by Chloe Liese
“That’s only fair, I’d say.”
“Yeah,” Tom says. “Me too.”
Then without another word, he touches his ball cap in goodbye, turns, and walks off.
I stare after him, feeling weird and unsettled. I’ve told the janitor more about my current predicament than I’ve told my own wife. What does that say about me? What am I doing?
I turn toward my building, pissed at myself, when my phone buzzes. Extracting it from my pocket, I peer down at the screen. A text from Dan:
That investor who’s been sniffing around asked for the full deck of slides. Fingers crossed. She might be it.
I quickly answer him, and when I close out of my messages, I’m left with my background photo. Freya, head tipped to the sun, wide smile, her wavy blonde hair wild in the breeze.
I grasp my phone and the sight of my once-happy wife. I hold it over the pendant beneath my shirt. A promise and hope, clutched to my chest.
12
Aiden
Playlist: “Begin Again,” Nick Mulvey
Jesus, keep me strong. First my mother in my house, then hurtling three thousand miles in an airborne tin can over the fathomless depths of the Pacific Ocean.
I barely slept last night, thinking about it. I’m going to need the world’s longest nap when we touch down.
“So where’s the cat food again?” Mom says. She frowns between Horseradish and Pickles, who meow and twine around her legs. “Hi, babies.” She bends and scratches Pickles. “Relish. Aren’t you cute.”
Freya smiles like she’s not remotely concerned my mom can’t remember these cats’ names to save her life. “I’ll show you, Marie,” she says. “I went too fast through everything, I’m sorry.”
Mom tugs her sweater tighter as she straightens. “That’s okay. A second walk-through sounds good, though.”
“Thanks, Frey,” I say distractedly, re-checking our suitcases.
Freya’s hand lands softly on Mom’s shoulder, guiding my mother ahead of her. “Right, Marie, so here’s the list of the daily routine, and here are our neighbors Mark and Jim’s number if you have any problems…”
They drift down the hallway toward the office where we keep the cat supplies, my mom asking which house is Jim and Mark’s again. I sigh.
Mom doesn’t have the greatest memory. I keep track of her finances since she started slipping up on her bills, which was also when Freya and I gently asked her if we could please pay her rent so she could retire. She said hell no. And that led to a massive fight after I told her the request was not a request, because my mother was not cleaning houses and breaking her body one more day after Freya and I realized we could afford to make retirement possible for her. Even if it made things tighter. Even if it meant more hustling to be where we needed to be financially. I owe my mother everything. Paying her rent so she can ease up on her tired body and spare her scattered mind is the least I want to do for her.
She was pretty pissed at first, but now she only acts mildly annoyed with me when Freya and I make the hour drive north once a month. We help her clean, sort through mail and odds and ends that have accumulated, make sure everything around her place is taken care of and the landlord hasn’t been blowing her off. Eventually, if her memory continues to decline, she’ll need to move in with us. Or we’ll have to find an assisted-living community she doesn’t hate. Another thing I budget and save and work for.
I carry Mom with me all the time, and the worry that her memory is bad keeps me up at night sometimes. What if she leaves something on the burner? What if she forgets where she is when she’s out running errands?
So on top of that constant concern, now I’m leaving her alone with said not-great memory in the keeping of the house that I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into.
Deep breaths, Aiden. Deep breaths.
Down the hall, Mom laughs at something in the wake of Freya’s murmur. Freya’s bright laughter follows, and a shiver runs up my spine. She’s laughed so little lately. I savor the sound the way I used to savor the rare hot fudge sundae Mom would let me get from McDonald’s.
I still get myself a hot fudge sundae, on those days when it’s all just too damn much. I sit and eat it in the car and remind myself how far I’ve come, every hurdle I’ve surmounted. I tell myself, if I made it through that, I can make it now, too.
“Well, kids,” Mom says as they reenter the foyer, “I hope you have lots of fun. You work too hard, Aiden. A vacation is good for you.”
“Ah, I’m okay. But I am looking forward to some time off.”
I smile at Mom—bird bones, soft gray-green eyes, silvery hair cut sensibly to her chin—and accept her hug, gently wrapping my arms around her. She smells like fresh laundry and cinnamon mints, like always, and it makes a bittersweet wave of memories wash through me. The rare Sunday morning coloring at the table. The few times she had a good pay month and we got donuts, then went shopping for clothes that fit and sneakers that made me feel like I was walking on a cloud. I clung to those bright moments between so many nights watching her from behind the crack in my bedroom door with a view to the kitchen, where she stood, head hung, shoulders shaking in silent sobs.
I was seven the first time I caught her crying like that. And that’s when I swore the moment I could, I’d make life better. For her. And me. For anyone I ever loved.
“You two go on,” Mom says, shooing us. “Get out of here. Mustard and Relish and I will hold down the fort.”
Freya smiles as she lifts the handle of her suitcase. “Right kind of food, Marie, but they’re Horseradish and Pickles.”
“Whatever.” Mom waves her hand. “Cats are dumb as doornails. They’ll know I’m feeding them and scooping their shit.”
I massage the bridge of my nose.
“Thanks again,” Freya says, hugging her goodbye. “Remember, the list is on the fridge, and there’s a copy in our room. Fresh sheets are on the bed, and please help yourself to any and everything.”
Mom nods. “Great. I’ve got the male strippers coming at ten, and I’ll make sure to buy lots of on-demand porn.”
My hand drops. “Mother!”
She laughs and slaps her knee. “Just trying to loosen you up.” Bringing her hands to my shoulders, she squeezes them as her eyes search mine. Her fingers drift up to my face and comb through my beard that, for some reason, I still haven’t gotten rid of since Washington.
“What is it?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “You look like him with this,” she says quietly.
Disgust rolls through me. I hate that I’ve already deduced I look like him. I look nothing like my mom. But still, I never want to hear that there’s anything like my dad in me. As usual, she reads between the lines.
“I said you look like him, that’s all, Aiden. He was very handsome. You think I would have gone for anything less than a hunk? I was hot stuff in my day.”
Freya’s eyes crinkle with a deep smile. “You still are. I have no idea why you don’t date, Marie.”
Mom doesn’t answer her as she stares at me, hands cupping my face, until she says, “Love you. Be safe.”
I bring a hand to rest over hers. “I will. Love you too.”
Pulling her close, I hug my mom hard, until she starts grumbling and pushes away. When I let go, she dabs her eyes and shoos us out.
Freya, of course, hugs and kisses the cats goodbye, too, before we’re off, bags in the car, windows down, a mellow playlist she made meeting the breeze. Not needing to save face in front of my mom, Freya’s warmth fades like the sun behind thick, gray clouds. She leans against the car door, staring out the window in chilly silence.
I grip the wheel harder, take a deep breath, and drive.
It’s beautiful here. So beautiful, it almost justifies nearly dying for five hours on a plane.
Okay, I wasn’t actually nearly dying, but I could have been for how miserable I was. I’m way too well-read in plane crash statistics and mortality rates, which pretty much takes the fun
out of flying first class. I triple-checked Freya’s seat belt, made sure all our emergency necessities were identified, and asked her if she was okay upwards of five times.
But Freya knows me. Even still clearly pissed, she answered me patiently every time, even humored me with a detailed breakdown of what to do in case of an emergency so I could be confident we wouldn’t be that couple who didn’t know our floaties’ location when the plane started nosediving into the Pacific.
She also packed a book, which she extracted and disappeared behind. I shoved one of those donut pillows around my neck, tugged my sunglasses down, and told myself to try to sleep, which I didn’t, of course. I closed my eyes and visualized calming things for about four seconds before I thought about that one part of the app’s interface that felt glitchy and I didn’t tell Dan about. Dammit.
After a quiet deplaning and ride to the house, I stand, showering off the plane ride—because I’m me, and I’m a germaphobe—enjoying a beachfront view of this breathtaking place from our bathroom. Swaying palms. Turquoise waves. Pale, golden sand, and a sapphire-blue sky that stretches low and rich against the ocean. I take a deep breath, only to feel it rush out of me when Freya walks into the bathroom.
She’s wearing a red cover-up that pops against her lightly tanned skin. It’s short enough to earn my immediate interest but opaque enough to drive my mind wild with possibilities of what’s beneath. I want to slip that flimsy fabric down her shoulders and watch it travel her decadent curves. I want to squeeze her soft, round ass and rub myself against her, remind Freya what she does to me, how desperate she makes me to be inside her, to feel as close as possible.
But I can’t. Because I’m terrified that as soon as I get underway, the swarm of thoughts and worries will crowd my brain, draining my body of that hungry edge that makes me reach for her, that makes my body hard and desperate.
And even if I wanted to, Dr. Dietrich said no sex.
There are other ways than your cock to make your wife scream in ecstasy, Aiden.
Oh, there are. And I want to use every single one of them. But nothing about Freya’s body says, “seduce me” right now. It says, “touch me, and you’ll lose a nut.”
My gaze drifts up her body and freezes. She must have put it in before we left, but it’s the first that I’ve noticed. She’s wearing her septum ring again. She took it out a few weeks ago, mumbling something about being taken seriously for the promotion she was up for. I mourned it, because with that delicate silver nose ring, her short, messy waves, and gorgeous face, she looked hot and badass and beautiful. She looked like Freya. And when she slipped it off, it felt like she was setting aside the part of herself that made her happiest. The free-spirited, karaoke-belting, no-bullshit woman inside her.
Now the ring’s back in. And I wonder if that part of her she’s felt she had to subdue is back, too. I hope so.
Freya finishes rubbing in sunblock across her face and notices me staring at her. Our eyes meet in the mirror. “See you out there,” she says shortly.
Then she’s gone. I drop my forehead to the shower stall and turn the water ice cold.
Dried off and in swim trunks, I head down the stairs and take in the place. I was single-mindedly focused on getting clean when we got here and didn’t absorb too much about the house, but now I can see it’s stunning. Expansive yet homey, open windows and a cross-breeze. Cool white walls, dark stained wood beams and floors. Fabrics and paintings in warm and inviting earth tones, mid-century furniture, bursting with luscious plants that have vibrant petals and glossy deep green leaves. I eye the massive caramel-colored L-sofa longingly and soak up the quiet in here. I want a nap. But I should go be social on the shore. And I can always nap in the sun.
As I finish my inspection of the living room, I turn toward the open-concept dining room and kitchen area, starting to make my way, when a long catcalling whistle pierces the air.
I freeze, then slowly glance over my shoulder.
There’s a parrot in a dark corner at the far end of the living room that I somehow missed, dancing side to side on its bar. A big green parrot that cocks its head sharply and stares at me.
I glance around, waiting for one of the Bergmans to jump out and laugh at their funny prank. Ha-ha. Let’s freak out Aiden with the catcalling parrot.
This bird doesn’t really come with the house, does it? If it does, I feel like someone should have told me an oversize, objectifying parrot lives here.
“Dat ass,” it squawks.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
Swiveling its head, the parrot lays down a beat, then says, “Pussy tight, hit it right—”
Holy shit.
I start toward it, not sure exactly what I can do, as it just keeps going.
“—Booty slappin’, make it happen—”
I clap my hands at it. “You can’t say that here. This is a-a-a family vacation.”
The parrot does not care. “Make it cream, pussy supreme, love it, lick it, make me scream!”
“Hey!” I’m close enough that the parrot startles at my next clap, then cocks its head before giving me another long whistle.
I set my hands on my hips. “Honestly.”
“Hey, hot stuff,” it squawks.
“Hey yourself,” I say. “No more…of whatever that was, okay?”
The parrot ruffles its wings, then spins on the bar, so its back is to me. At least it’s quiet.
Turning, I head toward the side of the house that leads to the beach. I’m almost at the door when the parrot says, “Tight-ass,” followed by a cackle.
I take the moral high ground and shut the door behind me.
All Hawaii’s beaches are public property, making this luxury around me feel somewhat less overwhelming. As I walk toward the Bergmans, I see kids playing nearby in the surf, another family not too far off laughing and building a sandcastle.
And the Bergmans fit right into that domestic picture. Ziggy reads under an umbrella she’s sharing with Axel, both of them stretched out on chaises and wearing T-shirts and shorts. Ren’s behind Frankie, rubbing sunscreen on her back and saying something in her ear that makes her laugh.
My in-laws wave from over their shoulders, chairs wedged into the soft sand as the waves lap at their legs. I wave back. A few chairs are vacant, so I wander down and drape my towel over one of them. “Has anyone else talked to the parrot?” I ask.
They all glance up at me.
Ziggy smiles and lowers her book. “Yep. She was so cute—said, ‘Hiya, toots!’”
“Really? Huh.” Dropping into the chair, I crack open my water bottle and take a long drink.
Ren tips his head. “Esmerelda was pretty quiet when I was in the kitchen earlier. Tyler said she’s on the old side and tends to sleep a lot. I called him because I was concerned she’d fly away with the windows open, but he said we don’t have to worry, she’s a homebody.”
“My kind of gal,” Frankie says.
Ren rubs in her sunblock and squeezes her shoulders affectionately. “Why do you ask? Did she say something funny?”
Apparently I’m the only one who got harassed by Esmerelda. I’m keeping that to myself unless I hear otherwise. “Just curious.”
“Gotcha,” he says. “Good flight?”
“As good as flights can be.”
He squints against the sun and grins. “Yeah, figured you’d say that.”
“Thank you,” I say, swallowing my pride. “That was incredibly generous, Ren.”
He blushes tomato red, and peers down at Frankie, who’s smiling at him over her shoulder.
“Aw,” she says. “You made Zenzero blush.”
Zenzero is Italian for ginger and Frankie’s nickname for him, given Ren’s copper hair. Playfully glaring at her, Ren blushes deeper, then clears his throat before he directs himself to me. “You’re welcome. It’s… I honestly think what professional athletes make is unconscionable. Paying for flights made my bank account feel less offensive.”
&n
bsp; Frankie snorts and pats his thigh. “I don’t get it. Load me up. Call me Scrooge. Then again, I grew up in a shoebox in Queens, wearing hand-me-downs and extreme couponing.”
Something eases inside me hearing that, knowing I’m not the only one who grew up without much. Frankie gives me a sharp stare. “I get a very Alexander Hamilton vibe from you, Aiden.”
“Don’t you dare start singing it,” Ren says. “Not until Oliver’s here. It would crush him.”
Frankie laughs. “I would never. That kid’s more obsessed than me. Now’s not the time, anyway. I’m having a heart-to-heart with Ocean Eyes, here.”
“Hey.” Ren pokes her side. “No compliments to the studly brother-in-law. Or heart-to-hearts.”
“Relax, Zenzero,” she says affectionately, glancing up at Ren. “He’s got great eyes, but as you know, I’m a sucker for redheads.” Turning back to me, she says, “So, am I right?”
“Yep. I grew up similarly, and I have no plans to live that way again.”
Saying it out loud feels liberating. Generally, I tiptoe around my childhood with the Bergmans, not because I’m ashamed, but because it’s such a marked contrast to their lives, and, well, nobody wants to be the poor kid at Christmas sitting around saying, Hey, this is the stuff of movies I watched and only ever dreamed of having. I can’t believe I’m sitting here, having a real celebratory feast!
It’s a buzzkill. Especially when my mom refuses to come. She orders Chinese at her apartment and watches Christmas movies and swears she couldn’t be happier. I still force a morning-of-Christmas-Eve visit on her that I can tell she privately enjoys.
“I knew it,” Frankie says, shaking me out of my thoughts. “I’m the same way. I mean, I don’t plan on hoarding if I’m ever filthy rich, but it’s nice not to have to worry about money.”
“Absolutely,” I tell her. “If I’m ever loaded, I won’t sit on it and not share, but I won’t mind having a fat bottom line.”
