He smiles, creasing one cheek in the cutest way. "No one knows me as well as you do, Buzz."
"Right back at ya." I get up and place my empty plate in the sink, then I make my way behind Court and snake my arms around his waist, pressing my body against his. "It'll be okay. Be the bigger person. Do the right thing. And if it all falls to shit, I'll be right here."
With every breath he takes, his back nudges a little deeper into my chest. "Will blow jobs be involved?"
I slide my hands up and down over his stomach. "Blow jobs willalwaysbe involved."
39
Courtland
Being the bigger personsucks.
As I walk toward the front porch of my mother's house, anger flares in my chest, and I get this overwhelming urge tonotbe the bigger person.
Why do I always have to be the one to make the first move? Why am I constantly tiptoeing around her, placing her needs above my own? Why am I unable to go to my mom with my problems and know she'll be there for me? I'm a grown man. I don't need her to solve my shit for me. But is it too much to ask for her to act like she cares?
It's the biggest unsolved mystery in my life, why my mother has never been interested in me. Definitely an unhealed trauma. I sometimes wonder if me falling into OBGYN wasn’t so random after all. If maybe on some level putting myself into an environment where I work with women and mothers-to-be every single day is my way of trying to find answers I can't get from the woman who gave birth to me.
I reach the front door and rap the knocker a couple of times. A few moments later, the door swings open.
"Courtland." My mother grabs her bathrobe and cinches it tight across her chest. "What are you doing here?"
And suddenly, I get the sinking feeling in my gut that this was a horrible idea.
She doesn't look happy to see meat all, and she's…well, a mess. Not only is she still in a bathrobe at one thirty in the afternoon, but her hair and face, usually so put together, are anything but right now. Her blonde hair, streaked with gray strands I'd never noticed before, is coming loose from a messy bun, her hazel eyes are dull, and she's pale. Even for this time of year.
"Hey, Mom. I just stopped by… Thought we should see each other."
It takes her a second to respond, but when she does, the words fall out in a rush, like her brain gently nudged her with a heads-up:This is your son, remember?
"Yes. Of course. Come in, come in. Would you like some tea?"
"Sure."
I step into the house expecting it to be as much of a mess as she is, but the entryway is immaculate, with muted-taupe shiplap walls and her winter coats neatly hanging on polished brass hooks.
As I kick off my snow-covered boots, I peer into the living room. Also immaculate. Not a thing out of place. She's even got the fire going.
I follow her into the kitchen, and as much as I hate to, I sniff the air. It's not nice to think that your mother could be an alcoholic, but that's the first place my brain went. I don't pick up any whiffs of alcohol, but I'm not prepared to rule it out just yet.
"Right. Tea, tea. Where is the tea?" Mom asks, looking around her kitchen, a little…scattered.
"Are you okay, Mom?" I ask, stepping in close to get a good look at her.
Pupils seem fine. Breathing is normal. She is pale, but that could be from not leaving the house while she was finishing her book.
"Think I might be coming down with something," she says, avoiding eye contact.
Things are always a little tense between us, but this is something else.
"How about you take a seat, and I'll make us some tea?"
She nods gratefully and sinks down in the dining nook. She's got a massive open-plan kitchen, so I keep an eye on her as Iboil some water and find the tea bags. Sitting by the window, illuminated by the winter sun, I can see she's actuallyreallypale.
"Have you been eating, Mom?” I ask, peeking into her refrigerator.
It's like stepping back in time and looking into my dorm room mini-fridge. Pizza boxes. Chocolate pudding cups. Pickles. And cheese. Mom is usually pretty healthy, so this is definitely out of character.
