Colt’s face visibly paled. “Fuck me,” he muttered. “That show makes my balls shrivel. I always feel like I need to, like, take a shit or work out or something just to get my testosterone back after she’s done watching that shit.”
Jason laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair. “Trust me, I know all too well. We’d sit down to watch TV, and I’m thinking Law and Order or Dexter or something, but no, she turns on that bullshit, and my choices are sit and watch it, or go in a different room by myself, or have an argument. But when you’ve been gone all day and you just wanna chill with your girl, shit…it’s not much of a choice, is it? Pussy-whipped isn’t holding your wife’s purse while she’s in the changing room, or going home instead of hanging with the guys. Oh no, pu**y-whipped is watching back-to-back episodes of a show about goddamn wedding dresses because it’s easier than fighting about it. The worst part is when you start to have actual opinions on the dresses, and liking certain saleswomen in the store more than others. You know you’ve lost your man-card when that happens.” He leaned forward and shoved half a beignet in his mouth, just to prove a point. “Here’s the deal, though. Real men watch girly shit with their wives, and they don’t bitch about it. Because you know what? When you’re done watching that girly shit, your woman is happy. And what do happy women do? They take you to bed and bang your brains out.”
Nell snorted, Colt laughed so hard he nearly spat his coffee out, and I turned to Jason and smacked him on the arm. “Well, that was crass,” I said.
He shrugged, grinning. “I’m just making a point. Am I wrong?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “As it happens, no. You’re not. But you could have made your point with less cursing.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Jason grinned. “I like swearing. It makes things more interesting.”
“Agreed,” Colt said, sticking out his fist, and Jason tapped his knuckles against Colt’s.
“So,” Nell said, in an effort to change the subject, “when do we get to meet your son?”
“How long are you guys in town for?” Jason asked.
“Till Monday,” Colt answered. “We have a show in Biloxi on Tuesday.”
“I’ve got practice most of the day during the week, but we have a shortened practice on Saturday since we’re playing Sunday. So maybe y’all can come over for dinner Saturday?”
“Sounds good,” Nell said. “That gives us time to explore New Orleans a bit anyway.”
Saturday was only two days away, and I had a huge paper due for class that Friday. Mom and Dad were asleep on the couch when Jason and I got home a few hours later, Ben passed out across their laps, sprawled out as only a toddler can do. Jason carried Ben up to his crib while I shook my parents awake so they could go to bed in the guest suite.
In bed, Jason turned to face me, his eyes heavy with sleepiness. “Does Nell know what Benny’s middle name is?”
I sighed. “I don’t think so. It’s never come up, I guess. I just call him Ben, or Benny.”
As soon as we’d found out the gender of the baby growing inside me, I’d decided to name him Ben, and Jason had agreed. It seemed only natural, then, to give him Kyle’s name as well. I knew Nell was doing worlds better these days, but I also knew reminders were still hard. After all, it was still difficult for me to talk about my brother without getting choked up, so I imagined it must be similar for Nell.
* * *
Becca
Two days later
Mom and Dad had gone back to Michigan and Jason was still at practice, so I was home alone with Benny, trying to cook dinner and get the house cleaned before Colt and Nell showed up. Jason’s salary even as a rookie was enough that we could have afforded help around the house, but I felt strange about paying someone else to take care of my child or clean my toilet, so I’d put my foot down. Today, however, I found myself halfway wishing I had someone else around to keep Benny out of trouble.
He was a fearless one, my little boy. He had no qualms about climbing on to the back of a couch and throwing himself off, just to see what would happen. He also had a penchant for climbing onto the kitchen table and toppling backward off it. The first few times I heard the thump and the subsequent squeal, I felt like the worst mother in the world. Even though I’d only turned my back for five seconds to fill his sippy cup, I still felt as though I should’ve been watching him more closely. He never hurt himself, I came to realize. His cries after falling off the table were more from fear and embarrassment than actual pain, since he never seemed to learn. He would fall off, crack his head on the floor, scream and kick his feet until I kissed him and hugged him all better, but then he would be right back up on the table five minutes later, giggling and doing the booty-scoot across the table….straight off the edge once more.
Now, with my hands drenched in raw chicken juice as I trimmed the fat off a bag of boneless skinless br**sts, I heard the telltale impish giggling of Ben doing something he would regret in about ten seconds. I turned away from the counter with the carving knife held point up, effluvia-coated other hand held away from my body, scanning the open-plan kitchen and living room.
“Benny! God, you little troublemaker!” I huffed.
He was standing on top of the flat-topped, waist-high entertainment center, a red and yellow plastic hammer in one hand and his favorite stuffed giraffe in the other. He was bouncing up and down, the butt end of the hammer shoved into his mouth, muffling his giggles. He was daring me to come and get him, I knew. He’d pushed his miniature folding Mickey Mouse Clubhouse camp chair over to the entertainment center so he climb up onto it and was now doing a come-and-get-me-Mom-I-dare-you dance, waving Giraffey at me.
I set the knife down and nudged the faucet on with my wrist, washing my hands swiftly while keeping one eye glued to Ben the entire time. I was a good fifteen feet away from him, across the kitchen, so if he started to fall, there wasn’t much I could do to stop him. I dried my hands cursorily on the hand towel hanging from the microwave handle and then approached Ben. It was kind of like a lion stalking prey; if I moved too quickly, Benny would bolt in an attempt to get away, so I had to move slowly and non-threateningly until I was close enough to lunge for him. As soon as I got within arm’s reach, Benny scrambled onto his belly, searching for the bottom of the chair with his little toes, giggling wildly and watching me over his shoulder. I scooped him up into my arms and rolled him so his tan little belly was exposed. He shrieked and kicked, but he couldn’t stop the raspberry. He didn’t really want me to stop anyway, but the fight was part of the fun for him.