Jake & Conor - 11. Chapter 11

In April, my parents mentioned what was coming to be their annual visit. I begged off, still without explaining Conor: “A lot’s happened this year,” I said. “I want to loaf.”

“You deserve that,” Mom agreed.
“But think about a house,” Dad added. “Be a great tax write-off.”
“It’s something to consider.” Especially since I no longer had a sometime home on Wilshire Boulevard.
The last I’d actually heard from Conor was his February phone message. Two months later, I started getting postcards. Irregularly, at first, then once-a-week. From Europe, with minimal writing.
“Highlands – Beautiful!”
“Little Mermaid darling!”
“Missed Zorba!”
Of course, there was no way I could answer, though I was sure someone was forwarding Conor’s mail and monitoring his calls. I’d see Conor when he wanted me to. And not if I pushed.
Just before Halloween came my birthday – which I was somehow less-than-interested in celebrating.
“What’re you doing this year?” Mom asked.
How could I say, “Nothing.”
“Conor back?” Dad wanted to know.
In September, I’d finally told them he was off in Europe, shooting a film.
“Could be a couple more months,” I lied.
They didn’t ask if I missed him.
“I know it’s not a special birthday,” Mom went on. “And it must be a let-down after last year’s parties.”
“Maybe that’s it,” I grabbed. “I don’t want to compete. I’ll just do something quiet.”
“Fly to Hawaii for a couple of days.”
They were getting profligate with my new money.
Conor sent his weekly postcard, unsigned as usual, though noting the day.
“31!”
The picture was a generic Baskin-Robbins, but the stamp was French. I half-expected a snazzy, follow-up present, but nothing came. It seemed only fair – I’d skipped his birthday in June. After too-much consideration, I’d decided anything I sent might be returned.
My family gave me presents – small things, mainly thoughtful. Though the kid lawyer’s was goofball-vile.
“Don’t think I’m growing up,” he scrawled. “Just ‘cause I’m getting rich.” He’d been hired by a Wall Street firm.
The actual night of my birthday, I worked late. But that weekend, I went to dinner with Cassie and the guy she lived with, then with some other friends from the office. It was all pleasant, but nothing to remember.
In December, for the first time since I moved west, I didn’t go home for Christmas.
“Getting too good for us?” my sister joked.
“Oh, yeah. Gonna hang out with the stars.”
She wanted to believe me
“Nothing’s wrong?” Younger Brother asked. He still was the only one who knew the truth.
“Nothing’s new.”
“No change?”
“None.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“Then why not come east? It might cheer you up.”
I tried to put it nicely. “I can’t fake it to Mom and Dad in person.”
“I know what you mean. Every time they ask if I’m still seeing whatever-her-name-might-have-been-last-week, I feel like some hoodlum four-year-old.”
Actually, staying loose for my parents was the easy part. I was more worried that when I finally told them Conor and I had split, they wouldn’t care – or would even be quietly pleased. After all, Conor hadn’t exactly tried to meet them.
“It’s all for the best,” Mom might have counseled. And I might have yelled. Not good for the holidays.
So I stayed in California and partied quietly with friends. I even considered getting a date for New Year’s Eve.
“You should,” Cassie coached.
“Not what I need.”
“You’ll have fun.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“You’re turning into an old man.” She grinned, then slyly added, “You know, just because you go out with someone, doesn’t mean you have to sleep with him.”
I laughed. “Not getting too personal or anything.”
“Some guys might even be impressed.”
I laughed, again repeating, “Not what I need.”
“You are something of a hunk.”
Amazing what a little money will change.
I didn’t ask anyone out. I just showed up happily at a half-dozen holiday parties by myself. Or fairly happily. Almost happily. The problem was, I wanted New Year’s Past.