CHAPTER ONE – Damon

FOWL PLAY

“Thanks, But No” Thanksgiving is a today-old tradition in this house. So far, I’ve said “Thanks, but no thanks” to five great people that I have absolutely no desire to spend time with today, because not one of them just wants to have me and my son over for dinner. They want to seat me next to their single cousin Charmaine who’s nothing like the single cousin they tried to set me up with last year and definitely probably won’t try to steal my wallet. Or their divorced coworker, Suzy Twinklebutt who—get this—has a thing for unhappy guys who have absolutely no interest in dating! 

Who’s unhappy? Is what I want to know. Just because I don’t like talking to people about stupid things, would rather stay home alone or with my son on the weeks that I have him—just because I’d rather die alone than go on another date with anyone ever again—that does not make me unhappy. That makes everyone who doesn’t understand how awesome my life is an idiot.

Not that I consider my mother an idiot, but I need to wrap up this FaceTime call because the game is about to start.

My mother, who started insisting I call her Goldie last year, is currently in Australia, on a solo seniors tour. This is all part of the new phase of her life wherein she is trying new things. I love my mother, and seeing how sad she was after my dad passed was heartbreaking. So I support this new phase of her life. Even though I don’t really want to know that some of the new things she is trying involve making extra money from throwing wine parties for women and selling them “marital aids” that have names like Hammer Time and The Great Dicktator. I certainly don’t need to know about the elderly gentleman who’s taking her salsa dancing in Sydney tonight, but I’d rather let her talk about that than hear her tell me that life is short and she needs another grandchild.

“So I guess I’m going to learn salsa dancing tonight after the barbie—which is what they call barbecues here.”

“Right. I’ve heard that.”

“Where’s my only grandchild? Are you really having dinner alone tonight, Damon?”

“We aren’t alone, we have each other.” 

“Are you having turkey?”

“I roasted a turkey yesterday so I could watch football today. We’re having leftover turkey sandwiches—with all the trimmings and side dishes. Trust me. It’s epic.”

My mother sighs. She never liked my ex-wife, but she also didn’t like that we got divorced, and she somehow also didn’t like it when my ex-wife remarried. I do not want to get into it with her tonight. I want to make sandwiches for myself and my son, watch the Boston Tomcats game with my son, and fall asleep on the couch in a food coma at eight-thirty with my son. I’m not rejecting everyone else—I just want to spend the weekend hanging with my son, who’s had activities and play dates every other day this week.

I call out for him. “Bart! Come say hi to Grandma.”

He’s been running around the house for the past hour, “making things look nice.” He brought out a bunch of candles that I forgot I had and some throw pillows that came with the sofas. He sprayed Febreze on everything because he says the whole house smells like socks, which it definitely did not. Since when does an eight-year-old boy care what a house smells like? I’ve literally found month-old ham sandwiches under his bed.

“Hi, Grandma!” he yells out as he bounds down the stairs. He’s carrying one of my neckties and a bottle of my cologne. “Happy Thanksgiving, Grandma!” he says, not looking into my phone as I hold it up to his face.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Bartholomew. Hold the phone still—what have you got there, Peanut?” my mom asks.

“Close your eyes!” he says to me.

I don’t know what it says about me that I immediately do it, but this kid has nearly blinded me—not once, but twice—by sticking his fingers in my eyes because he was so happy to see me. I squeeze my eyes shut and say, “What are you—” and get cologne sprayed on my tongue.

“Close your mouth too!”

My T-shirt is practically soaked in Dior Homme within seconds. I step away from him. “Okay, knock it off. What are you doing?”

“Put this on!” He flings my navy blue silk tie at me. “You need to shave! You need to put on a suit!”

“What? No I don’t.” I wear suits three hundred days a year. I’ve been wearing sweatpants all day and I will wake up in them tomorrow. I let him eat way too many cookies today. He’s all jacked up on sugar. “You know what—we better go, Goldie. I gotta get some tryptophan into this kid.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to shave on a national holiday, now would it, dear?”

“Love you, Mother. Be safe. Email me when you’re back from dancing with…”

“Rod.”

“Definitely check in after your night with Rod.”

“Life is short, my love, it’s time for you to—”

I end the video call, but I’m sure she’ll understand. Because it’s time for me to end the call and get on with our day.

“You have beer breath!” Bart says, wrinkling his nose.

“Damn right I do. Go wash your hands for dinner.”

“Make your hair look better!”

“No.”

He shakes his head and stomps back upstairs.

I grab myself another beer from the fridge, glancing out the kitchen window, because I think I see a figure moving in the backyard next door. But I don’t see my neighbor. Which is fine. I don’t need to see her.

My phone pings with a text notification. It’s my buddy Shane, who’s one of the five great people I’ve already turned down for dinner today. I had a three-episode arc on his Disney Channel show You’re So Wizard! back in the day when I was still acting. We’ve stayed friends ever since, even though he went on to become a big movie star and I went into entertainment law. 

SHANE MILLER: You sure you guys don’t want to join us over here tonight? Willa and her Grammie made plenty of food and we’ve got a good game of touch football going in the front yard. By that, I mean the kids are playing touch football and we’re in here drinking.

NICO TODD: And by “us,” he means all of your favorite former Disney Channel co-stars, our wives, kids, my Grammie, and Kat’s single cousin who loves kids and hates clubbing. I’m not saying you’d like her, but I’m not not saying you’d dislike her. 

NICO TODD: Wait. Is that right?

NICO TODD: Guess I’m already drunk.

ME: It’s still a “Thanks, But No” Thanksgiving for me, guys. Bart and I are all good here. You guys have fun. <thumbs up emoji>

SHANE MILLER: <thumbs down emoji>

NICO TODD: <thumbs down emoji>

ALEX VEGA: You sure? I’ve already Lazy Wingmanned her for you.

ME: You are forbidden from ever Lazy Wingmanning me again.

ALEX VEGA: “Hey. You wanna meet a guy? I know one. He has a face and a body. You in?”

ALEX VEGA: FYI she was in.

SHANE MILLER: “Psst. You know that guy I was telling you about? He’s moderately good at math and his car works.”

ME: <thumbs down emoji>

I casually saunter over to the living room window to glance around outside. Make sure there are no hooligans and such. This is a good Santa Monica neighborhood and we all have to do our part to keep it that way. I keep an eye on the neighbors. To make sure they’re safe.

Little Miss No thanks, I Got It is at home. Or her car is in her driveway, anyway, which is interesting. In no way relevant to me, but interesting. She’s probably over there trying to have a better “Thanks, But No” Thanksgiving than me. Never needing me. Always trying to one-up me.

Nikki.

I once saw her changing a flat tire, offered to help, and got a “No thanks, I got it,” and then she practically lifted her car up over her head with one hand to prove a point. I painted the front door red and she painted hers redder. I planted an avocado tree in the backyard, she planted an avocado tree, tomato vines, red onions, and a lime tree, so she could make her own yard-to-table guacamole. I started jogging—she trained for the LA marathon and was running a seven-minute mile within a few months. She saw me building my son a new bookcase, and proceeded to build herself a gazebo. A couple of weeks ago, I asked her if she needed help putting up Christmas lights outside her house. She looked insulted, politely declined my offer, and then proceeded to not only mount Christmas lights along her roof, she also installed a projector that features animated holiday displays on her garage door. On November first. 

I’ve started doing things just to see how she’d take it up a notch.

As soon as she moved in a year and a half ago, she saw me carrying my seventy-five-year-old neighbor’s groceries in from her car—next thing I know, Nikki’s driving Ida Blank to the farmer’s market every weekend and hanging out with her on a regular basis. It’s the only charming thing about Nikki—her friendship with an eccentric retired stage actress who has five ex-husbands. Ida once mentioned that Nikki’s competitive with men because she has four brothers. All I know is, she’s always around…in a tank top and jeans that somehow won’t stop sliding down her hips, exposing her thong straps. That creamy skin between her waist and those beltless waistbands look so silky smooth—it’s not my fault I’ve fantasized about slowly dragging my fingertips along the skin just beneath the bottom of her tank top while kissing her. Gently circling until she has goosebumps and begs me to put my hands on her. Kneading the flesh of those round hips until she moans and starts grinding on my thigh. 

I’m a lot better at not showing off my underwear.

Or maybe she’s way better at flashing hers.

She’s definitely better at having a great ass—which is irrelevant, because we are equally good at ignoring each other while simultaneously pissing each other off.

And I’ve got a game to watch.

Except when I turn away from the window, I realize that Bart has muted the TV. He’s lit the candles and dimmed the overhead lights. He’s somewhat carefully placing a vinyl record on my record player, almost as carefully as I taught him to. When the needle drops, I hear that he has selected side two of my Marvin Gaye’s collected hits. That is not the vibe I’m going for today.

“What are you doing, buddy? The game’s about to start.”

“Don’t be mad, okay?”

The doorbell rings.

Did he order a pizza without telling me?

“Don’t be mean!” he hisses, as he runs to the front door. When he opens it, there isn’t a pizza delivery guy standing on my porch. There’s a hot slice of neighbor in a skirt. “Hi! Come in!” he shouts.

Nikki peers inside and looks around. 

Bart sticks his head out the door and looks around. “Where’s Dildo?!”

“At home. I wasn’t sure if it would be okay to bring him.”

They both look over at me, as if they’re expecting me to say something. As if I have any say in anything right now. As if I know why Nikki is standing at my front door, her pretty face all flushed, wearing a pretty blouse and skirt and boots…with a suitcase.

“Dad! Dad. Dad! Can Dildo come?”

“What?”

“Her dog! I wanna play with Dildo!”

Dildo. Nikki has a wiener dog named Dildo. I still haven’t decided if that’s the second charming thing about her or if I will never forgive her because my son runs around her backyard yelling out, Come on, Dildo! Get it, Dildo! Give it to me, Dildo!

“Uh-huh,” is all I say.

“He can come over?”

“Yes.” I consent. I consent to Dildo.

“Yay! Can I let him skateboard in the house?”

I don’t answer that, because Nikki is still standing in my doorway in a skirt and boots, with a suitcase, looking around the open living room at all the candles and Marvin Gaye and all the no other people in my house.

She clears her throat and then tugs at the giant check-in hard shell roller luggage.

Hands in the pockets of my sweatpants, I take a step toward the door. “You need help with that?”

“No thanks, I got it.”

Of course she’s got it. “What is it you’ve got in there, exactly?” I drag my fingers through my hair. Shit. I should have made my hair look better.

She sighs. Exasperated with me already. How dare I ask about her giant suitcase. “Pies. I wasn’t sure what kind of pie you guys like or how many…people would be here…” She stands the suitcase up beside the island of my open kitchen. “So, I baked six of them.”

I walk over to her and cross my arms in front of my chest. It’s not my fault if I’m flexing and my forearms are getting veiny. That’s what happens when attractive, infuriating women show up at my house uninvited, with a large suitcase. “Six of them? You baked six different kinds of pie?”

“Yes. Do you already have pie?”

“No, I was going to buy a pumpkin pie at Ralphs, but Bart wanted cookies. Did you bring a pumpkin pie?”

“Of course I brought a pumpkin pie,” she grits out.

We stare at each other, unblinking. My jaw is tight. Her nostrils are flaring. My hands are balled up into fists. Her chest is already starting to heave. This is how it is. This is always how it is. We’re either ignoring each other or we’re trying to hate fuck each other with our eyeballs. 

“Did you bring whipped cream?” I mumble.

“I left it in my fridge. I will return with Dildo and whipped cream.”

“I hope there’s a cream pie in our future too.”

“You will not be disappointed.”

“Good.”

“Feel free to unpack while I’m gone.”

“I will definitely unload by the time you’re back.”

I think I catch her smirking as she turns on her heels. The heels of those sexy knee high boots. I watch her walk away as I assess whether or not the preceding conversation was mutual double entendre or if I’m the only one thinking about the pie between her legs and unloading into it.

What the fuck is happening to my “Thanks, But No” Thanksgiving?!

My father-son Thanksgiving Day parade has been hijacked. Derailed. Canceled.

As soon as she shuts the front door, I open my mouth to grunt my son’s name, but before I can, he says, “I invited her for dinner!”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to say no thanks!”

“You can’t invite people over for dinner without asking me first, Bart.”

He crosses his not-at-all-veiny arms in front of his chest. “Well. I did. It’s Thanksgiving. It’s sad just being you and me. I like Nikki and you need to be nicer to her.”

“I am nice to her,” I say. But all I’m thinking is—it’s sad? Is my son sad? Why is the tip of my nose tingling? Why are the rims of his eyes getting pink? “Buddy.” I reach out for him and muss up his hair. “I just wanted to spend the day with you.”

“I don’t like you being alone when I’m not here.”

“I’m not lonely,” I insist. There really is a lot to unpack here, as my former therapist would say. But I don’t have time for that right now. I don’t have time to explain about all the women I went through in a forgettable one-year period after his mother started dating another man. I don’t have time to tell him that I’m actually glad the woman I married is now happily married to someone else and that I don’t want to start dating another woman until I know for sure that I can be my best self for her. Because I stopped being my best self for my ex-wife and I want her to be the last woman I ever disappoint. 

Right now, I have to turn off Marvin Gaye, turn up the volume on the TV, blow out the candles, and bring out a bottle each of red and white wine from the pantry, because I don’t know if Nikki likes red or white. “I’m not mad at you, Bart,” is all I say, as I dash around, doing all of those things.

I’m about to run upstairs to change my shirt, when she knocks on the front door and opens it. The wiener dog comes bounding in on two-inch legs.

“Dil-dohhhhh!!!” My son crouches down and the dog leaps into his outstretched arms.

I really should get him a pet for when he’s here. But he likes Nikki’s. And I guess I don’t hate that he’s always over at her house playing with him.

I finally get around to unzipping the suitcase and see that there are six plastic pie carriers neatly stacked inside of it. 

Nikki’s heels click along the hardwood floors. She stops in her tracks. “Should I take off my boots?”

“No!” I answer, way too quickly. Most people should take off their boots in my house, but I want to be the one to unzip those boots and peel them off of her shapely calves. And I’m not going to do that right now.

“Oh-kayyyy.” She bends down to lift a pie carrier out of the suitcase and I get a whiff of her fragrant, billowy, chestnut-brown hair, and I am so fucking happy that gravity is a thing, because her flimsy blouse droops down and I get a good look at her cleavage and the turquoise bra that gets to cup those perky breasts. I look away before she stands up and places the pie on the island counter. “He told me there’d be a bunch of people,” she mutters. “He said you were having a party.”

“Well. There aren’t. I’m not.”

“It sounded so unlike you to have a party or to willingly do anything with a bunch of people, but he said you’re trying to ‘open up and have more fun’.”

“I’m not.”

“That makes more sense.”

“But here you are.”

“Yeah… There are a lot of smells in this house.”

“That’s Bart’s thing,” I blurt out, annoyed. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“So I’ve gathered. Would you like me to leave?”

“Would you like to leave?”

“I can’t decide if it would be more rude to leave or stay.”

“Would you like to be more or less rude?”

And here we go again.

“Dad! Nikki! Can Dildo skateboard in the house?”

Bart’s claim to fame in this neighborhood is that he got Nikki’s wiener dog to ride a skateboard down the sidewalk. Nikki always runs alongside him, to make sure he doesn’t veer into the road. But it’s pretty great. GIF-worthy.

“Sure. Fine with me as long as it’s okay with Nikki. Just be careful. Don’t make Dildo knock anything over.”

“Fine with me.”

“Yeaaahhhh!!!” Bart runs upstairs and Dildo starts to run after him, then changes his mind when he sees how many stairs he’d have to go up.

I’ve got my leftover Thanksgiving feast spread out on the dining table and the kitchen table is covered with empty containers. Nikki and I unpack her pies on the island counter in silence for a never ending moment.

“So. Ida’s in New York.”

“Yes, she’s having dinner at Bette Midler’s.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got red and white wine. Sparkling water. Flat mineral water. Sparkling apple cider. Juice boxes. Cranberry cocktail. I can mix you up pretty much any cocktail you want.” This is true. To a degree. I was a bartender in college. My bar isn’t quite as well stocked as it was in my twenties. But the rest of me is.

“Got anymore beer?”

“You bet. Actually, lemme go grab another case from the garage.”

“You bet.”

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