My Best Friend's Ex(5)

But fuck . . . to have my own company with my two buddies? That would be living the dream.

"I'm not giving up." Racer opens another Oatmeal Pie. "One day. We'll be sitting in our own pimped out trailer, looking over plans together, making our own goddamn decisions over electricians, and showering our employees with Little Debbie snacks. Hell, that curly headed broad, Debbie, will be our sponsor. Our company could be called Debbie's Dicks."



       
         
       
        

"Orrrrrrr something else," Smalls chimes in. "Something catchy like . . ." he pauses and then snaps his finger, "Tight Squeeze Construction."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I ask, slightly disgusted with the suggestion.

"Three Erectors," Racer says with a laugh.

"Butt-Swell Builders."

"Log Jam."

"Proud Penises."

"Manufacturing Man-ginas."

Looking at Racer now, I deadpan, "Yes, let's fucking call ourselves the Manufacturing Man-ginas and get a logo with three men wearing hard hats and sporting massive moose knuckles, because if that doesn't say credible construction, I don't know what does." I shake my head at my idiot friends.

They're both silent for a second before Racer calls over to Smalls, "Hey, at least he's considering the idea of us going off on our own."

For fuck's sake.

I hop off the tailgate of my truck and stretch my hands above my head. Turning to my friends, I say, "I'm going home, so get the fuck off my truck. I'll see you two tomorrow."

They both scatter, chugging the rest of their Mountain Dews and then putting their cans in the recycling bag I keep in the back of my truck.

"Think about it," Racer calls out, backing up as he talks to me. "Man-ginas could be a good way to brand our company. Man-gina stress balls for prospective new customers, doesn't get much better than that."

I hop in my truck without a response, shaking my head at my overenthusiastic friend. No way in fuck would I give away man-gina stress balls. No one wants that.

The drive from the job site to my house is short, because I don't live very far away. At times I wish I did. It's not because I enjoy driving with my window down, feeling the winter air hit me in the face, but because I hate being at my house. Correction. I hate being at my house alone.

I hate every second of its emptiness, of what it represents, of why I bought it in the first place. It's a reminder of my past I wish I could forget. I wish I could let go.

I turn right onto my street and pull into the driveway. When I cut the engine, I stare at the small Cape Cod with its brick chimney and mint-green vinyl siding. The windows are dark showing no sign of living inside because I don't bother leaving a light on for myself-there's no point. My routine is simple: I get home and head straight to my bedroom after I brush my teeth and take a leak. I don't bother with dinner-not when I eat a box of Little Debbie snacks-I don't hang out in the living room because there's no furniture. The place is empty apart from my bedroom. It's the only place in my house that doesn't make me feel crippled with nausea. 

Sighing, I pull the keys from the ignition of my truck, stuff my wallet and phone in my pockets, and go to the side door of my house that connects to the kitchen. Knowing the place like the back of my hand, there is no need to flip on any lights as I navigate through the hollow walls toward the only bathroom between the two downstairs bedrooms.

After ten hours on the job site, my body is screaming for a hot shower. I strip out of my dark green Henley and plaster-covered jeans and turn on the shower to a scalding temperature, glad to burn my skin like I do every night to try to rid of the crawling sensation I feel every time I walk into this godforsaken house.

Leaning on the bathroom counter, I look in the mirror as the shower heats up. Battered and tired eyes stare back at me. I look older than my twenty-four years. I feel fucking older than my twenty-four years. With the life experiences I have under my belt, the disappointments, the losses I've lived through, I feel like I'm in my mid-thirties. What's the phrase? Life sucks and then you die?

Steam billows from the top of the shower. I step past the plain curtain and welcome the heat against my body. The water pelts me in the back, so hot it almost feels cold, just how I like it. I hiss between my teeth, letting the water run down my back to where it pools at my feet before draining away. If only it took my sorrow with it.

Fourteen months ago, I bought this house for a very specific reason: to start a family with my pregnant girlfriend. I wanted to provide for her, to prove I could be the man she needed, convince her that I was the man she could rely on. The involved and caring father I knew I could be. I was happy, fucking ecstatic; my girl was pregnant with my baby. Yeah, we had our problems. Our relationship was off and on for a while, but I believed deep in my fucking soul that we were meant to be together, that we were made for one another.