“You’re usually working when the sun comes up,” he observed.
“I went for a run with Layla this morning.”
“Long run?” he said archly.
“You could say that.”
“Something wrong?” he asked, catching my mood.
“Yeah. Everything was—good,” I said, “but when I woke up she was gone.”
“Panicked and pulled a runaway?” he said knowingly. I nodded.
“I go between being completely pissed at her and not knowing what to do. So for the only time in my life I’m going to ask you for advice. What do I do?”
“Hold on. Let me enjoy this moment. You want my advice, which means you’re admitting that I know more than you. I have success and wisdom that you lack, and you need my guidance.”
“Oh shut up,” I growled.
“Do you want my advice or not?”
“Yes,” I said, gritting my teeth.
“Hang on, I need to make a phone call.”
“Who are you calling? Maggie?”
“Mom,” he said with a laugh and put her on speaker.
“Hello?” her voice came.
“Hey, Mom, I have you on speaker. I’m here with Tyler at the vineyard, and he wants to tell you something.”
“I’m fine thanks for asking,” she said, typically salty. “What’s the story, Tyler?”
I didn’t say anything. I just glared at my overgrown adolescent brother.
“Come on,” he prompted, “tell her.”
I shook my head, ready to pummel him.
“Fine, he isn’t going to tell you so I will. My twin brother, the alpha male I started working out to imitate in high school, the headstrong, independent, badass Marine, just asked me for advice about a woman. He even said please!” Jeremiah crowed.
“I did not say please,” I snapped. Jeremiah and my mom both laughed.
“Got you to admit it though, didn’t I?” Jeremiah teased.
“Ma, can I punch him? He’s gloating,” I said.
“Boys, you know what I taught you about punching,” she said in a singsong voice.
We recited obediently, “No hits to the face the week before school pictures.”
“That’s right,” she said, “body blows only.” We all laughed.
“I don’t get school pictures anymore,” I said. “So I guess I can kick your ass.”
“Mom!” Jeremiah yelled as if he were tattling on me. We all laughed again, and then my mom chimed in.
“Tyler, if you want a woman to take you seriously, you have to talk to her. No grunting, no nudging with your elbow. Use words,” my mom said wryly.
“I talk,” I said grudgingly.
“In monosyllables,” Jeremiah added.
“Just because you’re a motor mouth,” I began.
“Boys,” she said, “no fighting. I’m getting another call. Bye.”
“That was harsh. Our mom hung up on us,” Jeremiah said. I lifted one shoulder in a half shrug.
“What worked for you?”
“What?”
“With Maggie,” I prompted.
“Well, let’s see. She kept telling me what a douchebag I was, how I betrayed her…fast forward through that part…I bought a vineyard. That’s what worked for me. So, perhaps a large investment in property and a business plan?”
“Not in my wheelhouse,” I said.
“It will be once I convince you to be my general manager here. I need some responsibilities off my plate, and I need a guy I can trust. Plus, I think it would help get me a good deal with distributors if we mention my GM is an ex-Marine,” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”
Jeremiah studied me for a moment before speaking.
“Do what Mom said. Talk to her. Let her know you’re serious about her.”
“So should I go bother her at work where she doesn’t want anyone to know we were seeing each other or stalk her at her house?” I asked hotly.
“Those both sound creepy now that you mention it. I waited for Maggie in the parking lot by her car after work.”
“She should’ve pepper sprayed you,” I pointed out.
“I’m glad she didn’t think of it. She was pissed.”
“I didn’t piss Layla off.”
“Are you sure? Were you bad in bed?”
“No,” I said, “but I’m reconsidering kicking your ass. Do you have any real advice?”
“Let her know how you feel,” he said.
“I’m not writing a fuckin’ poem,” I retorted.
“You could always write a song,” he teased.
“Thanks a million,” I said, walking off.
Sure, I needed to talk to her. But since she walked out on me after sex, that sent a clear message. A message that wasn’t, please come find me so we can talk about a relationship.
While I worked and exercised, I was able to blot out the unease I felt over Layla. Later, when I was eating supper, I remembered what she said about journaling. About organizing my thoughts and letting that be cathartic. I had a shrink once who’d had me do that. I’d rather have my molars yanked out than try to keep a diary about my feelings. It’s one thing to respect therapy and the need for strategies to cope. It’s another thing to paint flowers and write poems about your sad little heart. I just wasn’t ever going to be that kind of guy.