by Megan Walker
“Hey,” Felix says, and while I love talking to my adorable nephew, I’m glad that I don’t need to feign interest in some character named King K. Rool while navigating LA freeway traffic. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know. Choking on car exhaust. Listening to some K-Pop from the next car over.”
This is, indeed, true. My car’s AC is on the fritz, and so, apparently, is the Miata’s next to me, which is blasting the music of some Korean boy band along with the driver’s pitchy accompaniment.
“Ah,” Felix says. “That explains the music. You on your way to the hospital, or back home?”
It’s a testament to life as a nurse that at nine AM on a weekday morning, it could be either.
“Neither,” I say, as my lane finally starts moving, allowing me to leave the K-Pop a few car lengths behind. “I’m actually on my way to my other job. At the Ren faire.”
“Oh, yeah!” Felix sounds too excited about this. “That’s this week? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because when I first mentioned it to you, you said—and I quote—‘Oh man, I can’t wait to come down there and mock you.’”
“That does sound like me.”
“I assumed that’s why you were calling—to find out when I’d be working, for mocking purposes.” The cars ahead move forward, and I feel a sudden freedom, gunning my old Hyundai.
And then stopping again about four seconds later.
“Good guess, but no,” Felix says. “Ty has a school project coming up where he needs to interview someone whose job he admires, and he picked you. I wanted to give you the heads-up to prepare, because he’s going to want all the gory wound stories, and he also thinks you’ll teach him how to give people shots.”
I totally will—on fruit, at least.
“He admires my job?” I say, a happy little warmth squeezing at my chest. It’s so nice to have a job I love, let alone one that my nephew could admire and want to learn more about—even if I get that, as a nine-year-old, he’s primarily in this for the wound stories.
Felix laughs. “Oh yeah. He’s way more impressed with your job than ours.”
This feels like a pretty epic achievement, considering his parents are literal pop stars. His mom has been one for years, as part of the pop duo Alec and Jenna. And though now she and Felix aren’t quite as big of music sensations—playing a more indie sound, and even some classical—they still play sold-out shows on national tours and have legions of screaming fans.
Alec, so I hear, is off filming some reality show in South America, so they’re doing a hell of a lot better than him.
But I guess if that’s what a kid grows up with, it’s not as big a deal. Probably even Blake Pless and Kim Watterson’s kids are like, “Oh yeah, my parents are mega-famous movie stars, whatever. But you say you sort mail at the post office? That’s awesome!”
So maybe I shouldn’t be too proud of his job preference.
“Well, tell him I’ll be happy to help,” I say, then sigh as the K-Pop car passes me.
“Hey, are you okay? You sound kind of down.”
“I should be happier about being stuck in traffic on my way to a Ren faire to remove splinters and tell people to drink more water?”
“Is that what you’re actually unhappy about?”
Damn Felix. He didn’t used to be this insightful—I blame all that recovery therapy.
Still, it would be nice to have someone to talk over my worries with. I’d planned on calling my best friend, Anna-Marie, and still probably will, but maybe the male perspective could be useful.
“Not entirely, no,” I admit. “I’m just . . .” I pause, not sure how to jump right into this. With my brother. Who has always been a lot more comfortable talking to me about his sex life than I have with him—probably because he’s had a sex life for a much longer time than I have. “I know you and Jenna haven’t been married that long, but . . . do you ever feel like you might need to spice up your sex life?”
There’s a long pause, in which I begin to have regrets.
I’m about to make those fake static noises and tell him the call is cutting out and hang up, when he finally speaks.
“What does that even mean?” Felix asks.
“What? It means what I asked! I don’t think that question could have been clearer!” Then it occurs to me that I have no idea what kind of freaky stuff they do in the bedroom—or elsewhere. Jenna had a lot of previous experience before Felix—even more than he did before her, which was not insignificant—and though I know much of that time of her life was really awful and traumatic, it doesn’t mean she didn’t find some crazy sex stuff that her and Felix are taking full advantage of now. Maybe they’re already at maximum spice level. “Like, I don’t know, what kind of stuff do you guys do?”
Another pause. “We have sex.”
“Oh my god, Felix, forget it.”
“Okay, okay,” Felix says. “Sorry, I’m just trying figure out what you’re really asking here. Are you worried about your sex life? Is Will?”
He doesn’t seem to be, which is part of the problem. Granted, when I had that sinus infection I wasn’t exactly in the mood, and when the antibiotics finally kicked in, Will was perfectly happy to make up for lost time. But then the next night, when I joined him in bed and cuddled up with him to get something started, he mumbled something about needing sleep and rolled away from me. And that definitely wasn’t the first time that’s happened in the last several months.
Not that I don’t appreciate a good night’s sleep myself, especially now that such things have gotten harder to come by, what with my work schedule. But a year ago, I wouldn’t have been able to imagine a night—no matter the hour—when Will wasn’t ready to go.
I sigh. I’m in this now, might as well see if my brother has any sage advice. “I may be a little worried,” I say. “It’s not that it’s not great, you know . . . when it happens.”
“Oh. So it’s more a frequency thing?”
“Yeah, maybe. And that when we do, it seems like it’s always me instigating it. Which I don’t mind, but—I don’t know. He’s just distracted a lot, and . . . and yeah. It’s just not happening as much anymore.”
“Okay, yeah,” Felix says. “But once you get past the infatuation phase, that happens, right? It turns into a more mature love.”
He’s right, I know this, but it’s still trippy hearing my little brother tell me about “mature love.” My little brother, who is a husband and a father. Who somehow fits into both those roles—loves both those roles—like they were the ones he was born for.
It’s trippy, but it also makes me so happy to see. Especially after where he was a year ago—in his third stint of rehab after years of heroin addiction. Lost and scared and resigned to misery.
He’s come a long, long way since then, and I couldn’t be prouder.
“I mean,” he continues, “It’s not like Jenna and I have sex every day anymore, either.”
“Really?” I ask, a little surprised. “How often, then?”
There’s another pause. “Well, almost every day,” he admits, and my pride in my brother notwithstanding, I have the big-sisterly instinct to reach through the phone and punch him. “But it’s a little different for us,” he says quickly. “You know the love languages thing? I’m pretty sure both of our main love language is physical touch. Sex is this really important thing for both of us, like in helping us feel connected. It fills this emotional need that’s way deeper than just the physical.”
I consider this. It makes sense that connecting that way would mean so much to them—especially Jenna, after all she’d been through.
“Not that I’m saying your sex life is just physical,” Felix says in a rush, like he’s worried he’s offended me. “It’s just—”
“No, I get it,” I say, and I’m pretty sure I do. I love having sex with Wi
ll—because, um, sex with my gorgeous, amazing boyfriend who I love is incredible—and there’s definitely emotional connection that happens there. But I’m not sure I would say that I feel so much more connected to him that way than, say, when we’re curled up together and joking around with each other, just content in each other’s arms.
Now that I think about it, that hasn’t been happening a lot lately, either.
“So this mature love,” I say. “Do you feel like you guys are there already? I mean, it’s only been a year.”
Felix laughs. “Crazy right? But yeah, I do, and it’s great. We’ve had a lot of excitement over the last year, and I think we’re ready for things to calm down.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “We’re really happy.”
Considering the last year for my brother involved meeting Jenna, shoving her ex-boyfriend off a stage at the VMAs, getting married, adopting Ty, going on tour and then getting stabbed by Jenna’s other ex-boyfriend . . . Yeah. I can see why they’d all be ready for some calm.
But I see them together all the time. And I don’t think they’re going through . . . whatever is happening with Will and me. I suppose that could be because we’ve been together for three years—three much calmer years—and they’ve only been together for one.
“Okay,” I say, “But I see what you guys are like with each other. You always find ways to touch her, like when she’s walking by in the kitchen, or she’ll just come up and put her arms around you. The little things, you know? Intimate moments.”
“And that’s not happening with you guys?” Felix asks.
I shrug, realizing belatedly that the only person who can see me do so is the guy in the Volvo next to me, who is creepily staring at me as his car inches past mine.
God, how far until my exit?
“It’s not that it’s not happening,” I say. “But I feel like lately I’m always the one instigating those moments, too.”
“Have you asked him about it?”
My silence is all the answer Felix needs, apparently.
“You’re scared to ask,” Felix says, and he sounds more concerned now than in any of the rest of the conversation. “What is it you’re afraid he’ll say?”
The pit in my gut swells larger. I don’t want to examine it. I don’t want to think about why Will might not be as into our sex life, or me. I want it to be something that can be fixed with a couple glasses of wine and a fun new sexual position.
But I know my brother, and I know he won’t let me get away without answering the question.
“I don’t know,” I say, squirming a little in my seat, and not because of the creepy Volvo dude winking at me—or at least, mostly not because of him. “At the beginning of our relationship, I was kind of insecure about . . . stuff. Because, you know, I was a virgin, and he—well, he’d been with several girls, but mainly Sarah.” Felix hasn’t met Sarah—lucky guy—but he’s definitely heard all about her. “I thought I was over all that insecurity, but now . . .” I suck my lips inward, not wanting to finish that thought.
“So it’s like a comparison thing?” He sounds dubious.
“Sarah was like a supermodel, Felix. A blond, British supermodel.” She was actually an assistant director for a soap opera, but I’m pretty sure she could have done modeling, were she so inclined. “And I’m blond . . . ish. But definitely not a supermodel. Or British.” I pause. “I’m not all that insecure about the last part.”
But the rest . . . God, I know it’s stupid. Will loves me. And he's definitely way over Sarah. I just can’t help but wonder if he wouldn’t be more interested in taking my corset off if I was Gabby in a Sarah-like body, slim and perfectly waxed—I’m guessing—and not possessing the little cellulite pockets that my Fong’s addiction only makes larger, or the weird mole under my armpit that’s shaped like a tiny Texas. (Actually, Will thinks this mole is hilarious, and says it clearly means I’m destined to be some Texan Messiah with the powers to summon an army of longhorn. So he wouldn’t change that.)
“Gabby,” Felix says, “you’re beautiful. You are. And Will is lucky to have you.”
I sigh. “You’re my brother. You have to say that. You can’t be objective.”
“No, I can only be objective, because I’m your brother,” Felix says. “I don’t find you subjectively attractive.”
I groan. “Fine, smart-ass.” But it does make me feel a little better. “Okay, back to spicing up my sex life.”
“Is that what we landed on as the solution?”
I ignore this jab. “You must do something besides the basic stuff. You guys have lots of experience.”
“Sure,” Felix says. “But I think Jenna associates a lot of that previous experience with being degraded, you know? It wasn’t stuff she wanted to do. And she likes that she doesn’t feel like she has to do that kind of stuff with me. The basic stuff works for us. Really, really well.” I can practically hear the smug grin.
Huh. Basic stuff is how I would describe my own sex life. “So you’re the wrong person to talk to about spicing things up.” I sound a little bitter, but I’m definitely happy about one thing—I’m finally at my exit. “You don’t have any suggestions.”
I cruise off the freeway, away from the creepy stare of Volvo guy and the intermittent K-Pop.
“Chocolate?” Felix says. “Whipped cream? We’ve done that a few times. Once there was a can of cherries, too. That was fun.”
Now there’s an idea. “Ooh. I could make his body into a Breakup Tub!” It’s both my favorite dessert—a Fong’s staple—and has meaning for our relationship, since we officially got together at Fong’s, with a Breakup Tub there at the table, melting away while we made out.
How many layers of sheets would I need so the mattress doesn’t become soaked through with ice cream and chocolate sauce?
“It’s less messy if you apply as you go,” Felix says, since apparently he’s become a mind reader. Or maybe just knows me too well. “Really, though, you should talk to him. Actually ask him what’s going on.”
I know I should, but I don’t want to, and I’m afraid to fully examine why. “I’m almost at the faire, so I probably need to get going. But thanks.”
“For the advice you won’t follow? Anytime.” But it really doesn’t sound like he’s judging me, which I’m grateful for.
We say goodbye, and I hang up and chew on my lip. I probably should talk to Will about it. But instead I find myself calling Anna-Marie and inviting her to meet me for lunch. Because if anyone knows how to spice up one’s sex life, it’s going to be her.
Four
Gabby
The morning passes slowly, as no one requires my medical services. I’m pretty much alone in the infirmary, with the exception of one harried mom who thinks I’m Lost & Found and hopes someone has turned in a stuffed dragon named Bitsy (sorry, nope) and Mama Mags, who checks in on me occasionally. Possibly to make sure I’m not offering to put leeches on anyone or screwing knights in my spare time, cute and real boyfriend notwithstanding.
I spend most of the morning poking my head out of the open door and watching the throngs of people. Most are wearing street clothes, though some are in medieval garb like the workers here, and I even see a few Star Wars outfits. Harp music drifts over from a nearby pavilion, and at one point a procession of royalty passes by, though I’m blocked from seeing most of it by the camera-happy crowd.
I’m pretty excited when my lunch break comes and I can get out of my lonely little shack. As Mama Mags instructed, I notify a girl named Lisa at the actual Lost & Found (no Bitsy there either), who has enough basic first aid training that she can cover my breaks at the infirmary. Then I stroll out into the faire and head to the Prancing Pig Pub, where I’m due to meet Anna-Marie, who was all too eager to come down and join me for lunch—and not, I think, to mock me. Anna-Marie and Josh are both total geeks, so Comic-Cons and Ren faires and pl
aces like that are pretty much their Mecca.
And I have to admit, the faire looks like it’s a pretty fun place when you aren’t stuck in the first aid closet. I pass a band playing lovely medieval-sounding music on a harp and another instrument like a cross between a guitar and ukulele. Little kids run by in bright face paint, wearing glittery fairy wings and laughing. There’s the thunk of axes being tossed at wood targets and the occasional cheer as someone actually hits the mark.
I can’t help but notice, though, that the Axe and Knife Toss booth is awfully close to my infirmary, which is probably a good thing. Especially because there’s another pub—not the Prancing Pig—just across the way, and even at noon, some of these axe-throwers look like they’ve put back a few.
As I’m walking through the faire, checking out the booths and glass-blowing displays, I even find myself resenting my corset a little less. Sure, it may be tight and uncomfortable and is causing me no small amount of underboob sweat. But out here, it makes me feel like part of the faire, like maybe I am some fourteenth-century Healer Wench (was that really a thing?) out at the market. Possibly shopping for leeches.
“Pickles!” a guy calls out, wearing peasant clothes and standing behind a barrel of, apparently, pickles. He’s no Channing Tatum as Lancelot, but he’s cute in his own right, with curly dark hair and a mischievous smile. “Come and taste my pickle!”
There’s some laughter from the passersby at this last bit.
“My lady!” he calls out, and I’m surprised to see he’s talking to me. “Can I interest you in my pickle?”
“No, thanks,” I say with a laugh of my own, and he shrugs.
“Your loss, my lady,” he says, holding up a big dill on a stick. He moves on to his next target. “How about you, good sir? You look like you could use a juicy pickle. I’ll even drain it for you.”
It’s a good bit, and he manages to make a sale, quipping the whole time.
I consider making some pickle-related jokes at Will, but he knows I think pickles are gross, for one thing, and even if I were to eat one, I can’t imagine that taking a big bite out of a food representative of his dick would be a turn-on.
