Chapter 7

MIKE

It had been three days since my rendezvous with Tammy. Three days of holding my shit together when all I wanted to do was fantasize about her. I couldn't understand why she got under my skin. Was it the way she had been so bold and yet shy at the same time? Was it her insistence on the impersonal nature of our connection? If I had the opportunity to get to know her better, would that change anything? Maybe I was just obsessed because I couldn't have her.

Either way, it was interfering with my work. I had to stop myself from daydreaming countless times. I had resolved not to irritate the manager anymore. The last thing I needed was for him to think I was back on the drugs I had never used in the first place. But every time I went into my little apartment, I thought about her.

She haunted the bedsheets, and I hadn't had the heart to open the laptop that had supported her sweet little butt. At night, I sat on my desk chair, phone in one hand, beer in the other, remembering. During the day, I forced myself to focus on work, counting cords of wood in my head to keep my thoughts from drifting.

I'd had other one-night stands—why was this one so different? Tammy was so beautiful, she put most of my bed partners to shame. Not that all girls weren't cute in their own way, but Tammy looked like a model. Not only that, but I could also tell she was a sweet girl who had been wronged one too many times in her life. I would have to be careful not to let the experience drag me down. The whole point of a one-night stand was not to get emotionally involved. I kept a tight rein on my feelings during the day, but after hours, in the dark, in the room where it had happened, my heart told a different story. I knew I was in for a rough couple of weeks before I could get the taste of her out of my mouth.

I finished the morning and was clocking out for break. I considered going into town again, maybe grabbing a cheesesteak and seeing what Polly had to say. I crossed that off my list as quickly as the thought came up. It would be horrible to use the waitress in that way, to pay attention to her just to forget someone who meant nothing to me. My father saved me from that particular mistake by asking me to come home for lunch.

I didn't really want to interact with my parents. I would always love them, but at the moment, they were more of a pain than a joy to be around. Since they'd asked directly, though, I obliged. I went to their house without stopping to wash up first. I opened the kitchen door without knocking and went inside to find my mom sitting at the kitchen table. There was another small cardboard box on the table in front of her.

I took a step back in frustration and nearly ran into my dad. "Really?" I asked.

"The manager says you've been acting spacey for several days," Dad explained.

"That's because—" I began, ready to tell them that my state of mind had nothing to do with drugs. I stopped myself. It wasn't any of their business who I brought home. I was way beyond the age of sneaking women in and out of my bedroom.

"Because?" my mom asked.

"Never mind," I sighed, picking up the box. I went to the bathroom, washed the sawdust from my hands, and pissed in the cup. I left the test strips and the deposit on the toilet just like I had before. They might force me to cooperate, but I was only going to go so far. Let them deal with a cup of warm piss if that's what they wanted.

I went back into the kitchen, and my mom surprised me with lunch. She had a bowl of corn chowder with bacon set out for me and was busy ladling out a dish for my dad. My first thought was to scold myself for the anger, but then I doubled down on that emotion. They were way out of line asking me to take drug tests. Wasn't it obvious that I was clean? I showed up at work on time, most of the time. I did what I was asked, I didn't start fights, I didn't steal. What more did a guy need to do to prove himself to his own mother?

She had made me a hot meal, and I decided to be grateful. If I was going to mend the relationship, I had to start by breaking bread. My dad raised his spoon awkwardly once we were all sitting at the table.

"I want to thank you for consenting to the drug tests," Dad said.

I kept my mouth shut.

"You confessed to—" my mom began.

"I didn't confess," I corrected her.

"If you were innocent, why did you have so many drugs on you when they arrested you?" Mom asked.

"It was a hundred grams of cocaine," I said into my soup. Not that it mattered, but I knew exactly what I had been charged with.

"See?" Mom pointed out, exasperated. "Why do you know that?"

"I know it because that's what I was charged with," I answered. "Not because I was actually selling or using the drugs."

"If you weren't selling them," Dad asked slowly, "then what were you doing with them?"

I sighed. I couldn't tell them. Despite the fact that Porter had been a jerk the last time I saw him at the bar, he was still a friend. He had been my best friend. I sincerely hoped that he would clean himself up, get married, and get his life back on track. I didn't want to do anything to jeopardize his chances and telling my parents what he had done would only make my sacrifice meaningless.

Mom sighed and changed tactics. "When are you moving out?"

"As soon as I can," I answered tightly. "Maybe one more paycheck."

"I don't like it." She shook her head. "You'll go right back into using."

"I never used in the first place," I snapped.

"Until you give us a logical explanation about why you were convicted and spent six months in jail, I'll have to side with the jury," Mom said.

"I thought you were supposed to side with me, you're my mother and I'm your son." I grumbled.

"Not against the evidence," Mom replied.

"Can't you stay and go into a recovery program?" Dad asked.

"I don't need a recovery program!" I pounded my fist on the table. How many times did I have to say I was innocent before they believed me?

"Why are you acting like an ungrateful child?" Mom pushed her chair back.

"Maybe because you're treating me like one," I growled, fed up with her and her condescending attitude.

"Settle down," Dad said as if I were still ten years old and arguing with Mom about homework.

I stood up. "I will be moving out as soon as I possibly can, and I will not ‘go back' to using drugs because I never used drugs in the first damn place."

I stormed from the kitchen back to the lumberyard and bent my fury into my work. I walked the lines of two-by-fours, pulling out warped boards and dragging them over to the bargain pile. It was going to take a lot of hard labor to dispel the anger that was seething in my bones. I held my breath that the manager wouldn't take notice and decide to engage me. I couldn't be responsible for my actions if he did. Thankfully, I was left alone, and after three hours of backbreaking work, I finally felt better.