost feels predatory.
With my eyes no longer glued to the sparkling water and its most striking occupant, I answer, “You know, same ol’ same ol’.”
A flash burst of flames causes Everett to curse under his breath, but he doesn’t miss a beat. The meat continues to sizzle, and his focus remains vigilant. “That boss of yours still treating you like shit?”
“Yup.” My family is well aware of the so-called “quirks” that come with my career. Though, it doesn’t seem that all that’s lacking in my work is related to the career choice itself but more to do with who I work with.
He adds a fresh batch of patties while he continues our conversation. “I told you, you can quit and come work with me.”
“What am I going to do in tech?”
“I’m sure I can find you something,” he answers with a shrug as if he hasn’t thought about the idea of whatever would allow me to leave my current job. I appreciate his offer. And considering the tech company he started barely a few years ago is doing particularly well, I’m sure if I choose to take him up on his offer I’d thrive under his wing. But starting at some entry-level position like a mailroom clerk or customer service isn’t the direction I want to be heading.
“I like what I do. And I’m good at it,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I just…”
“Don’t like your boss,” he finishes for me. He finally looks up from the smoky fog hovering under him and offers a look that matches the very matter-of-fact way he says, “Then find a different job. You know, you don’t have to work for a big corporation.”
