Gentlemen Callers

I find my boyfriend’s car parked in front of the Hillside Motel and consider shattering the windows or, at least, peeing on the windshield. But that’s bad for business. Not my business because, technically, he’s my ex-boyfriend and, fortunately, it’s my grandmother’s 80th birthday.

She deserves a granddaughter who can behave, who can do as she’s told, even though I’m neither of those things. Instead of being here at 5 pm like she asked, I’m in front of her usual room at 4.

Instead of Carrot Cake in a white box, I have a Red Velvet in a pink box because I don’t like Carrot Cake, and she knows I don’t, just like she probably knows that my ex shouldn’t be one of her gentlemen callers.

That’s what my mother calls them. Ever since “sperm donor” was revealed to be an inappropriate way for me to introduce my grandfather to my second-grade class.

Her gentlemen callers used to come to the house until my 12-year-old self caught one climbing through my window. My grandmother would later describe him as a man who had “a thing for breaking and entering,” with a wink that haunts me to this day. Then came the motels, though she’s settled on room 28 at the Hillside Motel 5 miles from our house.

I told my ex all this in the car that’s now parked outside my grandmother’s room. Same car he parked outside of our house, when he first met my mother and Ethel. I didn’t feel anything when my grandmother and him talked about football all night, him sitting next to her and across from me at dinner. Her reapplying her lipstick in the mirror, him licking his lips and talking about her delicious pie. How excited he was to dive in, to taste, already ready for seconds and thirds.

I didn’t start feeling anything until I walked him back to his car, expecting to be invited somewhere, but he starts talking about my grandma and how she “gets” him like I don’t, but, just in case, I tell him I do. I do get him, and he says something about needing space and things will be better this way and something about meeting someone else.

“Oh,” and this he says after braking too hard, after I start thinking he’s changed his mind, “let Ethel know, if she needs anyone to taste test her pies, I’m free.”

Maybe this shit-covered bench and melting Red Velvet cake and I all deserve each other. A man, not my ex, walks out of room 28. Between him zipping his pants and the cool air that escapes from the room, I can see my grandmother’s legs rocking. The mole on my ex’s ass like a dab of ink.

“Oh,” the man stares at me. His lip twitches as the door closes. “You must be—”

“Don’t.” It’s weird when they acknowledge me. Worse when they say I look just like Ethel, them smelling like Vicks, my grandmother’s cure-all.

I’m not sure how much time passes. Only that I can see my grandmother’s hand between the curtains. The fog of her breath. She’s really into whatever my ex is doing to her, and I try not to be jealous, but Ethel doesn’t work up a fog for just anyone, and I can’t help but wonder why he never did anything, like he’s doing to her, to me.

A jeep pulls into the lot and parks in front of my grandmother’s room. A not hideous guy with red curls and freckles crossing his crooked nose almost falls out, pauses, and climbs back in to turn off the engine. He almost trips as he walks over, eyes the empty spot next to me on the bench before passing. I watch him, because my viewing options are limited, trace the numbers on the doors.

“Good day for 22,” he says, and, at first, I don’t realize he’s talking to me. Why would he? All any guy around here wants is Ethel. Until he’s sitting next to me, our knees touching, and he makes the same comment again.

“We don’t have to talk.”

His thumbs go to war with each other. “You here to see Ethel too?”

Gross.

But maybe it’s because he knows my grandmother’s name instead of asking for mine or saying we look alike, or I remind him of her, or that he moves slightly closer for my answer like he’s interested in what I have to say that I cough and almost drop the red velvet cake and sputter,

“No—yes, it’s not—”

“Are you okay?”

He takes the cake because I’m choking on my spit. He pats my back, and I shake my head, which he must think means no, no, I’m not okay, which is true because my ex, the suppose to marry and have kids with ex, is one of my grandmother’s gentlemen callers.

“I should ruin his car.”

“Seems like a waste of cake.” The red-haired guy smiles, stretching his freckles and it’s almost sweet that he thinks I mean to use the cake as my weapon of destruction.

And, rather than think about how unfair all this is, I remove the lid from the cake. I sink my hand into its center and am surprised that the guy remains still, balancing the cake on his lap.

And I eat. I shovel red velvet chunks into my mouth until it’s full. Until I’m pushing red velvet chunks into his mouth, and he’s shy at first, pulling away until he tastes my fingers and begs for more. His face and neck turn red with cake, or blush, I don’t know, and I don’t care because, on that shit-covered bench, we feed each other and lick the leftovers from each other’s fingers, and through it all, I can see his lips move, and the sound of a door opening escapes and someone asks, “How does it taste?”

“Delicious.”