“You remember Kristin, don’t you?” he said, speaking to his son, The Farmer, as I walked up to the house from my car Saturday afternoon. The Farmer was cute. Just as cute, if not cuter, than he was the last time I had see him, two years ago when he walked into my federation’s fundraiser and straight towards me at the check in table I was sitting at. It took a coworker’s nudge for me to come out of my daze then and I was at risk of losing myself again.
I met his family and a cooler of Miller Lite. I got a plate of barbeque and went to sit down across from the roommate to eat lunch under the shelter by their lake as we listened to the buzz around us of the evening’s race and felt the steady breeze across our faces.
When we left we followed The Farmer to the track to park. And then to a golf cart where he drove us to the infield to our box. “I’ve got to head out to drive around some clients per Dad,” he said as he left and just before the roommate looked at me and offered, “I don’t think he’s in to either of us. He was pretty quick to leave.”
There’s a part of me that just doesn’t want to hear these things. Even if they’re probable. Even if they’re true. I don’t want to hear it. And so still I drank and laughed and drank as the cars whizzed by right in front of us.
And he came back. With his father. And as I stood and talked to his father about work and the day he pulled out his cell phone and showed me my name and number where he’d stored it. “Yes sir, that’s it,” I told him. “I’m going to give this to someone,” he said to me. “Who?” I asked, watching him turn around, saying nothing, and just smile as he walked away.
“The Farmer asked for my number,” the roommate said to me, no more than 10 minutes later.
And my own smile was gone.
“Yea, this other guy was asking for it and he said, oh yea, I need to get your number too,” she continued.
And so I kept drinking. Because that’s what you do.
