The Boyfriend

by Abigail Barnette

  “You haven’t been able to book anything in New York,” Deja clarified. “L.A. might be a different story if you’d consider it.”

  Holli shook her head. “Nope. No way. I’m not going to be gone for weeks at a time. I’m not going to be that parent.”

  That made me feel a little bit guilty. Neil and I weren’t Olivia’s parents, but we were her parental stand-ins, and we’d just left her for ‘weeks at a time.’”

  “Fine,” Deja said with the resigned tone of a wife who’d already been over the subject numerous times. “Just remember, you know someone who can find you modeling work. Or, say, a feature.”

  “I’m not feature material,” Holli argued.

  I swallowed a sip of my drink. “What are you talking about? You were just in a show on Broadway last year.”

  “Yeah, a show that got panned.” She rubbed her temple with the tips of her fingers. “Remind me never to sign up for ghost story nonsense again.”

  “That could be a feature,” I suggested, taking another drink. It was a good thing I didn’t drive in Manhattan, because I planned to slam at least two more of them. “What if you did an interview about bouncing back from a career disappointment? It would work in the wellness section.”

  “It might work,” Deja agreed. “Why don’t you still work for me?”

  “Because you can’t afford to support her lifestyle,” Holli reminded her. “She’s a woman of leisure, now.”

  “That’s true.” And weird. I’d never planned to retire when I’d started my career. I’d thought I would move naturally from assistant to editorial assistant to someday running an entire magazine. Porteras, specifically, the internationally famous publication that now belonged to Valerie. I’d thought I would die at my desk. Now, I hadn’t worked for over a year. “I don’t know. Maybe someday I’ll find a job I can stick with.”

  “You could always write another book.” Holli shrugged. “People seem to like those.”

  “They’re memoirs, though. And I’ve kind of used up all the life I’ve lived so far, in terms of writing about it.” Plus, writing about my own life had been extremely weird. I’d written both of my books to work through some really tough times. I’m Just The Girlfriend and Does She Have To Call Me Grandma? had both been my way of coping with tragedy. I’d needed a support system outside of my immediate circle of friends, and I’d found it bizarrely easier to open up and share things with a faceless public than I did with my own loved ones. Since I wasn’t going through any of that horrible stuff now—thank god—I didn’t feel a need to write about anything at all. It was why I was uncomfortable any time anyone called me a writer or an author; I’d corrected everyone so much, they didn’t bother describing me that way anymore. I liked that just fine. I wasn’t a writer. I was Sophie, unemployed mess of a thirty-year-old who still had no idea what to do with her life, and who just happened to have written bestselling memoirs.

  “And they wouldn’t have been popular if my husband wasn’t already somewhat famous,” I added.

  “That’s called having a hook, Sophie. It brings people in.” Deja’s facial expression jolted into an anatomical equivalent of a light bulb going off over someone’s head. “You went through a pretty major life change last year. You found out you had a secret family. That’s definitely something write about.”

  “Out of the question.” I wouldn’t open the Tangens up to that kind of scrutiny for my own benefit. “I don’t want people to know all their business. And we’re not close. I can’t just call them up and go, ‘hey, I’m going to write about how much your dad screwed me up, and I’m going to tell all of your business to everyone. Are you cool with that?’”

  “So? Fictionalize it,” Holli said, as though writing a loosely autobiographical novel would be super easy.

  Of course, maybe it would. I could kind of see it; a Cinderella story, but Cinderella finds out that her mean stepmother isn’t really mean, and the horrible stepsisters are just ordinary people. I didn’t even have to set it in contemporary times. Everything could be disguised in a historical setting if I wanted it to be. And if I learned about history. Like, anything about history at all. And Molly didn’t have to have a kidney transplant. I could just give her some old-timey disease.

  “Sophie dot e-x-e has stopped working,” Holli said, breaking me out of my thoughts. “The program is not responding. Rainbow wheel.”

  I shook myself out of my daydream. “Sorry, my mind just kind of wandered off with that idea. I mean, it couldn’t hurt to try my hand at a novel, right? If it sucks, nobody has to see it.”

  “How are you going to know if it sucks if nobody else sees it?” Deja asked, reaching for the salt.

  “Okay, obviously I’ll let someone read it. Maybe. Probably under a pseudonym online where I don’t know anyone and can remain a stranger.”

  “I think you should do it,” Holli said, uncharacteristically serious. “You need something, Sophie. You’re going to get bored really fast just sitting on your ass out in the Hamptons.”

  “Hey. I’m not just sitting on my ass. Sometimes I’m getting spanked on it.” I made eyebrows at her and tucked back into my meal. “But listen...I’ll write something if you promise you’ll do a feature for the magazine.”

  “I think I’m the one who has the final say on that,” Deja reminded me wryly.

  “I love and respect you, and if you don’t flex some nepotism to put my best friend in your magazine, I’m going to call you mean names behind your back,” I warned her.

  Deja stuck her tongue out at me.

  “So, Sophie is writing a book, you’re writing about me, and I’m gonna do what?” Holli asked her wife, batting her eyes at her in adoration.

  “You’re gonna be a pain in my ass,” Deja said, flicking her in the ear.

  I mean...she probably wasn’t wrong.

  It was late in the afternoon when the helicopter landed at our house. A member of the security staff waited for me with the golf cart.

  “Ms. Scaife,” he said, taking my hand to help me down the steps. I always ducked. I didn’t know why; the rotors were placed high enough that there wasn’t any danger of decapitation. Still, I always imagined it, graphically, every time I got out.

  “Thanks, Don.” I followed him to the cart and hopped on. In the winter, they used a gas powered one with larger tires than the electric summer models. It helped them reach unpaved areas if there was ever any suspicious activity.

  If there had been, I never knew about it. I preferred it that way. Neil had said that over the years there had been threats against him, against Emma, against Elizabeth. It was something to be expected, he would say breezily as if a constant danger of kidnapping was a normal part of everyone’s life. I was glad we had so many guards, but I never wanted to know if anyone ever sent some scary letter about me.

  We pulled up in front of the house just as the high, finely-tuned sound of an engine approached from behind us. Neil pulled up in one of his ridiculous cars; some kind of Lamborghini, I assumed from the weird doors. I still had no clue what symbols went with which automobile, but I’d found that the more a car looked like a Hot Wheel, the more likely it was a Lambo.

  He turned off the ignition, and one of the doors slid up. He exited and gave a wave.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Elwood,” Don said. I thanked him for the ride and stepped out, and he whizzed away.

  Neil walked toward me as the car door lowered automatically.

  “Hey, baby,” I said as he crossed behind me to stand on my left side. “How was the track?”

  He slid his arm around my waist as we walked to the door. “Challenging. I don’t like the way the Huracán handles on the heated track. I think it’s going to be a summer-only vehicle.”

  “That’s great to hear, considering how much you spent on it.” Not that he would have been driving it to the grocery store or anything. Most of his cars were practically museum pieces, only driven when he had the chance to take them out to the track. In their off-time,
they sat shiny and well-lit in their garage.

  Yet, he thought I was ridiculous for having too many bath bombs I hadn’t gotten around to using.

  “I suppose this means you need to buy a new winter car, then?” I joked.

  To my surprise, he gave me a serious answer. “No. I never thought I would say this but...I think I have too many now.”

  That jolted me. “Are you okay? Are you feeling well?”

  “Please stop. You’re simply too clever, and I’ll die of a hernia from laughing,” he deadpanned. “I’ve simply been thinking about the space we have. It’s already starting to run out, and El-Mudad mentioned he might bring some of his cars here from France.”

  “So, it’s a practical thing, but not a ‘don’t spend millions on new toys every year’ practicality?” I punched in the code for the front door, and Neil pushed it open.

  “Exactly. I truly don’t want to go to the expense of building another garage, having the landscaping repaired once it’s been driven all over, and we have other things we need to think of fitting into the compound.” He took off his coat as he stepped into the foyer.

  I went to the closet to hang mine up, then reached back for his. “Really? What are we building now?”

  “I think we need stables. And a place for the girls to ride,” he said without hesitation, which meant it had been on his mind for a while.

  “El-Mudad’s girls?” I knew they were both accomplished equestrians; Amal was very proud of her polo skills. I’d let her regale me with tales of particularly good matches she’d played in because it was the only time she’d ever spoken to me without her facial expression implying that she smelled something terrible, but I’d mostly nodded and smiled. Nothing about polo made any sense to me.

  “Yes, of course. They’ll be spending time here. There’s no reason they shouldn’t have the facilities they need. And it will be good for Olivia, too.” He said as I grabbed my phone from my purse and left the latter in the closet.

  “Whoa, whoa.” This was a decidedly different tune than the one he’d been singing since we’d become Olivia’s guardians. “You said that wasn’t ever going to happen.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said simply. “I’ve spent some time considering what would be best for Olivia regarding fitting into society when she grows up. I don’t see why she shouldn’t have all the advantages her mother had.”

  “The advantages her mother didn’t want or use later in life because she was one-hundred percent against animal cruelty?” I reminded him.

  His text alert went off. “Ah, El-Mudad and Olivia are in the den.”

  As we walked that way, I didn’t let the subject drop. “Don’t you worry that getting Olivia a pony or whatever is going against Emma’s express wishes?”

  “I know for certain that it would be,” Neil agreed, again crossing behind me to stand to my left. I guessed he was just all about lefts today. “But we have to be realistic and practical about this. Emma and Michael are...not here. We were tasked with giving Olivia the best life possible. And there will be no animal cruelty involved. You know how I felt about some of Emma’s more extreme stances. Her pony was never abused. It wasn’t starved or worked to death. Amal and Rashida ride and they’ll practically be Olivia’s stepsisters. I think she’d feel very excluded.”

  “Okay, that’s a good point,” I agreed. It would break my heart if Olivia ever felt excluded from anything. “But another good point is that she’s three, and she’s not in preschool yet. We really dropped the ball on that, but you’re not terribly concerned about picking it up.”

  “I think she’s still too young,” Neil confessed. “She has a private tutor, she has a piano teacher, she goes to her dance class. It isn’t as though her education is being neglected.”

  “But she’s also not learning to socialize with anyone but adults. And believe that me, that’s not great.” Being raised by a single mother, I’d spent a lot of time either alone or at my grandmother’s house, interacting mostly with my cousins on Sundays. “When I went to kindergarten, I couldn’t tie my shoes, but I could tell anyone who would listen about what was up with Victor on The Young and The Restless. It didn’t make for instant popularity.”

  “I see your point there. Perhaps a playgroup or—“

  “Or she could go to school,” I stated firmly. “Neil, it’s like you don’t want Olivia to grow up.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t want her to grow up.” He stopped walking and faced me. “I would rather she—“

  “Oh my god, what is that?” I screamed, pointing at his ear with my full arm extended.

  “Ah.” He reached up and touched the small barbell earring pierced through his red, slightly swollen earlobe. “Well, I thought it was time for a change—“

  “Why? Why?” I shrieked, still pointing. “Neil, why would you do such a thing?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh, Sophie, do calm down. It isn’t as though I’ve had my head surgically removed.”

  “What on Earth would possess you?” I demanded. “Why would you punch a hole in your perfectly good ear?”

  El-Mudad entered the hallway at a run. “Sophie! Are you all right? I heard a scream—“

  He stopped beside me, his eyes wide with horror. “What have you done?”

  “I shot someone,” Neil said, exasperated. “Honestly, I’m surprised at the two of you. Both of you have pierced ears.”

  “I have one pierced ear, and I haven’t worn an earring in it since nineteen-ninety-eight,” El-Mudad corrected him. “Why would you do this, now?”

  Neil shrugged. “Because I wanted to. There was no deeper meaning behind it. I was stopped at a light, I turned my head, I noticed a shop, and I went in.”

  “You didn’t...” I swallowed. “You didn’t pierce anything else?”

  “What would it matter if I had? But no, I did not. It was a lark, is all. I didn’t tattoo myself or have my tongue split. It’s just one earring.”

  “Yeah. That’s part of the problem. It’s so...lopsided,” I said, finally putting my finger on why it looked strange. Besides the part where it was in Neil’s ear.

  “Would you rather I’d done both?” he asked, arching his brow. “Where’s Olivia?”

  “Watching Brave for the second time today,” El-Mudad said, motioning for us to continue into the den. “I can’t speak for Sophie, but I know my reaction to your new jewelry is simply shock. I’ve seen you take an hour to pick out which shoes you’re going to wear, but you altered your body on a whim?”

  That was also a good point. “I agree. And it does seem a little...midlife crisis-y of you.”

  “So that’s the issue. I’m a sad old man trying to be young?” Neil demanded. “Perhaps the two of you should look into elder care for me, so I can’t injure myself further with my foolishness.”

  “Stop,” El-Mudad told him. “You know that isn’t what we’re saying. You would have a similar reaction if either of us did something so out of character.”

  “Like, if I ran out and got a tattoo of a dragon over my whole back, you’d probably have something to say about that,” I added.

  “You would never do that. You hate tattoos,” Neil argued.

  I shook my head. “I do not hate tattoos. I just don’t want them on me. I don’t care for accessories I wouldn’t be able to change.”

  “And I’m not opposed to piercings,” El-Mudad reassured him. “I don’t think it looks bad. I just question why you were driven to do it.”

  Olivia was so captivated by the action on the television, she didn’t notice us come into the den at first. When she did, she jumped to her feet and ran to us. “I swimmed! I swimmed all by myself!”

  “You swam,” El-Mudad corrected her. “But yes, she doggy-paddled from one end of the pool to the other. I was very impressed.”

  And I was very relieved. I’d done a lot of swimming as a child. There were way too many lakes in the Upper Peninsula to let a kid run around not knowing how to swim. The earlier the
y learned, the better, in my opinion.

  Not that I had very many parenting opinions.

  Maybe that was part of my problem with the idea of teaching Olivia to ride. I’d been trying to base most of our decisions for her care off of what I imagined Emma and Michael would want. Neil had a point; they weren’t here. The job was up to us now, and we had to find solutions that would work with the child Emma and Michael had, sadly, never gotten a chance to know. Perhaps they wouldn’t have approved of all of our decisions, but they didn’t know the circumstances in which we were making them.

  “Have you taught her how to tread water?” I asked El-Mudad. “Float on her back?”

  “We’re trying,” he said. “And she’s learning very well.”

  “I’m a good swimmer,” Olivia stated confidently.

  “You certainly are,” Neil praised her. “But even the very best swimmers must have a grown-up with them in the pool.”

  That was a worry we definitely had; Olivia was so self-assured and confident that sometimes she took it upon herself to act like she was thirty, not three.

  “Even Sophie and Afi and El-Mudad don’t go swimming without someone there to help us,” I lied. Neil did laps three times a week before El-Mudad or I ever got out of bed. But Olivia didn’t know that, and it was for her own good.

  “I know,” she said happily, then went back to her movie and brushing her baby Merida doll’s hair with a detangling comb forced to work against its intended purpose. The poor doll had seen better days.

  I went to the armchair where I’d left my Kindle and sat down. “I think I’m going to spend the afternoon reading.”

  “A book?” Neil asked, as though he was shocked.

  “Yes, a book.” He acted like I was illiterate or something. “I’m picking up all sorts of interests, now that I’m not working.”

  I didn’t know which book I planned to read, but I figured I should find something if I were going to work on one of my own.

  “I have to say, I do find the Hamptons terribly dull,” El-Mudad admitted. “I need to find a hobby, myself. I’m not used to being in one location for long.”