Tales from Brooklyn: Short Stories About Love (Actually Sex): Part 10

by T. J. Clarke

“I don’t believe you,” I say.

“Stop being so tortured. There is nothing not to believe,” Nan sighs and says.

I am at the airport in San Francisco, waiting to board my red-eye back to Brooklyn. Everything in California has felt newer, cleaner; the airport waiting area is no exception. The bathrooms here don’t have the distinct, Port-Authority-property smell of citrus and human waste. It is possible to linger in front of the mirrors and straighten my collar and sleeves without feeling like I am about to lose my dinner. Or, to stay in the handicapped stall and have a phone conversation.

“I don’t believe that nothing happened,” I say. I am not proud of the way I fight with Nan; the gaps in my logic are obvious. “You had sex with him once, didn’t you? Well, probably more than once.”

Nan starts to laugh. “Yes, I did. And I came out the winner that time too.”

“Look, you know this isn’t about the sex,” I say. Our conversation has drifted away from the fact I discovered while in San Francisco: Nan’s neglect to inform me that the apartment-and bed-I slept in this past week belongs to Devon’s biological father, and that he and she and Devon spend nearly every summer vacation together, this one included. Her words were, as a family.

“Yes, I know that because there wasn’t any sex,” Nan says and sighs. “I really don’t understand how you could have jumped to that conclusion.”

“I don’t know,” I say archly, my inflection seeming to imply that Nan is the sort of person who will fuck just about anyone. She fucked me, even before we had a first date, didn’t she?

“What is the problem here?” Nan sighs loudly.

“You should have told me.” I push my cause. Although I suppose that I knew, from the way she says his name, Cary, that he is not just a friend, but a special sort of friend. This man is the friend who will remain in Nan’s life when I won’t be there, because we will have had too many fights. “You told Devon about us because you say that he deserves to know my role in your life. I deserve to know what happens in your life too.”

Nan sighs loudly, “no, no, you don’t. I decide what to tell you and how much detail to give. What I tell you and what I tell Devon are governed by completely different rules.” The reception in these bathrooms are remarkably good. I hear everything Nan says, “I was young. I didn’t even tell him about Devon until he was two. I didn’t tell you because this doesn’t concern you. Just as Devon’s being born didn’t concern him.”

“Until it did,” I say. “I slept in his bed.” I slept very well in fact. Devon’s biological father’s bed is nicer than mine.

“So you slept in his bed,” Nan says. She doesn’t sigh this time.

“Wh-”

“Look, what you don’t want to believe is that I like you.” It’s Nan’s turn to explode the fight, throwing emphasis at every syllable. “Except you can’t even say it to my face.”

“No!” I am pacing inside the stall. One after another, the toilets flush, like canons firing. “What I don’t believe. What I don’t understand is why you kept this fact from me if he is such an important part of your life.”

“But he isn’t,” Nan sighs and says. “His sperm made Devon possible. He isn’t involved in anything else anymore except these vacations. He doesn’t pay child support. He leaves me the keys to his apartment so I have a place to stay when I visit San Francisco. He is absolutely nothing to get jealous over.”

“You don’t think he wants you?” I say.

“No, because I don’t want him,” Nan says. There is a pause, our first of the night. “Are you in the restrooms?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I say.

“How was the bar?” Nan says.

“It was okay,” I sigh and say. “I should go. They might be boarding soon.”

“Okay,” Nan says. “Have a good flight.”

T. J. Clarke is the pen name of a struggling writer. She lives in Brooklyn.