Chapter 7 - Max
The ringing of my phone wakes me up. It’s the ringtone I’ve set for my mother’s number, and based on the headache gathering behind my forehead, there’s no way I’m going to pick up that phone call.
I wasn’t kidding last night when I told Naomi they were pressuring me to get married. It’s been the number one topic of conversation for most of my adult life.
They thought I’d marry Farrah in college, but she left me as soon as she knew my football career was over. They pressured me to marry every single girl that I ever dated after that. Once, I agreed with them, and I ended up leaving the poor woman at the altar.
That was all over the tabloids, just like every other mistake I make. Even Naomi’s heard of the last one. The guilt still makes my chest burn when I think about Heather. I shouldn’t have done that to her, and I won’t do it to anyone else.
So, no. I’m not going to field any questions about my love life at 7am on a Sunday morning. My parents can wait.
I click ‘ignore’ and roll over, shoving a pillow over my head.
I’m not sure if it’s my headache and the stale taste of beer in my mouth, or if it’s the memory of Naomi’s gentle rejection last night, but the thought of doing anything except lying in bed seems particularly unappealing this morning.
My phone rings again—Mom’s ringtone, again.
Ugh.
It only takes a second to put my phone on silent. I lay back and stare at the ceiling, spreading my arms out wide in my king-size bed.
The sheets smell fresh and the pillows are soft and downy, but my bed feels cold. Naomi felt perfect in my arms last night. Even just hugging her outside the bar was intimate. I wonder what she would feel like naked in bed beside me?
I could bury my nose in her hair and inhale the sweet scent of roses that clings to her. I could wrap my arms around her, sinking my fingers into her flesh and memorizing every curve of her body. She could press her chest against mine and brush those soft, pink lips across my skin.
Shivering, I put my hand to my forehead.
I will not give in to the temptation. I won’t touch myself.
The last thing I want is to be going to my next physio appointment with a hard-on, remembering how I jerked off to the thought of my physical therapist. I struggled enough on Monday, I don’t want to associate Naomi with pleasuring myself.
I won’t do that to myself. Being near her is torture enough.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I steady myself before standing up. My head feels like it’s full of lead, and I didn’t even drink that much. I must be getting old.
Maybe rejection worsens hangovers?
I stand on two shaky legs, ready to wince as the pain of a knee stiffened by sleep shoots through my leg. As I straighten, my jaw drops open slightly. There’s no pain. I take a tentative step towards the bathroom, shocked at how easy my movements are.
My knee’s progress with Naomi has eclipsed all the other physical therapy I’ve done before. I was an idiot to try to come on to her. She was right to turn me down. Maybe I should be like her and care more about my knee. I should care more about my knee than I do about my dick.
Still, I’m not used to it—rejection. I’m used to women falling all over me. I’m used to having them follow me around wherever I am, batting their eyelashes and running their hands over my arms.
What I’m not used to is diving into conversations about marriage being an institution designed to keep women in their place. I’m not used to having a bright, beautiful woman battle with desire and propriety and have propriety win out.
I avoid looking at myself in the mirror when I get up to take a piss. I keep the lights off and shuffle back to bed. I flop down on my back and check my phone.
Twelve missed calls, all from my mother.
I groan.
I don’t want to call her back. I’m clearly hungover, and I’m not in the mood for the inevitable questions about my love life.
Still, something could be wrong.
Sighing, I tap my screen until my mother’s name pops up, and let my finger hover over the ‘call’ button. With a deep breath, I press down and bring the phone to my ear.
She answers halfway through the first ring.
“Max! Finally!”
“Hey, Mom.”
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you forever!”
“It’s not even eight AM, Mom, what’s going on?”
“Well,” she huffed. I could picture her smoothing her hair down and patting her cheeks in that perfect, rehearsed movement of hers. “Your father and I saw the papers this morning.”
“Okay…”. Am I supposed to know what that means?
“And we saw you in them,” she continues.
“Uh-huh.”
“We got the shock of our lives, didn’t we, Rudy?” I imagine my father nodding in agreement.
Her little breadcrumb trail of hints is starting to frustrate me. I close my eyes and bring my hand to the bridge of my nose, willing myself to keep my voice patient.
“I haven’t seen the papers, Mom,” I answer. “What did they say?”
“Well!” She exclaims and I swallow back another wave of frustration. Just spit it out! “When were you going to tell us you had a girlfriend! You let us find out like the rest of the world. I’ve been getting phone calls from all the girls at the club all morning!”
‘The girls at the club’ is code for the gaggle of women who pretend to be friends from the Country Club. They have nothing better to do than gossip about me, apparently. And they’d been calling her all morning? About my girlfriend?
I try to process what my mother is saying, but nothing makes sense.
“Mom, I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Max, first you keep us in the dark, and then you lie to me! I’ve seen the photos!”
“What photos?”
“In the paper!”
The exasperation bubbles up inside me and threatens to boil over. I sit up in bed, taking a long, calming breath.
“Mom, I’m not lying. What paper did you see these photos in?” I start walking towards my laptop.
“The Post.”
“Oh my god, Mom,” I sigh. “That’s hardly where you get your news, is it?”
“Stop stalling, Max. When do we get to meet her?”
I fire up my laptop, tapping on the keyboard until I pull up the New York Post’s website. I only have to scroll to the second news story to see my face.
My stomach drops.
It’s my face… and Naomi’s.
“So…???” My mom huffs on the other end of the line. “Your father and I are going to come to the city to meet her.”
“Mom, no, I—”
“I need to go now, I’m getting another call. We’ll be there shortly. I’ll bring your grandmother’s ring.”
“Mom!”
The phone clicks and the line goes dead. I stare at my phone’s screen, and then back at the computer. There are half a dozen photos of Naomi in my arms. Even if we’re not kissing or embracing in any of them, we look… intimate. For once, I agree with my mom. If I’d seen these photos, I would think we were a couple.
Then, her final words finally sink in. I’ll bring your grandmother’s ring.
She thinks I’m going to marry Naomi!
My stomach tumbles and I try to dial my mom’s phone again, but it’s her turn to ignore my call. I find my dad’s number and call him.
“Dad—” I say, breathless, as he answers.
“Max,” he replies. “You spoke to your mother?”
“Yeah, about that. The girl in the photo, she’s—”
“Max, listen to me.” His voice is hard and I pause. My heart starts thumping. I only hear that tone in his voice when things were very, very wrong. “Your mother and I have been very patient with you. We saw you ruin not one, but two good relationships.”
“Farrah wasn’t—”
“Two good relationships,” he continues. “And we’re at the end of your rope. After the accident, I gave you a position at the company.”
“Dad, I don’t see what this—”
“It was with the understanding that you would make the family proud, and you would carry on the family name. Your mother and I are tired of reading about you gallivanting all over New York City. We’re tired of the gossip, tired of the stories, tired of it all. It’s not good for you and it’s not good for the company.”
Yeah, and you care more about the company than you do about me.
He pauses for dramatic effect, and it works. “So you have two choices right now.”
I hold my breath.
“You can either marry that woman, or you can give up your position at the company and all the benefits that go with that. You’ll no longer be part of this family. Not now, not in my will, nothing.”
“What?”
“You heard me. We’re sick of this. If this woman is suitable, then she’s the one.”
“She’s the ‘one’?! If she’s ‘suitable’? What the fuck?”
“Your bachelor lifestyle has gone on long enough. This has to end.”
My eyes widen and I almost drop my phone. I just barely hear him hang up. I’m glad I’m sitting at my desk, because my legs feel too weak to stand on.
I replay the two conversations I’ve just had with my parents over and over in my mind until I finally understand what’s going on: I can either marry Naomi, or lose my job, my inheritance, and my family.