by Penny Reid
Kat, Marie, Sandra, and Elizabeth were giggling by the time he’d finished.
“Tatting?” Janie frowned at my husband, like the strangest thing he’d referenced during his tirade was tatting.
“Lemon drops aren’t girl-drinks, Mr. Fiona.” Sandra wrinkled her nose at him. “Not the way I make them.”
“No offense implied, Sandra. I equate girl-drinks to anything that tastes good, like a woman’s lady closet. Whereas man-drinks taste of sweat and toe jam, like a man’s cock.”
Marie made a gagging sound while Nico and Elizabeth outright guffawed.
Nico took out a little notebook and began jotting something down. “I’m stealing that for my show, Greg.”
“Feel free. You can send the royalty payments to my lawyer.” Greg lifted his chin toward Marie, and Marie lifted her glass in response.
Janie was still frowning in confusion. “What is tatting?”
“According to Wikipedia, tatting is a technique for handcrafting a particularly durable lace from a series of knots and loops. One uses an implement called a shuttle for the construction.” Greg shoved another handful of popcorn into his mouth, smiling and munching.
Janie’s frown deepened. “I did not know that.”
We all took a moment to be appropriately shocked someone knew a random factoid unknown to Janie. It was a momentous occasion.
Sandra broke the stunted silence. “If Greg joins us he’ll need a new name, like Nicoletta.” She addressed this statement to me. “Gregwina?”
“Gregarious?” Marie offered.
“No. Auntie Gregina,” I said with a smile aimed at my husband. “Think of him as a girl in a man’s body. He’s got the brain of a woman.”
He nodded, returning my smile and remembering our private joke from our pre-dating college days. “That’s right: shrewd, calculating, resilient, ruthless.”
“Sounds about right.” Sandra took another gulp of her drink. “Too bad you’ve got a man’s body, because apparently us women are delicious.”
“David never went down on me,” Marie admitted flatly, her cocktail suspended in front of her, staring forward as though in a trance. The room fell into a surprised hush as everyone—sans Marie—exchanged wide-eyed glances. I doubted she realized she’d spoken out loud.
Greg frowned at our friend, true astonishment written all over his features. I don’t know what he thought we talked about during knit night, but Marie’s comment was fairly tame. If he wanted to be regularly included then he would have to put up with the oversharing.
I was just about to tell him this when he surprised me by prompting Marie, “Tell Auntie Gregina all about it.”
Her gaze cut to his, her features blank but her tone clearly aggrieved as she said, “The good ones are like unicorns.”
“The good ones?”
“Men.”
Greg studied her for a beat, then he set his popcorn aside. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He gave her one of his soft, compassionate smiles; the ones he used liberally with Grace when she was hurt—even if he didn’t realize it—and with me when I encountered disappointment or non-Greg-related distress. It always made my heart do wonderful things.
“I never liked David,” he said solemnly. “He was a wanker.”
“I didn’t either,” Kat blurted, frowning, drawing our collective attention to her. “I’m sorry I never said anything.”
Marie issued Kat and Greg a small smile of wonder, her curiosity piqued. “Why didn’t you like him?”
“He thought his food was delicious.” Greg paired this odd declaration with a flick of his wrist, as though David, a chef, finding his own food delicious was unforgivable.
“His food was delicious.” Marie’s statement was the truth.
“Yes, but he was always talking about it, about how he cooked the most delicious eye of newt, or some such doldrums. And he was obsessed with cuts of meat.”
“That’s true.” Elizabeth pointed at Greg. “Remember that one time he yelled at me for mixing up a prime rib with a fillet?”
“Yes.” Greg snapped once and nodded vigorously. “You’d just worked a really long shift—”
“Thirty-six hours,” Elizabeth supplied.
“And you didn’t even know your own name. And then he left the table because you said the fillet smelled really good.”
“I remember that.” Kat was also nodding vigorously.
Sandra lifted her drink to the room and added, “Also, balls.”
“Balls are no joke,” Nico agreed, not looking up from his crochet.
Marie shook her head but was clearly trying not to laugh. “Not this again.”
“I suppose what I’m saying—dearest, lawyerest, blondest Marie—is that any man who speaks about the deliciousness of his own cooking, but has no taste for your lady closet, is completely undeserving of you. One must work diligently to be deserving, placing one’s partner above oneself, especially one’s fears and ambitions. As such, David is undeserving.” Greg’s words were met with head nods of agreement from both Nicoletta and the ladies gathered.
Meanwhile, I studied my husband openly. His statement might have been seen as a show of support by our friends, but to me it sounded like a realization, a crystallization of finally appreciating my perspective. Hope and wonder blossomed in my chest, a warm spreading consciousness, both lifting my heart and soothing some of my anxieties.
“I know that. I just wish I could get over it. It’s been a year and I’m still . . .” Marie sipped her drink and sighed again, her tone more resolute as she found her desired train of thought. “It’s not David. I don’t miss him. I miss having a person. I miss having someone to laugh with, someone to talk to, someone to care for. I miss having a man’s body close by, the strength of it. I miss the sound of a male voice in the morning. And I miss kissing.”
“Kissing is nice.” Now Kat was staring unseeingly forward and sounded like she was in a trance.
I smirked at Kat’s dreamy-sounding statement, because I was fairly certain she was thinking of one man’s kisses in particular.
Marie ignored Kat and continued, “I want what you and Fiona have. I look at the two of you and, honestly, it gives me hope. I want someone I can rely on, but who knows me well enough to give me space when I need it, forgiveness when I ask for it. I want unconditional love and support. I want someone who fits me, is the yin to my yang.” Marie met Greg’s gaze head on, her voice steady and sure. “I want enduring love. And, if people are honest with themselves, I think that’s what everyone wants.”
Greg and I traded smiles; I both felt and saw the warmth behind his gaze, the adoration, desire, and promise.
Still looking at me, a grin still whispering over his lips, he said, “Being the yin to someone’s yang takes work.”
“Relationships are the ultimate work in progress,” I agreed. “Think of being in a committed relationship like knitting a scarf that never ends, with lots of mistakes and dropped stitches.”
“That sounds frustrating and expensive,” Kat chuckled, but I could tell she was trying to infuse some humor into the discussion. “Think about all that yarn you’d have to buy.”
Greg picked up on Kat’s attempt and ran with it. “That’s right. If the good ones are like unicorns, just think about how expensive his upkeep would be. What does one feed a unicorn?”
“Fillet, not prime rib,” Elizabeth suggested, making her husband laugh.
“A steady diet of lady closet,” Sandra recommended with a twinkle in her eye.
“Rhinoceroses are probably the closest non-mythical animal to a unicorn, and—contrary to popular belief—they’re vegetarians. Black rhinos get most of their sustenance from eating trees and bushes. But white rhinos graze on grasses, walking with their enormous heads lowered to the ground,” Janie said, obviously the only one who was giving the matter of feeding unicorns any serious thought.
Not missing a beat, Greg nodded at Janie’s information share as though it were exceptionally f
ascinating—because it was—and added, “But just remember, Marie, it doesn’t really matter what you end up feeding the unicorn when he is found. Because here’s the take-home message: there’s a man unicorn out there, right now, who cannot wait to dine on your lady closet and give you the horn in his pants.”
***
“We should have named Jack ‘The Hague.’”
I caught the tail end of Greg’s eye-roll as he threw some balled-up item into our laundry basket and walked past where I sat perched on the bed.
“What? Why?”
“He’s so judgy,” he responded from inside the bathroom, then poked his head out and glared at me. “I blame you and your choice in college major.”
“What are you talking about? My major was electrical engineering.”
“No. You majored in being a hot piece of ass.”
Charmed by his remark in spite of myself, I forced myself to glower—especially since I knew he was just trying to get a rise out of me.
He held his hands up, walking back into our bedroom and not fighting his smile. “It’s funny because you’re brilliant. If you were stupid then it wouldn’t be funny, it would be true.”
“It’s not funny at all.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Whatever. Back to Jack. What happened?”
“He won’t wear the Miami Dolphins 1984 Super Bowl Championship shirt I brought him back from Nigeria.”
“Probably because the Miami Dolphins lost the 1984 Super Bowl.”
As soon as we were home, and our babysitter had been paid and sent away, Jack had come out of his room with a scowl pointed at his father. I left the two of them to it and sauntered into the bedroom to undress.
Now Greg closed the door to our room and pulled off his sweater. “He should be rejoicing in the oddity of it rather than focusing on its veracity.”
I smirked as I unfastened my sweater, saying nothing. Jack and Greg were a lot alike. It would be interesting to see how Greg handled a teenage version of himself.
We both disrobed in silence, lost to our thoughts, and my mind wandered. We still had so much to discuss, to talk about. The issues with soccer and Jack and Grace hadn’t been resolved, nor had we figured out what to do about Jack’s musical talent. Plus our retirement accounts. Plus the baby . . .
Our list of to-do discussion items felt endless. At this point I was going to have to make an agenda and hold him hostage until we’d agreed to an action plan for the most pressing items.
Greg cut through my musings by saying, “I need your help.”
“Sure,” I responded automatically, “how can I help?”
I expected him to follow up with something like,
I can’t find my cell phone—will you help me find it?
I can’t find my keys—will you help me find them?
I can’t find this very-random-piece-of-paper-with-a-number-written-on-it—will you help me find it?
Because those requests were typical and he knew I didn’t mind helping. Losing a thing was always made more frustrating when no one would help you find it.
Imagine my surprise when he said none of those things, but instead replied with a solemn, “Help me figure out what to do next.”
I’d been removing my leggings when he made his request, so I stopped mid-movement and shifted my attention to my husband. He stood in front of me, not quite frowning.
“What do you mean?”
Greg sat next to me on the bed, his fingers slipping between my legs to rest on the newly bared skin of my thigh. “I received a call from John at Nautical Oil this afternoon.”
“Your contracting agent?”
“That’s right. They’re offering a settlement, to me and the other hostages, for the gaps in security that allowed us to be kidnapped in the first place. Marie—who is now one of my favorite people in the entire world—discovered during the digging she was doing for the Associated Press that my contract guaranteed a certain level of security, teams and the like, while I was stationed in Nigeria. You know how we all have insurance policies? Owned by the company and the life insurance we pay into? Well the life insurance policy is contingent on the security protocols being followed.”
Now I was not-quite frowning. “I didn’t know that.”
“I just found out. Our life insurance was cancelled last week. Forfeit.”
My mouth fell open and I struggled to speak for a moment before blurting, “How can they do that? It’s a whole life insurance policy, that money is ours.”
“No, my darling. It was ours, as long as Nautical Oil was providing the security they’d promised. Since they didn’t, and I was kidnapped as a result, the whole life policy was forfeit. Which brings us to the settlement.” Greg pulled my legs over his lap, his fingers inching higher on my thighs.
“Okay . . . ?” I finished removing my leggings and straddled him—since I knew that’s what he really wanted—and dipped my head to the side in a questioning movement. “They want to make a settlement?”
He nodded. “That’s right, obviously for the entire amount of the whole life insurance policy, plus a tidy sum for pain and suffering.”
“How much?”
“Not enough to build a throne of money,” he mock-scowled, “more like a kitchen chair of money. Not enough that we can live quite comfortably, as long as we invest wisely.”
My immediate reaction, before giving the matter any thought, was ecstatic enthusiasm. Greg would be home more. He’d have more freedom to pick the assignments he wanted rather than accepting dangerous assignments for increased money.
This was excellent news, just as long as . . .
“Will you let me? Invest the money wisely?”
Greg gathered a large inhale, studying my features, and then gave me a quick kiss. “I’ve been thinking on that, the retirement and such, and I see now that you were right. After . . . everything that’s happened, I see that it has been a huge effort and time-drain for you. I signed the papers and sent them into Mr. Jackson yesterday.”
I was surprised, and relieved, and feeling all manner of warm feelings for my husband. “You did?”
He nodded once. “Yes. Though, if we accept this money, this settlement, I’d like to work with Mr. Jackson on picking the fund portfolios—not because I don’t trust you, but because I don’t want you to waste your time playing monkey-in-the-middle anymore.”
“Thank you.” I pressed another quick kiss to his lips. “That actually sounds really good to me.”
He eyeballed me for a long moment, sighed, and flexed his fingers on my thighs. “Fe, if we accept this settlement then I won’t be able to work as a petroleum engineer for at least ten years.”
“You mean you won’t have to work anymore.”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, it means I would be disallowed from accepting work—contract or full-time or consulting—as a petroleum engineer from any publicly traded competitor of Nautical Oil for the period of ten years. It’s stipulated in the settlement. I might get a job doing something else, but all the major oil firms are publicly traded. And it’s unlikely Nautical Oil would hire me either.”
Stunned, I gaped at Greg.
But after my mind was able to move past my surprise, the first word I thought and said was, “No.”
“Fe—”
“No. Absolutely not. No. Tell them no. We’ll sue them instead, then you can work for whoever you want and we’ll get the money.”
“No, we won’t. We wouldn’t get the money, at least not nearly as much. And it would take years, and be stressful, and time-consuming.”
I wanted to argue, but I didn’t. Instead I studied my husband. Really looked at him, and saw how bone-deep fatigued he was. I knew Greg wasn’t infallible—Lord, I knew that—but part of me had always assumed he was indestructible. He was my superhero, a much more sarcastic version of Captain America, larger than life, able to withstand any test or burden.
I’d seen him tired before, exhausted after pulling
weeks of sixteen-hour shifts on an oil rig and traveling over twenty-four hours to make it home, but he’d never looked resigned. He’d never before looked like he wanted to settle.
“I miss you, my darling.” His eyes—drowsy and anxious—caressed my features, his hands rubbing circles on my thighs. “I miss you, and Grace, and Jack. And I’m tired. Maybe I’ll regret taking the settlement a few years from now . . . but I doubt it.”
“Greg, I don’t want you to give up this part of yourself. You make a difference in the world, you—”
“Perhaps it’s time I started making more of a difference to my family. Perhaps it’s time I let the world fend for itself.”
Though my chest felt blissfully light and airy at his words, I issued him a questioning look. He would be no good to our family if he spent all his days at home miserable.
But then one of his hands moved to rest on my lower belly. “Pretty soon you’ll be gloriously round with our new person, craving all sorts of disgusting foods at all times of the day and night—but mostly night. Perhaps I want to eat cheese steak and peanut butter sandwiches with you.”
“I ate those with Grace three times a week.”
“I know. You told me, but I wasn’t here to procure them for you,” he reminded me, clearly unhappy, and placed a soft, wet, sliding kiss on my lips.
“Greg, you shouldn’t use the baby as a reason to stay home.”
“I’m not. But I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t part of the reason I want to stay home.”
“She?”
“Yes. She. And she’ll love playing soccer and eschew all things forced upon her by outdated societal constructs.”
I huff-laughed at him. “She or he will be her or his own person and we will love that person no matter what.”
“That’s what I just said.” His eyes danced mischievously.
“Okay. So, what’s the other reason?”
“I am. I’m the reason. I’m tired and . . .” Greg slipped his hands into the fabric of my underwear and gripped my bottom, squeezing and pulling me more firmly against him. His head dipped to my neck and he nipped my ear, whispering hotly, “I miss you. And I’m tired of missing you. I’m tired of missing Jack and Grace.”
