The Mathematics of Being Alone
Beatty shook his head, still smiling at Jaime.
We were in eastern Michigan, right, up in this deer blind. Fuck, we’d been up in that musty little deer blind since dawn. Nothing doing. Beatty here had never bagged a buck and I was determined to make that happen for him. His father—
Stepfather, interrupted Beatty.
Sorry, bro. David continued, slipping in and out of a faux-red neck voice. His stepfather had passed away recently, in a freak hunting accident, of course, and the buck was supposed to be an homage to him. But Beatty couldn’t hit the side of a fucking doublewide, so what would we have to bring home to his stepmom—
She’s my real mom, asshole.
Am I telling the story or are you? And then, just as we were about to pack it in, me thinking I’d have to lick his mom’s box to keep her from crying all through dinner again, this huge twelve point came munching out into the clearing. Little Beatty was petrified, as I’m sure you can imagine. Raise your weapon, I told him, Aim just behind that bad boy’s shoulder blades. But the candy-ass didn’t move. Do it for your mom, I said, Do it or I’ll do her. He was moving then, Beatty, that is, not the buck, but like in slowmo. So slow it was too painful to watch, so I readied my own rifle, thinking I’d shoot right when Beatty shot so he’d assume he’d made the kill when all he really hit was a pile of dirt and twigs or something. But fuck me, Beatty nailed that son of a bitch. A heart shot. Pow, execution style. Of course he went all numb again afterwards and I had to carry the bloody beast out and strap it to the hood of the jeep all by myself.
David elbowed Beatty who laughed and squeezed Jaime’s hand. Jaime smiled back and forth between both boys, then felt a hand cup her ass. In the dark press of the bar, she couldn’t be sure who was touching her where, but she liked the feel of both hands; they made her feel warm and hard, sure. Right then she wanted nothing more than to be poised between Beatty’s sincerity and David’s absurdity.
Last call, the bartender called, as one hand moved to the front of Jaime’s jeans.
So y’all want to get some tall boys and go back to my place, offered David. I haven’t gotten to the best part of the story yet: the tear-stained scene in the front yard when we brought the buck back to Beatty’s mom.
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Jaime thought they’d been having a banner evening—they drank too much wine with dinner and passionately debated the commonplace—but Jake turned silent and broody as they strolled down First Avenue. She looped her arm around his and tried to just enjoy the walk and her own thoughts.
As a kid, Jaime had hypothesized that since sex between a man and a woman was like the forefinger penetrating the circle formed with the thumb and forefinger on the opposite hand, then sex between two women must be the two holes bumping together and between men like the tips of two fingers touching. She shook her head, remembering that when she’d admitted this to Jake, he hadn’t laughed. She looked over at his profile, in sharp silhouette against the blur of the city street; his features were impassive. Did he even have a sense of humor? Lately, she hadn’t bothered testing it.
When Jake cleared his throat, Jaime stopped walking and stared at him.
What’re you thinking about? she asked.
Trolls, he replied.
She laughed and squeezed his arm.
What do you want from me, he said then, flatly, as if asking if she wanted to spend the night at his place or hers.
She cocked her head to the side, smiled and said, Everything, of course. But before he could respond, she took it back. I’m kidding, I mean, that’s what I want in the long run, years from now, if we’re together, house, kids, dog, cat, all that, but right now all I want is companionship. Just this that we have.
It’s like the second law of thermodynamics.
What’d you mean?
Things will only get worse before they get better.
What do you mean? Jaime repeated, louder and slower.
I think we shouldn’t see each other anymore.
No, she said.
What do you mean no?
You can’t break up with me, no. I mean, if anyone should be breaking up with anyone, it should be me with you. I cheated on you last week. I had a threesome with some random guys I met in a bar. Plus, you only have one testicle.
That’s some fuzzy math there, sweetheart.
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Holland tucked her hair back behind her ears. If she didn’t answer soon, the pause would be an unrecoverable one. I was just thinking about what it would be like to kiss you, she lied, then realized that the lie was now also true.
As Jake was kissing her, the rumored words played inside her head: He only has one ball, one snagged off when he was climbing a chain link fence as a kid. Determined to find out for herself, she kissed him harder. It seemed important to know what that void looked like. She ran one finger slowly along the smooth line of flesh just above his jeans, then eased her body over onto his on the saggy couch. She felt drunk on control.
You have such a great body, she whispered while removing his shirt.
Jake purred as Holland kissed down his hairless chest, around his large dark nipples, slow, and then slower as she moved farther down, her tongue tracing the thin line of hair leading down from his belly button. When she’d pulled off his jeans, boxers balled inside them, he reached over and turned out the light.
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