Fiction by Moxie
Moxie is a writer, outdoor educator, and mother living in Dallas, Texas. Raised in Merritt Island, Florida, she attended a women’s university in Virginia. Beyond writing, she is passionate about introducing girls of all ages to the outdoors.
Father Figure
I say, “Yeah, it must be kinda hard to be married.”
I’m staring at a campfire. We are all sitting on stumps, getting to know one another. Our volume not too loud in case others are sleeping.
He snaps, in a way that sounds like an affirmation committed to memory, “I love my wife.”
“Of course you do,” I hurry, a bit alarmed at any unintended implications. I hadn’t been thinking about him at all. I’d been thinking about my own parents.
I keep looking at the fire.
~~~~~
I come out of the cabin bathroom and join the group. It’s chilly and I have a black polar fleece on. My hair is still slightly damp in some places. It has a nice wave going on.
“Hi there,” he says as I grab a cup of coffee. Other women are eating muffins at the kitchen table.
“Good morning,” I say, not warmly. I’m only a freshman and most of these women are upperclassmen. They all have a rapport that I don’t have yet. I’m nervous for the day’s activities.
His eyes gleam and rove me up and down. He says, “You know, your hair looks really good like that. Not straight.”
“Oh, thanks,” I blush and run a hand through it.
“You kind of look like Farrah Fawcett,” he grins. Then he seems to open the discussion to the room, “Are you gals old enough to remember Charlie’s Angels?”
~~~~~
I’m in his office, picking up a book he’s going to lend to me. The spit cups filled with tobacco and saliva scattered around remind me of my father. But I’m at ease.
“Hey,” he says, as I clutch the book to my chest, the leather handles of my purse on my shoulder, and turn to leave. “You know what my buddy told me? What the guys said about you?”
I know what he’s talking about immediately. An outdoor skills workshop I’d participated in with students from another university—notably, a co-ed school. He loves to gossip.
“What did they say?” I ask, curious and a little nervous that I’m about to hear something embarrassing about myself.
“They wanted to know how the pretty one was doing,” he says, grinning. His eyes have a mischievous sparkle in them that sends a tiny tingle up my arms. After pausing for my reaction, he goes on, “They might have used a different word than ‘pretty.’”
I’m incredibly flattered, of course. What young woman doesn’t want to hear that a bunch of guys think she’s hot?
More than that, it’s that he wants me to know. He’s enjoying the blush on my face. Does he look proud? The way he’s looking at me is a bit incomprehensible.
“Thanks,” I answer, running my hand self-consciously through the crown of my scalp and letting my hair choose its own wild way. I give him a last fleeting look before descending his stairs.
~~~~~
I’m on my knees in front of him, my rear on the bow seat of the canoe. He is steering. Why are we in a boat together? We must be leading a trip and hoping the participants will bond with one another, rather than us. My uncovered knees are raw against the sandy bottom of the boat.
I’m telling him a story in response to an inquiry about my summer. He’d asked me if I’d gone on any dates. I smirked and dipped my paddle into the brown river water, happy to have the chance to share my moment with an Irish lifeguard.
I finish, “And the whole bar cheered for us! Just like a movie.”
“You’re dating him now?” he asks, eyes hidden behind his sport sunglasses.
“Rock on left,” I announce. Then I wave his question away. “No, no. That’s as far as that went.
He just didn’t seem very interested after that night and by August he was hooked up with this other chick.”
“Hm,” he says.
I don’t tell him about Ryan. That’s private.
But I do go on, “I don’t know what’s wrong with guys. All the ones I like don’t like me and all the ones that like me are awful.”
I hear his rugged hand scratch at his red beard. He digs a hard J-stroke to guide us away from an upcoming boulder and it angles the vessel so that I can see him briefly.
“You’re a lot to handle,” he says finally. “The man who you end up with will have to be able to handle you.”
I turn away and dig a powerful forward stroke, feeling the boat lurch down the river as I clench my abdominals. I’m deeply offended so I won’t say anything else for the rest of the paddle.
~~~~~
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“Trust me, Hollywood.” He commands, tender in his authority. His ice blue eyes are moving rapidly back and forth to look into mine. I feel my pupils dilate, my heart flutter.
I nod and he steps away from my kayak. Just enough that I can flip it over. It’s a little whitewater playboat that I’m strapped into with a neoprene skirt stretched over the cockpit’s lid.
I’ve never tried to roll before. Despite years spent frolicking in Florida waves, I’m scared I’m going to drown in this pool we are in. What if I flip over and I can’t roll and I can’t pull the tab off to get out? He promises he will flip me over, I’ll be fine. Just pull the tab and swim if I can’t roll. He won’t let me drown.
“You got this, Hollywood!”
I hear this as I plunge into the temperate water. Suddenly, I’m upside down. And I can’t help it: I panic. I have to get the fuck out of this boat right now—to air. I have to breathe.
My hands forget any lessons he’s given me. They flail the paddle uselessly. I buck and rock my hips as hard as I can.
Something happens and I’m upright again.
He’s next to me immediately. He’s holding onto my paddle which had floated away. He’s petting my shoulder encouragingly.
I’m choking on pool water and pushing wet hair out of my face.
“What the hell was that, Hollywood?” he asks jovially.
“You did it!” another girl cheers from the other side of the pool.
“How did she do that?” someone else queries.
“What happened?” I sputter, bewildered.
“You basically did a hand roll,” he shrugs. “You didn’t use the paddle right at all. But it worked.”
“How did I do it?” I ask, confused, not even sure what a hand roll is.
“You have very strong hips,” he says, grinning and giving a wink that only I catch.
~~~~~
I hop into the passenger side of his blue truck and pull the substantial door closed. I’m admiring my reflection in the side mirror. Not great, I assess, but okay for a girl who just spent two weeks in the woods.
When he pulls his door shut and flicks on the A/C, I smirk, “Are you wearing cologne to impress me?”
“That’s deodorant. I wear it every day,” he chuckles, then he pushes the button that lowers the windows.
I do not miss it. I accuse, “You think I smell bad?”
“You reek, Hollywood.”
We laugh together. Hollywood is the nickname I’ve earned from him for being the girl who cares the most about her appearance and style.
If I wasn’t so tired from backpacking, maybe I’d be embarrassed about smelling so gross in front of him. If I hadn’t spent a week without a shower, maybe I wouldn’t have noticed how good he smelled.
We exchange little knowing smiles.
~~~~~
Women are talking about me. There’s an anonymous social media app on our campus and after I left work-study and was walking across the front quad, I checked it. I wanted to throw up.
They wrote that me and him “are definitely fucking, it’s so obvious.”
Someone else points out, “his wife was a student too so it wouldn’t be surprising!”
The nausea is so awful, I don’t want to go to lunch. What if I hide in my dorm room for the rest of the year? I’m so embarrassed. And betrayed: why would they write that about me?
I knew his wife was a former student, there’s an age gap. Nothing outrageous. I knew that.
Should I have acted like I knew that better?
When my friends meet me in my dorm room and I lament about it, one of them giggles a little and says, “You did have a crush on him freshman year. You always used to say he was hot.”
I feel like I might throw up my own beating heart. Tears well up in my eyes but I try to force them away. My face turns red.
“Yes,” I admit. “I did say that. But it was like a schoolgirl crush. I didn’t really know him. He’s like the only man under 50 here and he was really taking care of himself…”
I reminisce. The years that had passed had changed him. His beard was peppered with gray, his body tortured from kidney stones and weight gain after a knee injury.
“He’s like a father figure to me,” I swallow. “That’s why it hurts so much.”
My friends change their tune and agree with me. They help me ignore the whispers when I walk into the dining hall and realize how many women are luxuriating in the salaciousness of this gossip.
I hear someone finish before people shush her, “And that’s why his wife doesn’t let her babysit!”
I pick at my itty-bitty salad and try to pretend I’m not hurting.
~~~~~
Years go by. I move away and sometimes I hear from him. He says that it’s never been as good as when me and my friends were students.
Our contacts become thinner, with longer amounts of time passing in between.
I tell him I’m getting married and he offers to officiate the wedding. I decline since I’m eloping.
He texts to invite me to his 50th birthday. I wonder why he invites me when his wife invites everyone else.
I say I’ll be in town for my bachelorette, can we all meet up? I add, I don’t mean to be sappy but I’ve always seen you as a father figure. He agrees to meet up when I’m in town.
I never hear from him again.
I send him a Christmas card with my husband and my newborn daughter on it. I hear nothing.
Perhaps that’s how the story always ends.