A least my mother doesn’t overtly hate the man I’m living with.Overtlybeing the operative word. I sense she doesn’t love him either, but she’ll never say it out loud. Mom has way more tact than that.
Still no text from Isaac, I realize. That’s unusual. My dad and his little man gang refer to Isaac as the “Love Bomber.” Even now, after we’ve been together for two and a half years, living together for one, they refuse to give him a chance. At this point, I think Dad and his hockey buddies just hate Isaac because he plays football. With that said—and I’mnotconceding that my boyfriend is a love bomber—
Isaac does blow up my phone constantly. I’ve been in Paris for thepast two weeks, and even with the time difference, he was texting me all the time.
Tonight, he ignored my just-landed textandthe on-my-way-home one I just sent.
A prickly sensation tightens my stomach as I glance at my phone. It lights up the moment I check, but my burst of relief fades into annoyance when I see it’s my dad.
Shocking.
“You need help,” I say in lieu of hello. I turn onto the highway ramp. “Like, serious help. We need to get you in therapy.”
“You hung up on me,” he accuses.
“Yes, because I’m busy.”
“Are you on your way to that fancy building of yours?”
“It’s not that fancy,” I object.
To be fair, it is. Isaac wasted no time spending his NFL signing bonus. I’m proud of him, though, and I have no doubt he’ll have a hell of a rookie season this fall. At Briar, he was the star of the team, helping them win three national championships, and he was named MVP three years in a row.
“It’s just you’re not a building person,” Dad is saying. “You love houses. And porches. Nice, big, wraparound porches where you can sit on a wicker chair and read. Where do you even read, Blake? Is he depriving you of reading?”
“Oh my God, stop. And guess what, Dad? I love houses, but I’m also fine with condos. And even if I wasn’t, sometimes you need to make compromises in relationships, right?”
“Oh really? Didhecompromise? You still have a year left of college. He couldn’t even be bothered to find something in the middle? When I played for Providence and your mom was still at Briar, we found a place between Hastings and Boston. Meanwhile, the lovebomber makes you commute an hour and a half to school?” Dad grumbles in displeasure.
Truth be told, that did irk a little. Since Isaac was able to graduate a semester early, he convinced me to break our Hastings lease and move to Boston where he could be closer to his new team and have access to better training facilities. He starts training camp in a few months, and he’s determined to excel. And he wassoexcited about this condo. It’s difficult to say no to Isaac when he’s looking at you with those pleading little-boy eyes.
Still, I refuse to give my dad the satisfaction of being right.
“It’s fine. I don’t mind the commute, actually. I got some of my textbooks on audio, so I’m able to study as I drive.”
“You will always defend this potato, won’t you?”
I choke out a laugh. “He’s not a potato!”
“Good point. I like potatoes.”
“Dad,” I warn.
“Fine. I’m gonna let this go.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll just bitch about him the next time we talk. Anyway, I’m going now. Tell Mom I said hi and I’ll text her later.”
The rest of the drive is blessedly quiet. Except, damn it, it’s back. The uneasy churning in my gut. A humming noise in my body urging me to turn around, have dinner with my parents, don’t go to the fancy high-rise near Beacon Hill.
I once read about a lady down in Florida who ignored her sixth sense. She wrote a whole memoir about it. She claims that on a regular old Sunday morning, every cell in her body was telling her not to take her kids to the playground that day, but she ignored the humming, prickling, buzzing sensations in her stomach.
Moral of the story? If you don’t listen to your internal warning system, you’re going to get bitten by a gator in a sandpit.
But that probably won’t happen to me tonight.
I scan my key to get into the underground of our building, then ride the elevator up to the twenty-third floor, juggling my purse and carting my luggage behind me. As I walk down the carpeted hallway toward my front door, the little hairs on the back of my neck are standing on edge. Something feels off, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what.
I’ve never been insecure about our relationship. Yes, Isaac attracts attention wherever he goes and is about to be an NFL star, but I never worried he might get bored of me. He’s infatuated with me, and he’s been a good boyfriend. It didn’t even occur to me that he might stray.
