“I wanted to make sure you were feeling alright from the accident this morning. But I also wanted to see if I could convince you to go on a date with me. Can we start over? I know I fucked up royally—just give me the chance to show you I’m a man you can trust.”
That was half of the problem. Trust was an issue to begin with for me. I knew I had some daddy issues that were at the root of many of my doubts. But I also knew that it was nearly impossible to be around Dex without something physical happening between us. And being physical with him before I was able to forgive him and truly trust him again, would be a big mistake.
“I need some time, Dex.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked panicked. “Can we at least continue to chat in the evenings?”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Bianca…what can I do?”
I actually felt bad for him. Reaching out, I touched his cheek. “Give me time. At least a few weeks.”
He searched my eyes. Finding I was serious, his shoulders slumped. “Fine.”
I pushed up on my tippy toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, Dex.”
“Damn you, Clement.”
Sometimes when I got frustrated about the Bianca situation, I spent my time watching YouTube videos of my whittling nemesis. The kid could whittle anything with precision without getting a single cut on his hands. It pissed me off, yet invigorated me at the same time.
Do better, Dex.
I needed to step up my game.
“Nice haircut, by the way,” I spoke to the computer screen, referring to his straight blond hair that was exactly the same length all the way around like a bowl.
I shouldn’t have been torturing myself like this, but lately, it seemed harder and harder to sanely occupy my time outside of work. Bianca didn’t want to resume our evening chats or see me at all for a few weeks. That basically meant several days of Dexter going slowly insane and nearly blind from jerking himself off.
I vowed to use these days wisely. Just because she didn’t want to see me, didn’t mean I couldn’t let her know I was thinking about her. I liked to refer to this period of time as Operation Get Bianca Back.
Step one: learn to actually whittle so you can make her romantic wooden things. All the wooden things! I bet if I put my mind to it, I could whittle a goat that might be half as good as the one I bought at the Brooklyn flea market.
I turned to Bandit who was sitting beside me watching Clement whittle away. “That’s genius, right? Show her I’m putting in the effort. It’s heartfelt and original at the same time.”
“Ruff!”
I typed in: how to whittle a goat.
Unfortunately, there weren’t any videos fitting my exact specifications. I randomly clicked on the first clip that came up in my search.
It was some guy with an Australian accent holding a chubby baby girl. There was an actual goat sitting next to them.
“Come on, Bree, say Dada.”
Every time the man would say the word, “Dada,” the goat would let out a long “Baa.”
The baby would just let out a belly laugh each time the goat made a sound.
“Say Dada.”
The goat responded, “Baa.”
Giggle.
“Say Dada…Dada,” the man repeated.
“Baa.”
Giggle. Giggle.
What in the ever-living fuck was I watching?
The man turned to the goat. “Mate, can you stop for a bit? She won’t say it if you keep making her laugh.”
“Baa!”
Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.
The video ended. I immediately hit replay. It was addictive, and dare I say, my mouth hurt from smiling.
Turning to Bandit, I said, “Imagine that? Talking to a pet like a human being and expecting it to understand?”
“Ruff!”
The title of the video was “Pixy and Bree Say Dada.”
“This is so ridiculous,” I said, discreetly bookmarking the video. This guy, Chance Bateman, had an entire YouTube channel featuring various videos of his two children and the goat. These would come in handy someday when I wanted reassurance that I wasn’t the only person in this world off my fucking rocker. Fuck it. I subscribed to the channel.
Even though I’d vowed not to call Bianca, that didn’t mean I couldn’t pull some tricks that would make it impossible for her to resist contacting me. When the phone rang, I suspected it might be her.
I picked up. “Bianca…I—”
“You are out of your mind.” She sniffled. She was either laughing or crying. She was laughing.
“You’re laughing, though.”
“Dex Truitt…I may have to edit the article to include a disclaimer at the end noting that you have totally lost your marbles.”
“Yes, but you’re laughing.”
“How did you even get it into my apartment?”
“Let’s just say your maintenance guy is going to have a really nice Christmas this year.”
“It scared the living daylights out of me. I thought it was a real person, that someone had broken into my apartment and was readying to kill me.”
“You’re laughing, though!” I repeated again.
“I am,” she conceded. “You are totally nuts.”
I’d purchased the Liza Minnelli statue from the owner of Jay’s fake apartment and decided to have it transported to Bianca’s. I’d asked him to set it up in a way that she’d see it the second she walked in the door. Making light of crazy Jay’s antics was definitely a risk, but I did it in the hopes that she could eventually learn to look back at that time with humor.
“Well, now you have to figure out a way to rid my apartment of the mothball smell from that damn place.”
I’d been laughing before, but now I was laughing even harder.
“I’ll send for it tomorrow.”
“Goodbye, Dexter.”
“Goodbye, Bianca.”
After I hung up, I looked at Bandit and smiled victoriously. “She loved it.”
On Sunday, I found myself at The Brooklyn Flea. Some people had drug dealers; I had a wood dealer. Coming upon the tent with the sign that read Jelani’s Kenyan Krafts, I walked over to the familiar vendor.
“Hi, I bought a wooden billy goat off of you some time ago. I’m not sure if you remember.”
Still wearing the brightly colored hat from last time, the old man looked me up and down. “Yes. I do remember you,” he said in a strong African accent. “Are you interested in something else?”
“Actually, I need to ask you a strange favor.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve tried everything online and nothing seems to be working. I need to learn how to whittle and was wondering if I could pay you to teach me.”
He bent his head back in laughter. “It took me years to learn how to do this, been perfecting my craft since I was a little boy growing up in Kenya.”
“I can imagine that doing it as well as you do would take years, but I’m just really looking to be able to carve something not even half as good without slicing my fingers off. Even if it looks pathetic, as long as it’s recognizable, that will do.”
“Boy, why on Earth would you want to even bother?” He squinted at me. “Is this about that woman?”
“You’re a smart man, Jelani.”