Mason shifted his phone in his hand. The other returned his soda to the coffee table, the plastic sliding across the glass from the condensation, and picked up the remote. One hand always working the screen in that constant search for information. Sports everything – scores, schedules, articles, art older than his ex but recently posted for sale, even what his friends were up to – who they were with, where they had been. It was a treasure trove of information and he had to have it all.
The occasional text from the right person could pull his attention, but for the most part he’d tackle those between open Safari browsers and switching between social media apps. His thumb drifted down to messages. Molly’s name popped up on the bottom of the screen, his thumb hovered above the message for a moment. The sound of the crowd ripped through the living room. Shit, he thought to himself. His thumb refreshed his Twitter feed waiting for the update on what happened in the game. Shit, he thought again seeing that the batter he had benched from his fantasy team just scored a home run against his current pitcher. So much for this week’s fantasy record.
Heaviness pulled in his chest, maybe it was the game or the two donuts he had for a snack before his frozen pizza dinner, hopefully good news would cheer him up. It had been the same way six years ago. He had been home, watching the game, hoping that if his Yankees couldn’t get it together at least his fantasy team would be able to. He had been the undefeated champ until that year, until she came along. How different it would have been. . .
Mason took a breath in, his thumb tapped on the messages icon. He had two texts from Molly, “you won’t bail on me this time 😉” followed by “I’ll pick you up on my way down or are we taking two separate cars?”
“Last time,” he muttered. The brightly lit living room faded around him, giving way to the dark of the night, the glow of the car, the haze of his memories.
Sitting in the car, sweat rolling between the folds of my neck, boiling with anger. Not again, I had thought to myself. She’s breaking up with me again, and we’re not even dating. And she was.
Something about better suited as friends. I lashed out. I don’t want to be friends. Either you’re going to date me, or we’re done here.
She got out of the car, her purse tangled in her arms, her phone barely supported between all of her stuff. I peeled away not registering if she had made it across the street or not. She didn’t want to go down the shore with me? Fine. She didn’t want to date me? Fine. Fuck her. I didn’t pick her out of an Instagram lineup to be friendzoned and I sure as shit hadn’t intended to pick up a part-time job dealing with a girlfriend when I just wanted a lay.
I picked up my phone and texted Molly. She and Albert had been broken up, again. If her activity on my Instagram had been a fair indication, it had been a few weeks, two months at best. Besides, she wouldn’t say no, a quick scroll through our DMs would make that abundantly clear.
She and Albert were broken up, and she was ready to move on. At least in a physical sense. Albert said it every time they broke up like clockwork, “That girl is the one. The love of my life. I fucked it up. . . again.” Each time a little more worried than the time before that there wouldn’t be a next time. There was. There was always a next time for Molly and Albert. I just wanted to take her down the shore. Get some drinks, have some fun. Move on. I had put most of my work into a piece of ass who wanted a friend.
My text to Molly was brief. “Thinking about going down the shore this weekend. You around?” She had answered almost immediately. “Whose coming?” I smirked, taking a drag of my cigarette. “Me? You?” I hadn’t locked my screen before her answer came back. “Definitely you, Mason. Call me later to work out the details? Heading to work now.”
I pulled out another cigarette. The weekend hadn’t been wasted after all. I wouldn’t be coming out the other side of it with a clinger – someone who presumed me to be their boyfriend, one I’d have to let down gently after having spent the weekend fucking, and my dick would still getting wet. It wasn’t like Molly was going to tell anyone, so Albert would never know. Not that it would matter anyway, they were broken up. If he cared so much about the love of his life, he probably shouldn’t have fucked it up. . . again. I laughed to myself, never to understand, just listening to John Sterling give me false hope about a home run. Everything was going to be alright. Three days to the weekend, until Molly drunkenly sat on my cock, of Yankees baseball, and most importantly, no Magdalena.
Two days. Two days of peace spent yelling at the Yankees to do better.
Two days. That was all the quiet she could offer. I had thrown a line out, just to see what she would come back with… after hours of waiting, I could never understand who lost their own phone in their own condo, she answered. She didn’t text back. She called. She had a funny story: apparently when I had been driving away, she stubbed her toe. The first person she thought to tell was me, but didn’t want to upset me. I had made it clear I didn’t want to hear from her. She was happy I called. She figured the ball was in my court. I hadn’t heard it, but she could have sworn she said if I changed my mind to reach out. Nothing changed for me, I just wanted to see what she was doing. We talked. We laughed. We kept talking. . . an hour and she still could go, but I told her I had dinner plans. In the end, she told me that she wanted to go down the shore with me. Just the two of us.
I grabbed a cigarette and lit a celebratory one. I was back on track. I had never put so much work into something to come up short on the reward, but here she was, unlike Molly who had – SHIT, Molly! I thought to myself.
It would be fine. After all, it wasn’t as if I had my own shore house, yet. Just the kindness of my favorite aunt, the one who swore the shore house was mine when she passed since none of our family ever came down as much as I did. Every Fourth, every Labor Day, almost all the weekends in between, me and my friends, family by choice, would be there. We’d cook, the girls would clean up, the guys would pick away at my aunt’s honey-do-list, and I would sit there keeping her company. It was the perfect situation for all of us. Especially since now I would just tell Molly that my aunt had company and we had to reschedule.
“No worries,” her reply read. “We’ll have to get a drink one night soon instead.”
I smiled. Never hurt to have a backup plan. Magdalena wasn’t the most reliable. Little sense of obligation, wariness of commitment, on paper she had seemed perfect for a summer fling. Instead, she wanted friends. The girl should have spent less time reading the dictionary as a kid, whatever she did or didn’t want to call it wouldn’t – shouldn’t have changed my intentions. I didn’t know then Maggie and I would date. That her constant no’s would have him begging for a yes. It wasn’t what I had in mind, but we did. It was good until it wasn’t.
Molly, on the other hand, was easy. Simple. Fun. It was sex, it was a weekend down the shore. It could have gone anywhere.
He laughed out loud to himself. Back in his living room, another memory playing out before him.
It was warmer on top of the bar than it should have been. Rooftop bars usually mean cool breezes. My group is packed between a handful of other groups, all vying for a spot at the bar. We have the hookup. Ali used to date the bartender and the owner? She dated the owner and her cousin dated the bartender? It was hard to keep up. They once dated the same bartender, a different bar, different times. We’ve never liked strangers. We don’t mind sharing amongst each other.
Everyone finally has their drinks. Magdalena is talking to my friend Gemma. We adopted her when her older sister stopped coming out. A dozen years younger, and she takes care of us all. If she can get Maggie’s hair to behave, I’ll buy her a double. Behind them is a commotion. A shiny clean shaved head pops through the crowd. He hasn’t opened his mouth yet, but you can already feel the rumblings of a bender.
“ALBERT!”
Everyone shouts. He reaches behind him, Molly. She looks good. Sweeping blonde bangs, an up-do, a tight black dress with red bottom heels. Maggie is wearing – I look over at her – jeans, a tank top, and a sweater. The same thing she wears every day. Gemma’s managed to fix her hair. They’re heading over to Molly. Albert is already at the bar. Shit, I think to myself. Maggie is smiling, it’s radiant and bright, she’s going to be her overly friendly self. She knows who Molly is, knows that I bailed on her when we went down the shore. Hopefully she won’t put the pieces together before I get her out of here.
Albert would freak if he knew that I had made plans with the love of his life, no matter that at the time they were broken up. Who knew that less than two weeks later, he and Molly would be back together again? Realistically, he wouldn’t know so it wouldn’t be a problem. I leaned forward hugged Molly hello, whispered a small tsk, tsk in her ear. Grabbing Maggie’s hand, I led her out of the bar before she finished her first drink. The less she could say the better. Only stupid people were honest. Ones with nothing to hide. And Maggie was stupid.
Mason shook his head. Unlocking his screen, Molly’s text still in front of him. In all the years he and Maggie were together, she hadn’t lied to him, even when she should have. She broke up with him and wanted to be friends. FRIENDS! Laughter had choked through his anger when she said that to him. He bit back, “I was never your friend to start, and I won’t be your friend now.”
Now she was gone. Fucking his friend, “her friend” or something stupid. After years of budding friendship, a friendship that supposedly took off after they broke up. She hadn’t planned for it. It just happened. It happened enough that his former friend had started catching feelings. But she’s still not dating, just being happy. At an age where she should worry about her biological clock, and she still couldn’t commit. Some people would never grow the fuck up. Whatever it was, was a crock of shit. She had been his friend for months and months, drunkly fucking, eventually dating when he couldn’t take being called ‘a friend’ anymore. He forced the issue, tried to force her to grow up. To stop harping on the meaning of each word, get her to stop being so damn semantical, to live in the real world. So much for that, but now that she was gone, and like clockwork Albert had once again fucked it all up with Molly. . .
Mason had a chance to see where history might have gone, where it might go. Tomorrow, Molly would be by his side on the way to the shore. Whatever happened, it would be simple, fun, and involve sex. It could go anywhere before she would eventually see herself back to Albert. No one would tell, so no one would know. Molly and Albert, Albert and Mason, it would all continue to be the same as it ever was.