The Package Deal

Abstract

The Package Deal Emma Duffy-Comparone (bio) You know he has a kid, but right now it's whatever. Right now it—the Kid—is a safe distance from you, far, far away on the remote island called Dad's Just a Rebound. It is early days. If the Boyfriend has the Kid, which is half the week, you don't even talk on the phone until the Kid is asleep. The Kid doesn't know you exist, in this context or any other, and truth be told, you don't ask that much about him, either, but you're not a total asshole. You know enough to look pleasant and interested when he talks about him. You learn he plays Little League, which is nice. You learn he gets pancakes on Sundays, also nice. You learn the two of them slouch around in beanbags all weekend, playing video games. "All weekend?" "Well, not all weekend." "Are they violent?" "Violent? No! No. Clowning." "Clowning with guns?" "Just silly boy stuff. Father-son bonding." "Oh," you say. "That's nice." ________ You have no intention of ever meeting the Kid, so logically you should not be dating the guy in the first place. At the very least, you should wrap this thing up. But it's hard to find the right time when he holds you in his arms and fucks you like that, standing up, no wall. Or when he lays you down, spreads your legs, and takes an hour not touching you at all, just looking at you carefully, telling you how fucking small you are, and how pink, and how beautiful you smell. Or when he puts you in his bed and reads aloud The Wind in the Willows, his big arm resting gently on your chest, his elbow near your collarbone, his fingers just beneath the edge of your underpants, until you're falling asleep, until you're falling in love with him. ________ You tell yourself, "Kid, schmid." You tell your friends, who ask why you're doing what you're doing, "It's not a big deal." You tell your mother, who grips your biceps and whispers with soupy eyes that entering a child's life is a very, very big deal, "I know, Mom, Jesus!" ________ On your first date, the three of you get ice cream and walk the jetty, the ocean [End Page 54] swirling against the rocks, cowlicked and pale. You feel anxious and strung out, your tongue thick as a futon, although you've pulled it together somewhat with lipstick and Xanax and long glass earrings. The Kid stumbles ahead, his feet bigger than he's used to, his windbreaker billowing because he refuses to zip up. Besides the bad bowl job from Supercuts and the teeth, which are bucked and khaki-colored, he is objectively good looking, which means so is his mother. "Careful!" he yells to you, pointing dramatically to each rock he's just vetted. "That one moves a little!" He has been showing off his knowledge of sports stats, eager to stump his father. "Cy Young career wins?" he shrieks into the wind. "Three-hundred-forty-one?" the Boyfriend shouts, discreetly hooking his thumb inside the waistband of your jeans, whispering in your ear that later, when the Kid goes to bed, he's going to get you naked, lay you facedown across his lap, and make you come for his— "No!" "God, I don't—hey," he says to you, pulling his hand away. He mouths the right answer in your ear then says to you loudly, "You don't know, do you?" "Geez," you say, pretending to think. You are so turned on you can barely breathe. "I'm feeling like it's—I'm probably wrong." "Guess!" the Kid yells. You feign doubt, defeat. "Five-hundred eleven?" The Kid whips around, his lips licked so big and red he looks like your great Aunt Lois. "How did you do that?" "Hey, buddy," you say. "Come here." When he does, you grab the hood and pull it over the Kid's head. "I know hoods are crappy," you say. "But having no...