by Harper Bliss
“I think it’s great.” She pulls away from me. “I wish she would stay longer.”
“Has she said anything? About her job and her future plans?”
“Not really.”
“Look, sweetie, as wonderful as it is for you that she’s here, don’t, um, go expecting too much from her, okay?” I don’t want to be the kind of mother who has to lower her child’s expectations about her other parent, but I feel like I have to say something to curb Brooklyn’s hopes about Eve.
“She came back for me. That’s all that matters now,” Brooklyn says.
I flinch at her comment, but make sure to hide it from Brooklyn. Because I’ve always been the one who has been there for her unconditionally, not Eve. Yet, this weekend, Eve gets credit for simply coming back, for turning up and, for once, being there.
“Okay. Sure. Enjoy it,” I say, and I mean it, because I want Brooklyn to enjoy Eve’s visit.
“Hey gang.” Eve descends the stairs into the store as though she’s walking a red carpet—she has always had a flair for the dramatic. She’s never been anything but confident about how she looks. I wish I could take some of her easy confidence and give it to Anna, who so sorely needs it, but unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. Self-esteem is not something so easily shared. Eve looks around the store as though it’s the first time she’s seeing it. Her gaze lands, as it does with everyone eventually, on the painting above the door. “That’s so you, Zoe.”
“Well, yes, it is a painting of me,” I reply. I put it back in its spot as soon as Anna and I got back together.
“I mean to hang a picture of yourself so prominently in your store. I’m surprised you didn’t name it Zoe’s Books or something along those lines.”
That’s Eve all over. Accusing me of being self-centered, while she’s the one who did exactly as she pleased and then had the nerve to turn up as though none of it ever happened. As though her leaving so abruptly didn’t crush Brooklyn.
“Anna painted it,” Brooklyn says, no doubt trying to keep the peace. I hate that she has to do that. I’m also glad that Eve and I separated before Brooklyn really had to get in the middle of these kind of passive-aggressive comments in her home.
“A woman of many talents.” The way Eve says it makes me feel she wasn’t very impressed with meeting Anna. “She certainly looks the part of the distracted painter.” She walks closer to the painting. “This, however, is a very good painting. Does she exhibit?” I hear my own words in Eve’s remark, and for that reason her words grate on me even more.
“No,” Brooklyn says. “Did you know she’s Jaden’s aunt?”
“I did not.” Eve turns to us and I can almost see her bite back an offensive comment. “Keeping it in the family.” She smiles at Brooklyn. “You really like this boy?”
Brooklyn’s face changes from sullen to lovestruck in a split second. Just mentioning Jaden has that effect on her. It reminds me that I need to have another conversation with Janet. Perhaps with Eve as well.
“I can’t wait to meet him then,” Eve says. “Does he have any special talents, like his aunt?”
The door opens and a customer walks in. It’s someone I haven’t seen before. I greet him and stop following Eve and Brooklyn’s conversation.
After I’ve helped the customer, I return my attention to my daughter and my ex-wife. They’re huddled together like a couple of teenagers discussing their crushes. This reminds me that Eve hasn’t uttered one single word about who she might be dating. Maybe that’s why she came back so suddenly. Something ended for her in Shanghai. I should ask her when we’re alone, but the truth is I’m not that interested in finding out. Besides, if there was someone, she would have told me already.
They walk over to me and Eve announces, “I’m going to go meet my future son-in-law.”
“What? Now?”
“I just texted him. Janet asked us to stop by,” Brooklyn says. “She’s curious to meet Mama.”
“I’m sure she is,” I say on a sigh, and watch them exit the store under a cloud of giggles. After they’ve gone, I consider that, even though it hurt Brooklyn that Eve moved to the other side of the world, personally, I adjusted to it easily. I might very well prefer it when she’s living far away. Then I check myself, because that’s not fair on our daughter. But neither was it fair on her that Eve just upped and left before the date we all agreed on.
Then the store door opens again and I’m glad for the distraction. I’m even happier when I see it’s Anna and Hemingway stopping by.
“How are you holding up?” she asks.
I beckon her behind the counter and hug her tightly. “Can’t wait for tonight,” I whisper in her ear. Against my expectations, Anna doesn’t stiffen in my embrace.
“Where’s Eve?” she asks, once we’ve let go of each other.
“Meeting Jaden and Janet,” I say on a sigh.
“Wow. That was quick.”
“I guess she’s running out of time.”
Anna smiles at me. “Should I invite her to Sunday lunch at my parents’ tomorrow?”
“Please, no. But do tell me what Janet and Jamie have to say about her.”
“I will be your spy,” Anna says, then gives me a look. “Are you okay?”
“Just a bit tense because of Eve. It’s like she’s not just here for Brooklyn but also to pass judgment on the life we’ve built here.”
“And? Does she approve?”
“It’s hard to tell,” I say. “But it doesn’t matter what she thinks. She’ll be gone soon enough and I love it here.”
7
Anna
When Zoe arrives with an overnight bag, excitement prevails over the fear of something happening that I’m not ready for. Because I may have only known her for a few months, but I do already know what kind of person she is. For that reason, I also know that nothing will happen between us that either one of us isn’t ready for.
Cynthia and I never lived together, but she stayed over at my house all the time, and most of my memories of having her over are fond ones. And this is Zoe. A woman I barely need to take breaks from.
“Have you had dinner?” Zoe asks, like she often does.
“Yes.” I give her a look.
“What did you eat?” she asks.
“Soup,” I say. “Why? Does my choice of food have any impact on your plans for tonight?”
Zoe bursts into a laugh, then shakes her head. Maybe she’s nervous, too.
“How did Eve’s meeting with Jaden go?”
“I think she approves of him.”
“What’s not to like? He’s my nephew.”
Zoe exhales deeply and dramatically. “I’m happy for Brooklyn that she gets to spend time with Eve, but I can’t wait for her to leave.”
“Is she going back to China?”
Zoe shrugs. “I think so.” She pauses. “I think I overheard her and Brooklyn talking about Brooklyn going to visit her there in the summer, but they haven’t said anything to me.”
“That’s quite a trip for a fifteen-year-old.”
“As long as I haven’t been officially told, I refuse to worry about it,” Zoe says, and then finally turns on her smile. “Sorry, I need to decompress a little bit. It’s been a bit much.”
“Wine?” I ask.
She nods and nestles herself deeper into the couch, in a spot where I can see her spending a lot of time in the future.
I fetch the wine and pour us both some.
Zoe glances at me over the rim of her glass before she takes a sip, and it’s a glance that reveals all her intentions. A glance that makes a flush pass through me.
“I love your house,” she says. “If I lived here, I wouldn’t leave any more than was strictly necessary either.”
“That’s why I got Hemingway,” I say. “Without him, I probably wouldn’t go outside for days.”
“There are only upsides to Hemingway,” Zoe says.
I move a little closer toward her. I put my wine glass on the coffe
e table and position my head in her lap.
“See any—” Zoe begins to say.
“Have you—” We both speak at the same time.
“You first,” she says, and runs a hand through my hair.
“Have you ever had any pets?” I ask.
Zoe shakes her head. “I have a daughter. That’s enough.”
“Brooklyn has never nagged you to get one?”
“God yes, she has. She nearly convinced Eve to get her a puppy when she was around six, I think. But when you live in an apartment in the city… I don’t know. It just didn’t seem very fair on the animal, because, as well as being mothers, Eve and I both had very demanding jobs.”
“You could get one now,” I say, remembering the newsletter from the animal shelter in the adjoining town. It said that the elderly owner of the cutest little dachshund had just died and the poor thing was now up for adoption. I even considered taking in a second dog myself, but then I started visualizing walking them, both on a leash, and them getting the better of me on the streets of Donovan Grove.
“Brooklyn will be leaving home in a couple of years,” Zoe says. “And we still live in an apartment.”
“Well, yes, but it’s different. The dog could be with you in the store. And then, when Brooklyn does leave for college, you won’t be alone in the building.”
Zoe smiles down at me. “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to sell me something?”
“I’m just babbling,” I say. Zoe’s hand is still in my hair, her fingertips gently stroking my scalp. “But I do think you should consider it. Having a dog is such an enrichment to your life. If I’d known, I would have adopted Hemingway years ago.”
At the mention of his name, Hemingway moves around on his cushion a little, making a rustling sound.
“That is one lazy dog,” Zoe says. “No offense.”
“Some pets take on their owner’s personality,” I say. “So I might be a touch offended.”
“Hemingway’s also extremely lovable and cuddly and adorable.” Zoe bends over and kisses me on the forehead.
“We both like to take it easy after seven. We get each other that way.” I smile up at her.
“He’s not threatened by me being here?”
“He probably hasn’t sussed out yet that you’re staying,” I say. “He’s not that smart.”
“Does he sleep in your bedroom?”
“No. He sleeps right there. I don’t want to spend all my time with him.”
“Good,” Zoe says, and kisses me on the tip of the nose this time. Her face hovers close to mine and I gaze into her beautiful, dark eyes.
“You’re so gorgeous, Zoe.” I’m not usually one to say, let alone repeat, cheesy things like that, but with Zoe, I can’t help myself.
“Right back at you,” she says, and leans all the way over to kiss me on the lips.
I can’t help but think that whatever she might find beautiful about me can only completely pale in comparison to what I find utterly enthralling about her—my pale skin compared to her glossy, dark one; my glassy blue-gray eyes compared to the intense stare of her brown ones; my unfit body with its clumsy limbs compared to her gracefulness.
But then I open my lips to her and I let her tongue inside and I make the thoughts in my head stop their endless spinning cycle, because I’m kissing Zoe, and that’s a much better activity, on every thinkable level, than listing all the ways I don’t feel like I measure up to her?
The kiss grows more intense and then it becomes more difficult to just keep my awareness in my body, to just enjoy her touch, to not let the intention behind it paralyze me. I try—oh, I try. Because for Zoe, I feel like I can try many things I wouldn’t even consider trying for anyone else. Because she’s still here. Because she didn’t run away from me and my funny habits and my inability to express myself properly and, even more so, my insistence on taking things ever so slowly. Zoe’s here and I feel her everywhere, even though it’s only our lips touching, and her hand in my hair, drifting down to my neck now, finding its way inside my T-shirt.
“Are you okay?” she asks, when we break from the kiss.
I look up at her and her lipstick is smudged all over her lips and it makes her look funny and I can’t help but laugh, even though perhaps the moment doesn’t really call for that right now.
“A-okay,” I manage to say after a while, because I’m focused on her gaze again, and it tells me so much, I can barely believe it. I’m not someone who luxuriates in prolonged eye contact with anyone, it’s too intense and makes me feel uncomfortable, but with Zoe, it’s different. Not only because her eyes are so mesmerizingly warm and dark, but because the person that she is, the person that I’ve gotten to know, is so visible in them. This makes me unable to look away from her gaze, which is a new sensation to me.
“This is not the most comfortable position for me,” she says. “A woman my age.”
We both chuckle and I get up and sit next to her, and then think, what the hell. I stand up from the sofa. I take the wine glass she’s still holding in one hand and set it on the table, then hold out my own hand. Then I lead her up the stairs, where, now, only I ever go, into the safest space I know, my bedroom.
I tend to keep it tidy and clean, but I made an extra effort, because when we had the conversation yesterday, it was very much understood that Zoe wouldn’t be staying in the guest room, which is a room that hasn’t served much purpose in my house, because I never invite house guests.
I removed the weighted blanket I sleep under so it’s just clean sheets and my big, wide bed. I haven’t slept with anyone in this bed since Cynthia and I broke up more than two years ago.
“I knew I would love it,” Zoe says, after I’ve switched on the bedside lights, which are muted, not just for this occasion, but always.
I let her admire the decoration of my bedroom for a while, because it allows me to regroup, but then I think it better not to think too much, and just wrap my arms around her. She can gush over the colors of my wallpaper all day tomorrow if she likes—in fact, I think I might like it if she did.
I embrace her and her body feels so good in my arms, so right, and soft, and like something I can’t get enough of. So I kiss her again, and every time a thought announces itself in the back of my brain I refocus on Zoe’s lips and how her body feels in my arms. I run a hand over her shoulder or press a fingertip against her flesh, just to ground myself, to keep myself from spinning out of control in a way that would be hard to come back from. Because that happened to me several times with Cynthia and I don’t want it to happen with Zoe. Maybe I should have informed Zoe about that possibility first, before we arrived in my bedroom, but I wouldn’t have known where to find the words.
I haven’t discussed sleeping with Zoe explicitly with April, but we have talked about using rationalizing thoughts whenever my anxiety threatens to take over, and it’s not something I’m very good at yet. You can’t just rationalize away a lifetime of anxiety with a few well-intentioned thoughts. It doesn’t work that way. But here and now, with Zoe, I use her body to curb my anxiety, although I have also asked myself, since she brought it up yesterday: what’s the worst that can happen? Maybe I won’t be able to have an orgasm. But so what? So what, so what, so what? It doesn’t matter, I’ve repeated over and over in my head. And it doesn’t. As long as I’m here with Zoe, whom I have allowed into my bedroom, whom I’m kissing right next to my bed, and whom I’m about to see naked. At least I hope so. The trade-off is that I will need to get naked as well, with my milky-white winter skin and my flabby belly. But I’ll just focus on her.
Then anxiety punches me hard in the flabby belly, because what if she’s so repulsed by my body, by the dimply skin of my thighs and the softness of my muscles, that she doesn’t want to be with me? This is one of the thoughts I’ve somehow managed to avoid, up until now. I shut it down as soon as it announced itself and locked it up somewhere deep in the caverns of my consciousness, but it never really went away. But Zoe�
��s not kissing me so passionately in my bedroom right now because of my heavenly body. If that was what she valued in a person, she probably would have stayed with Eve. Oh God, no. No thoughts of Eve now, please.
“Hey.” We break from the kiss. “Let’s press the pause button,” Zoe says. “If it’s any help, I’m nervous, too.”
“You have nothing to be nervous about,” I whisper.
“Neither do you, Anna,” she says in the softest, warmest tone possible. She says it in a way that almost makes me believe her.
“I’m—”
“Tell me,” she says, and guides me to the bed. We sit on the edge and she takes my hands in hers.
“I’m scared,” I say, because these are the only words I can squeeze past my throat right now.
Zoe nods. “That’s completely understandable.”
“Because you’re so utterly dashing,” I say, jokingly, because I need to break the tension that is growing inside of me.
“There’s that.” She smiles her dazzling smile. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t really, really want to be here with you. If I didn’t want you.” She brings my hand to her mouth and plants a gentle kiss on my knuckle.
“I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you,” I blurt out, suddenly finding some more words.
Zoe shakes her head. “How could you ever do that? When you’ve let me into your life this far? When you’ve shown me so much of who you are already?”
I swallow the self-deprecating joke that sits at the forefront of my mind. “Maybe we should stop talking now,” I say, instead.
“Okay, but promise me that you will let me know if something’s not to your liking, or if we’re going too fast.”
“You, too,” I say, because I don’t want this to be all about me again.
She cups my jaw with her hand, and the gesture is so tender, I lean in and kiss her again. Zoe’s kisses are the best, the most sensual, the greatest anxiety-relieving remedy I’ve ever known. It’s what lies beyond the kiss that frightens me the most, but this kiss, right now, on the edge of my bed—on the edge of what lies beyond for us—is perfect.