Two Weeks (3 page)

"Just tell me," I say impatiently. "It was someone at the bar. I mean, we're not engaged yet so I didn't want—"

"Do you really think I'm so far gone that I don't even know the finer details of my own daughter's life? Give me some credit here, Ally." He shrugs and brings the paper back up to his face; I can no longer read his expression. "I assure you, I didn't mix up my story. Maybe this person thought I was talking about Jeff." Despite his defensiveness, his tone is still warm.

I hadn't considered this angle and now I feel stupid. "I'm sorry," I say. "I think the guys down there were just messing with my head."

"The locals will do that to you," he says, laughing again. I don't need to see his smile to know that everything is okay. "Especially if you're a pretty girl."

I blush and stare down at my lap.

It was probably just a misunderstanding
. But I can't help but think that Jackson
was
toying with me, and that pisses me off even more after my dad's explanation.

My mom interrupts us before we can go any further. "Hi, Ally," she says as she rounds the corner. "Can you help me in the kitchen a bit?"

"I want to take a shower first," I say. "And then I'm all yours."

She smiles. "Well, hurry up," she says. "We don't have a lot of time before we need to leave."

"I guess that's the end of our conversation, dad," I say. He grins as I leave. I gulp down the rest of the coffee and leave the cup in the sink.

I head into the shower and move quickly, concerned that my mom will come knocking on the door if I'm not speedy. I only stop to wonder about Max. He never called me back last night, and there still was nothing from him today.

I'm a little concerned, but figure he probably went out on a long night of drinking with his college buddies and hadn't gotten around to calling me back yet.

No big deal. I remember him saying something about people visiting him from out of town soon. I'm not that needy.

After I'm dressed, I help my mom in the kitchen. Her efforts are fastidious, and I do my best to fit into her expert operation. I grease pans and take cookies out of the oven and put them on cooling racks. I put away ingredients after they've been used and ensure that the workspace remains uncluttered.

I'm surprised that I still remember where things are in the kitchen after leaving so long ago. It's still like second-nature to me. After all of the food is prepped and put into appropriate Tupperware containers for traveling, we all get into my dad's red Volvo and drive to the reunion.

We chat quietly on the drive there, and I try to wear a smile. My mom's family has rented out an outdoor gazebo with a surrounding park, one with almost limitless natural room to accommodate her entire family. Even if there were ten times as many of them, we still wouldn't run out of space.

As we pull up, my dad finds a gap between two nearly-identical rusty gray minivans and parks. I once again convince myself to be optimistic and positive.

I went to Yale and live in Boston, working for a huge pharmaceutical firm; most of them barely graduated high school and still live in the same area where they were born. But times have changed, and I decide I'm going to make a serious effort to be friendly—at least for today.

I'll do my best, and I promise myself that. No point in being mean for no reason.

There's a lot going on here already. People are playing volleyball in a sand court. There are kids flying back and forth on a swing set and circling on a rusty merry-go-round. People are playing catch with a football and I'm instantly thinking about Jackson again, wondering what he's doing instead of suffering through a family reunion.

We carry our food offerings to a collective table and are assailed with greetings. I recognize most of the people coming up to us, and I say my hellos and distribute hugs, one per person.

My aunt Mary immediately asks me about my job and my life in Boston. I forgot how much I like her, and I'm happy to have the conversation.

However, just as this all begins, my phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket and look at the screen—it's Max.

"Excuse me for just a second," I say, turning away from the small group that has enthusiastically gathered to listen to me talk about my life as if I was delivering a sermon.

"Max," I say before he can get a word in, "is everything okay? I didn't hear from you last night."

"Ally, can we talk?" he asks. After he says the words, I try to discern whether or not this is a serious situation. It doesn't seem like anything major, and regardless of the nature of the call, I'm just happy to hear his voice.

"I would, but I'm at the reunion and this is the only reason why I came home," I say. I catch an evil glance from my mom, and realize I need to hurry up. "My mom is gonna kill me if I don't get off the phone. I'll call you when it's over."

"Please don't forget," Max says. He abruptly hangs up and suddenly I'm thrown back into this epic family gathering. I grab a beer and do my best to resume where I left off.

I'm not worried about the call, but I wonder if I should be.

Once conversation resumes, however, I forget about it.

***

Jackson

I
wake up feeling exhausted as usual. The drinking is catching up with me. It's not like I'm getting black-out drunk, but I
am
hitting the bottle almost every night. It doesn't help that I've got a lot of money in the bank, enough that I don't really need to be anywhere at any particular time.

It's Saturday, but then again, the days of the week don't mean much to me anymore.

My stomach grumbles, so I head into the kitchen and make some bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, sitting down at the worn kitchen table that used to be for three. As I eat, I notice how tall the grass is in the backyard and decide that I should probably mow the lawn today.

I force myself to have goals from time to time, and maintaining the property is one of those goals. I kind of enjoy mowing, actually. I start drifting into thought as I eat, and of course Ally makes an unexpected appearance again. I feel my stomach muscles tense as I start thinking about her.

It felt good to fuck with her head last night, but it's clear that I want something else from her as well.

I'm thinking about her tight, toned little body, her perfect breasts, her ass... I'm quickly falling in lust.

Buzz!

My phone vibrates against the table and jars me from thought. It's a text from Dan, an old friend from high school. He's been in town for a few days, and wants to stop by before he heads out tomorrow. I don't have much of a social life anymore, so I'm glad that I'll get to actually hang out with someone different for a change.

I tell him to come by in the afternoon.

I have a fight tonight, and Dan is planning on coming along to watch me do my thing. Since I'm not training today, we'll be able to hang out before the fight.

After my parents died, I sold off some of my dad's farm equipment and finished part of the garage. I made it into my own fitness paradise and I train there five days a week, the only real routine in my life other than drinking—and mowing the lawn. On one of those five days, usually Thursday, my sparring partner joins me.

It's a big, open space and I've got more exercise machines than I know how to use, the centerpiece a punching bag that I beat the shit out of daily. After losing my parents and the possibility of ever playing in the NFL, I took up amateur MMA fighting, desperately in need of excitement.

With my condition, spinal stenosis, it's not very smart, but I enjoy the adrenaline rush too much to quit. I make some extra cash when I win tournaments, and it keeps me occupied.

I haven't gotten hurt yet, and I don't spend much time worrying about that since honestly, I don't have much to lose anymore.

One way or another, my body performs like an incredible machine, and I like to push myself to the limits. Had I made it to the NFL, I would have been a star—I'm certain of that. All I have left now is the scraps of that broken dream. I'm half-assing my real dreams, that's right.

In the amateur league I'm in, there are only a few fights per month. But I've been approached about going semi-pro and I'm definitely considering it. I would have to get a bit more serious about my training, which is harder to do in the middle of nowhere and I'm not sure if I'm ready to move yet—or start making a long commute every day.

After I'm done with breakfast, I get the riding mower out of the garage and go to work on the yard. And as soon as the drone of the engine is drowning out the world around me, I'm thinking about Ally again, and hating the fact that I am.

***

Ally

I
'm pleasantly surprised that I'm enjoying myself. The booze has softened me up, but it's the right amount. My dad has had a couple, and his stories only get weirder as he gets drunker. He's telling my Uncle John about the litter of baby rabbits he discovered in a yard a few months ago, going on and on about how fluffy and cute they were, passing around his iPhone to show off the photos.

My dad is a tough, burly guy, so it's all the more hilarious to witness the interaction. Not even
he
can resist the cuteness of baby bunnies.

My mom's family is nice, and although we've had our disagreements over the years, I'm feeling connected to them, like they genuinely
are
my family. I spend a lot of time talking to my Aunt Mary, the most interesting of the bunch by far. She's an artist that lives in San Francisco, and I feel like we have a lot in common.

I'm reminded repeatedly that I should visit her out there sometime, and I happily accept the offer. I tell her that Max and I have been planning a West Coast trip for a while, and that we'll add San Francisco to the itinerary. From what she tells me, it sounds like it would be a lot of fun.

I've had a number of vapid conversations as well, but overall, the average chat has been pretty damn good and I've got more respect for my mom's family than ever. It's kind of a relief.

With so much food available, I stuff myself all afternoon, eating small amounts constantly instead of having bigger meals. My mom has reminded me repeatedly about how rarely these events take place, so I seize the opportunity and indulge freely, fully aware that I'm going to have a lot of running to do to offset such gluttony.

But I'm okay with that, especially if it means I get to eat these delicious chocolate-chip walnut brownies all day long.

I speak briefly with my Great Aunt Marjorie. She's nearly ninety, and still incredibly sharp and alert, but I don’t really know her. She politely asks me about my life and I provide all of the details as gently as possible. Although she definitely looks her age, she seems very healthy too. When I learn that she still walks three miles every morning, I'm even more blown away.

I hope I can last that long.

The whole time I speak with her, I'm in awe of her knowledge, in awe of the things she experienced in her extensive lifetime. She's essentially the centerpiece of the event, the sole reason why many of these family members exist at all.

It makes me think fondly about Max, makes me think about us starting a family sometime soon and sixty years later, having an event like this that wouldn't be possible without our child-rearing efforts.

I'm a little shocked that I'm thinking this way, but it seems okay after such an unexpectedly nice familial experience. All of this feels settled and comfortable and it makes me feel warm inside. I'm tremendously conflicted, both wanting to get back to Boston as quickly as possible to see Max, as well as wanting to stay here and spend more time with family.

As stuck up as I've been about coming home, I feel like I've finally actually arrived there—and I actually kind of
like it
.

When darkness rolls around, the party clears out pretty fast. My dad drives us home and talks about my Uncle John constantly, a good indication that he enjoyed himself as well.

As I walk into the house, my phone vibrates from an incoming call.

Ah shit. I didn't call Max yet.

He's probably upset that I took so long to get back to him since I prefaced this whole trip by saying how miserable it was going to be and that I would be relying on him for support every step of the way.

I look at the face of the phone—it's my best friend in Boston, Angela. She's a graphic designer that I met at a work outing, a skinny, petite redhead that gets a lot of attention from men when we go out together.

Angela is
very
outspoken and free-spirited, and despite our disagreements sometimes, we always get along. It's fun to have someone around like that since I never really know what she'll do next.

I pick up the call as I walk toward my room. "Ange, how are you?" I say. I'm excited to talk to someone from home.

"I'm fine, Ally," she says; her voice is quieter than I would have expected.

"How are things in Boston?" I ask her.

"A little rough. But I'll make it." She pauses. "Listen, we need to talk," she says solemnly.

"Max said the same thing earlier," I say, chuckling. "Everybody needs to talk today, huh?" I stand up and close the door to my room after realizing this might be a very private sort of conversation.
What has she gotten into this time?
"Is everything all right?" I ask.

"I'm pregnant," she says weakly.

"Oh, shit. Do you know what you want to... do?" I tread cautiously, knowing how delicate of a situation this is. I lived through several pregnancy scares of my own in college. And based on the way she's talking, this is unexpected and serious, even if we both have good jobs and are fairly settled.

"It's not that simple," she says. "I think I want to keep the baby."

"That's great," I say. It's more of a platitude than anything else because I'm not sure what she's getting at. I want to ask her who the father is, and I'm expecting to hear that she had a one-night stand that's coming back to haunt her. But I refrain.

"There's more to it though, Ally. I can't do this anymore. I just can't keep a secret like this." She's somber, so painfully quiet that it hurts, and I feel that it's a sign of bad things to come. Angela is
never
like this.