“How do you know I wouldn’t have asked her out? You don’t know everything.” I bend down to scoop up the apples, at least the ones Chewy hasn’t stolen and run off with. He’s on his dog bed in the corner, happily gnawing away at a Granny Smith like the cat who ate the canary.
Five more minutes and I’m ending your little snack fest, bud. I don’t need him shitting on the living room rug.
He obviously can’t read my mind and goes on ignoring me, chewing as if his life depends on it. As if he knows the apple is going to be taken away at any moment.
Because it is.
Molly lifts the wooden spoon out of her batter and points it at me. “I know you wouldn’t have asked her out because that would have made you feel vulnerable and you hate that.”
Um, what?
“Oh please, that is so not true.”
The intruding neighbor girl lets out a scoff to rival mine. “Are you serious? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re like, the poster child for toxic masculinity.”
“What did you do, eat a dictionary for breakfast?”
“You know I’m right.” She begins spooning small blobs of dough onto the cookie sheets. “You think you have to project this image of manliness, which you hate doing, so instead you act like an asshole.”
“I know what it means,” I tell her with an air of authority I don’t confidently feel. “And that’s not what that means.”
I don’t think…
Anyway, who the fuck is she to tell me I have toxic masculinity?
Molly stops production to pull her cell out of the back pocket of her jeans and tap out a few words. Nods knowingly, then reads out loud. “Defined as: male gender role that stigmatizes and limits emotions boys and men may comfortably express while elevating other emotions such as anger.”
She stuffs the phone back into her pocket.
“That means, because you’re big, and strong, and work in a male-dominated industry where strength and toughness are expected, you can’t display emotions like…” Molly hums. “Sadness or love. This is why you don’t act lovey-dovey even when you want to.” She points to Chewy. “You’re like that with the dog, but not with other people. I hate to say this, but if you aren’t able to tell Chandler how you feel, she won’t stick around long.”
“What do you mean ‘tell her how I feel’?” And how the hell would she know? She’s a teenager, for fuck’s sake.
“I know women like her—she’s young and independent, which means she’s not going to settle for some meathead who can’t express his feelings.”
Meathead? “Are we still talking about me?”
“Yes. You’re the meathead. You’re the total definition of one—all looks and no substance.”
My mouth drops open.
Closes and opens, closes and opens—like a guppy floundering in the water.
I have no clue how to respond.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, okay?” It won’t work.
“Take my advice or don’t take it—it’s all the same to me. It’s just going to suck when Chandler stops coming around. She’s a cool chick.” Molly ignores me to slide the cookie sheets into the oven and stares at them a few seconds through the tiny window. “These are going to be good.”
I’m still too shook to respond, standing like an idiot in my own kitchen, a spectator in my own damn life.
I scoff. “I know how to tell someone what’s on my mind,” I announce with more bravado than I can deliver on.
Molly puts her hands on her hips. “Oh really? What’s the general mood about Chandler exactly?”
“I…” The guppy returns. “She…”
I. Uh. Der.
The neighbor girl nods, victorious. “Just like I said. You can’t even say the words.”
“You know what? The last thing I need is to come home and find you in my kitchen, and then have you give me relationship advice.” It’s like taking advice from a matchmaker who’s single. This kid is barely out of middle school and can’t even drive a damn car.
She’s fiddling with her phone again and I’m convinced she’s searching for more relationship shit. “Knock it off, would you?”
Molly rolls her eyes, exhausted by me. “I’m setting a timer for the cookies, chill.”
Chill.
I can do that. Sure. Easy.
Closing the gap between myself and Chewy, I pry the gnawed apple from his mouth and pull a face; it’s mangled and slimy, and I toss it in the trash. Wash my hands to busy myself, back turned toward the interloping teen.
She’s tapping her foot, insolent little shit.
“Now what?” Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I face her. “What?”
“What’s the one thing Chandler wants?”
Pfft, that’s easy. “To make it on her own and become a publicist.” My body relaxes because I got an answer right.
“So, how can you help her with that?”
“With what? Like, finding her a job?”
“Yeah—you must know people. You’re famous.”
I stand a bit taller; she’s right, I am famous, and yeah, I do know people. I rack my brain, searching for names of people in the spotlight who might be hiring PR representation. Or perhaps someone with a wife who needs event planning. Marketing. Shit, the possibilities are endless.
“You don’t think that’s overstepping a bit?”
“It proves you care.” Molly shrugs. “That’s like, better than flowers.” She gives me a once-over, starting at my feet. “On second thought, you should always still get a woman flowers and gifts and stuff.”
I find myself nodding.
Could Molly be right? Will Chandler see my using connections as a way of showing I care? She works for her parents, so in a way she’s cool accepting nepotism, right? And she did admit that no places worth working for are hiring—her dream jobs have no vacancies.
“You’re overthinking it,” the teenager snaps, checking the cookies through the little square window of the oven.
“That’s what I do—overthink shit.” I pause, shaking my head. “And why the hell am I discussing any of this with you? You’re barely in high school.”
“I have my temporary license.”
“As if that proves how mature you are,” I practically sneer.
“Whatever, I’m not the one with girl problems.”
“I don’t have girl problems!” Why am I yelling?
“Not yet you don’t. She still thinks you’re great.”
“So what’s got to change exactly?” I still don’t get it and, god in heaven, I’m asking a teenager to explain it for me.
“First of all, you’re kind of an assbag.”
“Assbag?” Wow. That’s an insult I haven’t heard hurled in my direction, especially not from a child—so I add it to my memory bank. Suitably impressed, I approve. “Fair enough. Go on.”
“That’s how you are, and she seems to like it—no idea why—but unless you show a different side to yourself, that angry act is going to get tired super soon.”
Super soon. “Is that teenage girl speak for ‘real fast’?”