Page 64 of Your Pace Or Mine

When the oven timer goes off, I throw together a salad and some leftover mushroom pasta from yesterday. It’s nice—refreshing, even—to talk about nothing. We don’t even mention my dad. It’s all been said already.

That easy silence dies shortly after dinner when we’re filling the dishwasher and the texts start to come through. Dad sends a slew of photos with a platinum blond woman who looks half his age. They have big smiles, and he lets me know they’re about to go for an early romantic dinner near the water and tomorrow, the zoo. I don’t respond. My little sister texts me next.

Sarah:

What the actual fuck?

Who chooses the ZOO over his own kids? I thought we were having dinner tonight, but cool, go see the pandas Dad. Obviously that’s more important.

I thought Dad and I were having dinner one-on-one tonight, but I’m not surprised he made plans with both of us without communicating. He always keeps his cards close. He probably promised all of his time to both of us.

Yeah, he’s an ass. As always.

I thought this time was different.

Never mind.

I know, sis. I get it.

I suspect this is a situation where a younger person would send a series of appropriately funny yet poignant GIFs, but I’m now hopelessly old to my baby sister so I just send some heart emojis.

Do you want me to call you and we can talk?

Phone calls? OK boomer.

You’re killing me.

Thanks for trying, even if you’re an old man.

I laugh out loud and feel a light pressure on my arm. Ashley is looking at me with eyes full of empathy. She’s been watching my exasperated sighs this whole time. Now I’m emotionally spent; she offers a generous pour of wine.

Do you get it? Do you get now why I don’t do relationships? It’s exhausting enough for me when I’m not even the one in them.

I say nothing, just accept the glass and her hand as she takes mine. Then I rise and pace around the room to release some of my pent-up anger. The wine sloshes in my glass.

“You’re a good brother,” Ash says quietly.

I’m really not so great. I haven’t talked to Curtis in ages, and I go months without seeing Sarah. Granted, we were raised by different mothers, so we only saw each other when our father decided to go into Dad Mode and take us on outings, which given the eleven-year difference were almost never appropriate or fun for both of us. Still, that doesn’t excuse me for not making an effort. God knows, people like us need some adults in our lives that aren’t a complete train wreck, though I’m not exactly a great influence. Instead of saying all that, I shrug. “She deserves better.”

“You both do.”

My phone buzzes with another stupid photo from my dad, this time with a glass of wine and a California sunset. I want to throw my cell out the window. Ash takes it from my hands and leads me to sit at the kitchen table next to her, since I’ve been pacing the room.

“Why do I let him get to me?” There’s no real answer.

She leans on my shoulder, stroking my knee absently. She’s told me before that sometimes you need to feel your feelings, which sounds like hippie nonsense because there’s nothing worse than being overwhelmed by feelings. We sit in silence for a few minutes. I guess she’s letting me process everything.

“You can tell me anything,” Ashley says.

Against my better judgment, I do. How for some reason, I thought things would be different this time. It seemed like he wanted to try. He asked real questions about me and my life, and acted proud of the work I was doing. I tell Ashley how much it hurt when it felt like Dad had traded me for Sarah after she was born, and how awful and guilty I felt when he lost interest in her too, like I had put that into the universe by being moody and jealous. Behind it all are the words I can’t say out loud, not to Ashley or even to myself. Not fully.

What if I’m just like him? After all, I’ve thrived in this life of not having relationships, going from woman to woman, rarely having deep friendships. Maybe I’m the best version of him, never disappointing anyone because I never give them any expectation beyond a good time. I’m the friend who won’t ever berate you for going dark for a year, who will meet you for a drink in a heartbeat, but who you don’t reach out to in a real crisis. I’ll help you move a couch, but I can’t be trusted with your emotional needs. Except for Ashley. Somehow, she hasn’t given up on the friendship we started a million years ago, when we were naive kids pretending to be grown-up. And that fact is both heartwarming and terrifying.

After most of my resentment has spilled out of me despite myself, Ashley looks into my eyes and says, “What do you need, Sebastian?”

Selfish as always, I reply with the first thing that comes into my mind “You. I need you.”

She reaches out and strokes my face gently, then leans in. We kiss slowly, taking our time, savoring. Then the lust takes over, and I can’t get enough of her. I pull her into my lap, but my kitchen chairs were not built for two people, so it becomes precarious very quickly as she grinds into me. We rise, and I press her up against the counter, sliding her shirt up and off, not wanting to waste time even moving a few steps to another room. I lift her onto the counter and pull her leggings down, which is difficult because she keeps trying to wrap her legs around me. We’re both laughing and kissing, and it’s silly and intimate and beautiful. Being with Ashley is like nothing I’ve experienced with any other woman.