I shut the door behind Jack and rest my forehead on the wood, taking a deep breath. This is not the type of conversation I wanted to have with my son. But it’s time to face the music, so to speak.
Turning, I pad my way to the kitchen, the sound of my slippers brushing against the carpet breaking through the silence. The house is quiet. Too quiet for when Isaac is home. I don’t like it.
Grabbing a cup of coffee, I doctor it with milk, sugar, and a little bit of the peppermint flavoring I got in my Christmas stocking last year. Isaac still doesn’t speak. My boy always has something to say. He’s a chatterbox. It’s unnerving when he’s quiet.
Turning to lean against the counter, I realize the washing machine is going. “Is that your laundry in the washer or the towels that were on the floor?”
“The towels,” he responds. That’s progress. But he still doesn’t look up from his mug, which is bad. He’s been staring at it since I walked into the room.
“Thanks for doing that.”
The only response I get is a slight nod to his head. This is going to be harder than I thought. Taking a deep breath, I place my mug on the counter before speaking. “So are we going to just sit here in silence all day or are we going to talk about this?”
His eyes snap up to mine. “Which part do you want to talk about, Mom?” he spits out. “The fact that I now have visual images of you I can never unsee? Or the part about me now knowing how big my coach’s dick is?”
“Isaac Gregory Stevens! I understand you’re shocked after walking in on something you never should have seen. But you will not disrespect me. Ever,” I berate, and his anger appears to deflate just a little. “I understand no one cares about privacy when you’re living with a bunch of football players in a dorm. But when you knock once on my bedroom door and come barreling in before getting the go-ahead from me, you’re libel to see something you shouldn’t. And that part isn’t my mistake. That’s yours.”
He throws his shoulders back against the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. He’s obviously frustrated, but he knows I’m right about that. Picking up my coffee from the counter, I walk to the table and sit across from him. His eyes are still avoiding mine, but I refuse to be deterred. This needs to be sorted out.
“Isaac.” I sigh when he doesn’t respond. “Yes, you are my child, but you are my adult child. So we’re going to discuss this like adults. I’ll answer any question you have. Except about what you saw, of course.”
He grimaces, and I realize reminding him of the scene in my bedroom isn’t a smart idea. But now isn’t the time to apologize for the misstep, so I ignore it and move on.
“So,” I settle in and clasp my hands together, resting my elbows on the table. “What do you want to know?”
He takes a few seconds before finally giving in. “Are you dating, or are you just fucking him?”
“Isaac . . .” I warn. I’m glad he’s talking to me, but there are still boundaries.
“It’s a valid question, Mom,” he says when he finally looks up at me. “I have to work with Coach Pride every single day. I need to know what this”—he waves his hand around, like he can’t quite find the word—“this . . . thing is. Is it a relationship? Is it a”—he grimaces—“a one-night stand?”
I nod in understanding. As much as I want to scold him, he’s right. This information could very well change his on-field relationship with Jack.
“We’re dating.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
He scoffs. “Seriously, Mom? You’re sleeping with him, but you don’t even know if he’s your boyfriend?”
“I don’t know how to explain it, Isaac,” I rebut. “Boyfriend sounds very juvenile for a man in his forties. We’re dating exclusively. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes,” he says quietly and rubs his finger over his lip while he thinks. I wait until he’s ready. There’s no reason to rush his thoughts. “How long have you been dating?”
“A couple months.”
His eyes snap up to mine again, and I can see that particular answer is only leading to more questions. “A couple months? But the donor banquet was less than a month ago.”
I clear my throat before admitting the truth. “We were already dating the night of the banquet.”
“But . . .” He looks around, trying to make sense of the memories he has of that night. “But you met that night. I introduced you.”
I shake my head, and his shoulders drop. I lied to Isaac that night, and I never lie. I’ve always tried to instill in him that his honesty was his most important character trait. Now I’ve been caught doing exactly what I’ve always warned him against. Once again, I’m ashamed of Isaac seeing me this way. I know I’m only human, and none of this is anything I should be apologetic for, but part of me never wanted Isaac to know that I’m as flawed as everyone else.
Oddly, he seems to gloss over the lies part, as he continues to try and figure this all out. “If you were already dating, why did you pretend you didn’t know each other?”
I slightly squirm in my seat. Isaac has always been protective of me, as is the case for many only-children of a single mom. And this is the part that could set him off again. “We were fighting. Instead of making a scene in front of the donors and boosters, when you came up and introduced us, we just went along with it.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, clearly irritated at this news. “So let me get this straight—you’ve been dating my coach, the man I’ve talked about looking up to, for a couple of months. You’ve already had a major fight, so you pretended not to know each other. And you don’t know if he’s your boyfriend or not.”
I cock my head at him. “Factually, yes. But that’s really twisting my words to make it sound different than it is.”
“Then how is it? And why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to tell you until I knew this was serious. I didn’t want you involved.”
“Didn’t want me involved?” He pops up from his chair and begins pacing, emotions heightening again. “You’re dating my coach. That automatically makes me involved.”
“Which is why I was going to tell you, but before I could”—I point down the hallway—“that whole scene happened.”
“Jesus Christ, Mom . . .”
“Don’t you dare cuss in my house, young man . . .” I challenge, pointing my finger at him, but he ignores me, continuing his rant.
“What happens when this goes south, huh? Will I lose my scholarship? Will I lose my place on the team? Will he just bench me to get back at you?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure that’s what will happen. To get back at me, he’s going to bench his best offensive lineman, lose a few games, risk his salary bonus, and possibly not get a contract extension, just to get back at me.” I stand up and walk to him, trying to talk him down. “And who says this is going to end anyway?”
“He’s married!” he yells.
“His wife died, Isaac!” I yell back.
He scoffs. “Even better. You’re his rebound.”
I look to the sky and beg for help to calm down before I say something I regret. “Jack’s wife died three years ago, Isaac, after her third battle with cancer. If there was going to be a rebound woman, it would have happened years ago.”
“Whatever.” He throws his hands in the air and stalks to the laundry room. I follow right behind him.
“I’m sorry you found out this way, Isaac. That was very, very unfortunate,” I maintain. “But until last night, I didn’t know how serious this was.” He snorts a humorless laugh and throws his dirty clothes back in his giant laundry bag. “I’ve always kept my dating life separate from you for this very reason. There was no reason to get you involved, or force you into a relationship if I didn’t see a future with that person. Now, I finally do.”
He stops what he’s doing and stands up straight to look at me. “Wait, you mean you’ve kept this kind of thing a secret before?”
I have the sudden realization that Isaac genuinely and honestly has no idea I have a life outside of being his mother and my former job. “Do you really think I’ve been a hermit since your father left?”
His jaw clenches and he throws the last of the clothes in his bag, pulling the drawstring tight. “Whatever,” he says and throws the bag over his shoulder. “I’m going to a laundromat.”
I follow behind him as he storms toward the front door, pleading with him as I go. “Isaac, just stay. We need to talk about this.”
“Nope. No talking,” he refuses without a backward glance. “I know too much. I’ve seen way too much. I’m out of here.”
Slamming the door behind him, another important man in my life leaves me alone in silence for the second time today. And it’s not even noon yet.