I ordered eggs benedict that day. Because Icould.The other kids looked at me a little like I was crazy.
“What?” I said. “Breakfast is served all day.”
They shrugged, ordered their chicken tenders or fries with gravy or mozzarella sticks, and when my meal came, I studied it. It was an english muffin, toasted, open-faced. Canadian bacon sat on top. Eggs—runny-ish (because they werepoached, but I didn’t know that at the time) on top of that. And all this yellow sauce. I ran my finger through the pool of thick hollandaise and tasted it.
It tasted like defiance. I loved it.
I chose to cook it for Gracie this morning because I have since perfected the recipe and I wanted her to have a meal worth remembering. Just the act of being with a girl like Gracie—someone so vastly different from Elle—is my own personal act of defiance.
My fatherlovedElle—thought she was perfect in her sorority sister,homecoming queen kind of way—although he never expressed any feelings towards her one way or the other while she wasactuallymy wife. Only once she was gone did I suddenly have to hear about how perfect she was and how I had flushed my chance at happiness down the toilet.
“Why would you choose to move toQueens, Colin?” he asked.
Because I am allowed tolivewherever I want. Just like I am allowed toeatwhatever I want. To sleep with whoever I want. To develop feelings—quickly—for whoever I want.
Now, if only I could figure out how to be allowed not to have to play slow-pitch softball against Dr. Murvin’s Magic Feet with my father and his kiss-ass protégé and a one-night mistake for my entire Sunday, I’d be in great shape.
When I get to the field, Dom nods at me. “Damn, son!” he says. “Almost thought you weren’t gonna make it.” He taps his watch.
“Nah, I’m here,” I say, pulling my glove out of my bag. “Let’s go warm up.”
He follows me to the outfield, telling me about the three girls he met at the club last night in great detail. “You missed a good time, bro. One of them—I forget if her name was Keri or Kelly—or maybe Katie?—yo, she had—” He gestures with his hands in front of his chest, fingers spread wide on his free hand. “Let’s just say, I might have been able to hold one of them with my baseball glove.”
“That big, huh?”
“Huge, bro. I could suffocate in that motorboat.”
I can’t help but laugh. He’s a pig, but an entertaining one at least. Plus, I have it on good authority that all the tough-guy bravado is just a front for his teddy-bear bleeding heart. He had a serious girlfriend once, but she left him to go perform on a cruise ship and he’s never fully recovered. “Did you bring her home?”
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “But she let me touch one.” He grinned.
“Sounds like you’re living out the fantasy of a twelve-year-old boy, dude.”
“Don’t judge me.” Dom scowls. “Jealous prick!” he says, tossing the softball at me.
I catch it over my head. “Iamjealous, man! IwishI was as good with the ladies as you are.” I laugh.
“Damn right.” He smiles. “When’s the last timeyougot any action?”
“Me? Oof. It’s been awhile.”
“See? Take a note from the master.”
It’s too easy. “Master-bater,” I mumble, making myself laugh.
“Hey now, hey now!” my dad calls out. He’s walking toward the field with—oh God. You’ve got to be kidding me! Mymotheris here?
Well, this day just morphed into a new, unusual kind of torture.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. Honest to God I do. But I have absolutely no idea why my father would put her through the agony of watching not one, buttwoseven-inning games of slow-pitch softball on this reasonably mild spring day. Mom used to play ball in college, and from what I recall, she wasn’t half bad. Watching our ragtag jizzaster of a team is akin to watching a slow, agonizing game of tiny tots soccer, where more time is spent chasing butterflies and picking dandelions than actually playing. Why would he bring her here? Does hehateher?
“Colin!” She sits down and waves from the front row of the bleachers. “Halloo!” She is wearing a straw hat and oversized sunglasses, a pink blouse with a white cardigan over it, and a pair of pressed khaki capri pants. She should be at brunch, not on a dirty softball field.
I wave back and toss the ball to Dom. “Hang on. My mom is here,” I say, jogging over to the bleachers.
“Aw!” I hear Jess and Rachel say. I shake my head and shoot them a look, which only makes them follow it up with, “So adorable!”
“Hey, Ma. What are you doing here?” I lean in and give her a kiss on the cheek.
