A small couch with a crocheted blanket tossed over top of it is sandwiched on either side by a set of matching chairs, one of which supports a frail-looking woman, who I assume is Eric’s mom. An IV bag is plugged into her arm, and I’m not sure if it’s delivering fluids, nutrients, or both. She’s focused on a piece of fabric tucked between her delicate fingers, her deep brown eyes fixated on it. Her hair is cut into short ringlets that sit close to her head, every strand a bright, shimmering shade of white.
“Hey, Mama,” Eric greets her, crouching down to sit at her eye level. He rests a gentle hand on her knee while he speaks. “I brought someone for you to meet.”
“Hi, Mrs.— Hi, Martina. Happy birthday,” I tell her with a smile. “I’m so happy to finally meet you.”
I step closer to the two of them, carefully sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of her, and I clutch the gift bag in my hand. Eric’s hand gently scrubs at his mom’s knee, his other combing through her hair. “We should’ve gotten here earlier,” he tells me. “Fuckin’ planes.”
At the sound of his cursing, Martina’s head snaps to him with a gasp, as if she recognizes the sound, and I have to bite back a laugh; she knows him and his potty mouth well.
“You remind me of my son,” she tells him with a voice so hoarse that it sounds painful, pressing a weathered hand to his cheek, and I swear that I can see his heart break right along with mine, despite the warm smile that he offers her.
“He must be one good-lookin’ guy, then,” he jokes.
“He’s my angel,” she answers him.
“I’ll bet you’re his, too.”
Eric presses his lips to the side of her head in a tender, heartbreaking kiss before he stands, extending a hand to me. “Come on, Bill’s got food going,” he tells me. I turn toward the fireplace crackling from within the wall to her left, wondering if it’s a good idea to leave her here with it, and as if he can read my mind, Eric assures me, “She’ll be alright. It’s locked up, and she can’t get over there on her own.”
I reach my hand up to massage the back of Eric’s neck while we walk back toward the kitchen, where his dad is working like a madman over a spread of barbecue that could feed a family of twenty, for three days, for every meal.
Bill gives us the run through of how long each different type of beef – I had no idea there were so many different cuts or flavors or styles – was marinated and with what, how long they smoked, which rubs he used on them. It’s like listening to someone speak in depth about a life-altering passion project. Through his laughter at his dad’s speech, Eric flicks his eyes to me and mouths ‘I get to keep my nut,’ and I slap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.
Eric’s accent is thicker while he laughs and talks with his dad, like he’s lifted the city filter he tries (and fails) to lay on top of it on a regular day. Watching them, it’s hard to believe that they only spent six years together before Eric went off to start his own life. It’s hard to believe that he was adopted; not because there’s any resemblance between the two, but because they mesh so well together and it’s so obvious that this is the man who parented him.
Every time that I finish a third of the food on my plate, Bill reaches over with a tray of barbecue and refills more than what I had previously eaten, until I’m so full that I think my stomach might actually burst as Eric and I head out to the front porch.
“God, I think I actually have meat sweats,” I laugh, blowing a breath out through pursed lips.
“Well that’s not new,” Eric teases. “My meat makes you sweat all the time.”
“Insufferable!”
As we settle into the wooden porch swing, which looks like it’s been out here for ages, I look out over the spacious land surrounding the Davis house. It’s gorgeous out here. The sun dips low in the sky, painting the clouds with cotton candy while a gentle breeze rolls past us, undisturbed without the tall buildings and industrialized structures of the city to break it up.
“So,” I say, draping my legs over Eric’s, “what is there to do out here at night?”
He snorts a laugh, as if to say I’ve asked a ridiculous question. “Nothin’, unless you wanna shoot something or go down to the bar and ride the bull.”
“I absolutely want to ride the bull,” I tell him without hesitation.
“Let’s do it then.”
Fifteen minutes and one outfit change later, the two of us are heading back down the stairs from Eric’s childhood bedroom. He stops to give his mom another kiss before telling his dad that we’re heading out. “You’ll call me?” He asks, jerking his chin toward his mom.
“Abso-toot-ly,” Bill answers.
“Your dad is so cute,” I tell Eric as we walk out the front door, leaving it unlocked behind us.
“He’s seventy-eight and ornery as shit,” he laughs.
•
As soon as we step into the front door of the small bar, the bell hanging above it rings to announce our presence. Seconds pass before multiple people start cheering their greetings to Eric, and we make the rounds saying our hellos to everyone while he introduces me – as his girlfriend.
We sit at the bar with a couple of beers, listening to the music pouring from the speaker system while we watch the current rider of the mechanical bull. I use the opportunity to study her hand placements and the way that she shifts her body to accommodate each movement that the bull makes beneath her to keep herself from falling off into the padded ring below.
“You have to go first,” I tell Eric with a shake of my head.
