We Are Going to Be Together

Chapter 3

Two, Hamilton has a crush on me. He wants in my Dickies, which isn’t a problem, because most guys do. The problem I have with him is much more complex: he wants to hump-and-dump me. I’m a d**k on his chart of the men he hasn’t slept with; a name and number that he wants to conquer. The canary wants to bed me and place a tick by my name on his grid. If he doesn’t think I know about his dry board of names, he’s got another thing coming, because I do. So f**k him. I’m not going to Roddy’s with him. And nor will I sleep with him.

Three, Hamilton’s still legally married. On paper, he’s never gotten a divorce from Hill Mansford, his husband of three years. The two are still hitched according to the state of Pennsylvania, even if they don’t live together any more…even if they haven’t seen each other in ninety-plus days…even if Hill is somewhere in South Dakota with an American-Indian that goes by the name Black Hawk and has a c**k the size of a totem pole. I don’t sleep with married men, and never will. Case closed.

Politely, I decline Hamilton’s offer. “No can do. I have to get home and get some sleep. I have a big day tomorrow. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“Come on,” he begs, almost to his Ford Ranger, which is parked five vehicles away from my Jeep Wrangler. “Have a change of heart. I’m sure you have a lot of pent cream inside you that I can handle. Plus, I want to come inside you.”

I’m caught off guard with his statement. Such a nasty pig. The worst. I ask over the hood of my Jeep. “What did you say?”

He clears his throat. “Come with me. We need a drink and let loose.” He lets out a limp snicker.

That is not what he says and we both know it. I don’t question him and reply, “Sorry, pal. Not tonight.”

“Sure. No problem. Maybe next time.”

Off I go.

* * * *

I drive home through the snow. The white snow-blur is heavy, falling down from the night’s heavens. Christmas and New Year’s is long gone, but Miss Winter is still being a cantankerous nut-bag, in full rage and at the top of her game. It has to be twelve degrees out with high winds. Not a fun night.

The cold evening doesn’t stop Darsey Haas from sitting on the front stoop of my Colonial, waiting for me at 739 Ridge Road. My Jeep’s blazing-bright headlights pick up his bundled body in a heavy North Face jacket, scarf, gloves, goggles, and jeans. At first, I don’t recognize him, but it’s not the first time the rugby player has ditched life and ended up at my house in the middle of the night, needing attention. Something’s obviously wrong.

He shares a two-finger wave with me as I turn out the Jeep’s lights and park beside his Mazda 3 in my drive. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or not, but I’m sure he’s not because of the time, weather, and that he’s alone on my stoop. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m in for, some kind of emotional drama for the next hour or two, or all night long, but it doesn’t matter since I have a heated crush on him. A good time, bad time, or any time is always fine with me when it comes to spending time with him. I’m not complaining.

I climb out of the Jeep and cross over the snow-covered cobblestone pathway that leads up to him. Freezing wind brushes against my face, stinging my bare cheeks. Neighbors live at a distance and can’t hear when a call out to him through the tundra-like conditions, “Hey, what’s going on, Darsey?”

He stands, shakes his head. Chattering, he replies, “Can I get some heat?”

“Yeah. Of course. You don’t even have to ask. Let’s go inside.”

* * * *

We get comfortable. He takes a piss after removing his thick layers. I turn on a few lights and ask what he wants to drink. He passes on coffee, tea, or something warm.

From the downstairs bathroom off the kitchen, leaving the door open while he drains his system, he replies over one of his shoulders, “Can I have something stronger?”

“Whiskey? Vodka? Barenjager? Rum?”

“I’m German. I’ll take Barenjager. Warm up some milk. I can have it with that.”

Barenjager it is. The bear hunter drink. I’ll have one with him. Why not? I grab two glass tumblers, the bottle of German drink, warm up some milk in the microwave, and tell him, “I’ll be in the living room in a second.”

* * * *

“I’m sorry about showing up like this,” he says.

“You don’t have to apologize. We’re friends.”

We sit on the secondhand sofa together, opposite ends. I should get a new sofa, but refuse. It’s too comfortable to toss. My ass fits perfectly in its curves. I can’t nap anywhere else and dream of magical dreams of being twelve again, fishing in Dobner’s Pond and catching snakes. Does it look like s**t with its mangled arms? Absolutely. Can I afford a new one? Absolutely. Do I abstain from buying a new one? Absolutely. Praise Jesus!

The Colonial is like this: filled with old and mangled things that I can’t, and won’t, throw away or replace. Comfortable things. Things that have stories behind them. The set of terra cotta flower pots in the far-right living room’s corner that belonged to my mother before she died of breast cancer in 2009. The amateur, unicycle oil paintings by Fred Nelson (I fell in love with him; I shouldn’t have), an ex-boyfriend who broke my heart by cheating on me. The four-foot tall stuffed bear named Binky that my sister gave me before she moved to Lancaster some two decades ago. The handmade, woven rugs my grandmother made with her loom when I was in my teens. The house is a museum of sorts inside, eclectic and important to me. Stories revealed by personal items. I won’t have it any other way—never.