37

Knox

The only reason I know it’s Monday is because I’m still counting the hours since Parker kicked me out of her apartment. I’m on my couch, getting my ass kicked by Nana in MarioKart, and I don’t give two fucks.

Because for the first time in my life, I’m in love with a woman.

And she doesn’t love me back.

I keep rationalizing that this is for the best. That I like my freedom. I like knowing that I’m the only one who gets hurt if I quit my job. I like knowing that if I’m walking down the street and happen to see a woman drop her purse, I can help her pick up her scattered pens and lipstick and ask her out for coffee without worrying that it’ll piss off my girlfriend.

But I keep circling back to not wanting to take another woman out for coffee.

No, I want the woman who wants me to take a high-paying job that probably also comes with insane hours, and who wants me to change my blog so it can bring in the all-important revenue, and who wants to work eighty fucking hours a week so that she feels like her life is worth something.

Because I’m not that something that’s worthwhile enough.

I’m fucking pathetic today.

“Good god, what died in here?”

I hadn’t heard the door open, but my mom’s behind us.

“It’s Romeo here,” Nana says. “That’s the smell of his heart rotting in his chest since his old babysitter dumped him. He’s given up caring for the world. I think he might need a diaper change too.”

Nope, don’t even care that she’s implying I’m a baby.

“Knox.” Mom steps in front of the TV. She starts to bend toward me, but recoils and steps back four paces, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. “We’re just going to pretend I’m giving you a hug.”

“Your nose goes numb after a couple hours,” Nana tells her cheerfully.

Whoever invented cheerful needs to be dragged out in the street and shot.

“Marty Dorky got fired.” Mom’s voice is muffled behind her hand. Two days ago, that would’ve been funny. “If you’d answer your phone, you’d know Gertie’s been trying to call you all afternoon. He’s been sleeping with a barely-legal girl he met at church, and his wife called his boss to demand you be reinstated.”

“Mm,” I grunt.

I don’t give two fucks about work either. Dorky might be a cheating, self-righteous asshole, but he was right. I’ll just go back to flirting with all my patrons, no matter where I am, no matter how old or young or what their gender or sexual orientation, because that’s what I do.

I play hero through my book recommendations.

Look what playing fucking hero gets me.

“And the Times article on your program went live an hour ago,” Mom continues. She pulls a folded piece of paper out of her back pocket.

She has a smart phone, and she’s still printing articles on paper. Just like Dorky.

“It’s deliciously patronizing. Calls you the male organizer of the women’s re-liberation movement, where perceived societal slights against women are played out on the pages of sex-riddled romance novels.”

I grunt. “Fucker.”

“And he calls Parker your mindless mouthpiece.”

I surge to my feet, because no one calls Parker names. “I’ll fucking tear his arms off.”

Nana snickers. Mom’s head shrinks into her shoulders, guilt flashing over her smile. At the same time, my phone dings. My heart stutters when I see Parker’s name pop up.

She’s sent a text message.

Clairol turducken. Mice over over age.

I fucking love that phone. I fucking miss that phone.

Did you just invite me to dye fowl feathers, or are you happy to text me? I reply. Hope is soaring in my chest.

I really want her to be happy to text me.

Her answer pops up so fast, I know it’ll be good.

Dog hymen ducking phthalate.

And one more text.

J U S T W A N T E D 2 S A Y C O N G R A T S.

I blink. Unless she wants to say I want you back, I don’t give a fuck about anything. I miss her.

Her phone. The way she laughs until she snorts over The Big Bang Theory reruns. That little sigh that slips out every night just before she shoves me off so she can curl up and fall asleep. Her rockin’ hips when she’s strumming and singing on a stage.

Her bravery.

That doesn’t come easy. Probably never will.

Another text pops up.

Anyway, good fuck, it says. I whisk you the rest.

I wait for the correction, because I know she didn’t mean good fuck.

Except it doesn’t come.

I guess that’s all I was to her. A good fuck.

I flick my fingers at Mom in a hand it here gesture, because I have a feeling that wasn’t a bad article at all, and it’s the more important thing right now. If, you know, I’m going to get myself a new job and go about the business of fucking living.

Mom surrenders the paper.

I blink twice and force myself to concentrate.

Evening surrounded by voracious romance readers…invitation from an arrogant, no-name blogging librarian with better manners than his blog suggested…surprising sense of community…smart, business-savvy writers…passionate for their little obsession…

I roll my eyes.

Little obsession.

Probably a dig at my little dick insult.

The piece was put together by both reporters, and while it’s not a shining endorsement of the romance genre—it’s the Times, can’t expect miracles—the condescending tone is mostly gone.

There’s no apology, or concession that Jedidiah Sampson has realized he’s a dick either.

Not that it matters.

“You still have a job at West Park Branch Library,” Mom says. “Gertie wouldn’t know what to do without you. And I’m so proud of you for standing up for what you believe in.” She squeezes me in a quick hug—holding her breath—and retreats back to fresher air. “Now. Let’s talk about Parker.”

“We weren’t engaged.”

“Oh, honey, I know. You never are. But you’re in love with her. That’s a first.”

I don’t ask how she knew. I usually keep my relationships away from my family, so I don’t know if they know how many times I’ve played the fiancé at weddings, funerals, and the occasional bowling league championship—don’t ask—but apparently they know enough.

“She works too much,” I say. Possibly whine. Because my man card has fled the building. Probably the whole fucking city.

“Knox. Sweetheart. Parker is not your father.”

My shoulders bunch, and I don’t answer.

Mom sighs. “You have to decide. Parker with her hours, or another woman without?”

Is she fucking kidding? There will never be another woman.

I shake my head and cross the room to eyeball my books.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to read a single one of them.

I want Parker back.