by Lisa Ferrari
“Because she ate too goddamn much.”
“Paul, watch your mouth.”
“That’s true, she did in fact eat more calories than she needed. And that results in weight gain. But why was she eating those extra calories?”
“Because she eats like a goddamn horse.”
“Paul!”
“But why was she eating like a horse?”
“Lord, I don’t know. She was hungry. She was bored.”
“Everybody eats when they’re hungry. Lots of people also eat when they’re bored. Do you think Claire was so bored growing up that she had nothing to do but sit around and watch television and eat all day long?”
“Hell no. We made sure she had extracurricular activities. She had her schoolwork. Homework every night. She kept busy.”
“And how were her grades?”
“A’s mostly.”
“Mostly. And what happened when she got something other than an A?”
“I told her to get her shit together and study harder. Stop slacking off.”
“And could it be that Claire internalized that feedback and turned to food as a way to soothe herself? She found love in the food because she was lacking in love from her family?”
“Who the hell do you think you are, you roided-out son of a bitch? Coming in here on Thanksgiving Day and sitting at my table and eating my food and telling me how to raise my children, telling me I don’t love my daughter.”
“Paul…”
“Dad…”
“I won’t have it,” my dad concludes. Another piece of ham flies out of his mouth and lands on the sweet potatoes, right on the white marshmallows melted on top.
Silence.
Just my mom’s knife and fork as she continues to eat.
“Well,” I say, slowly standing up, “this meal has gone to shit.”
“Are you leaving?” my mom asks. “You haven’t had dessert. I got a peach pie, just for you.”
“No thank you.”
“You can’t just leave,” Beth says quietly, imploringly.
But we are. We’re getting the fuck out of here. “Thanks for dinner, mother. Thanks for belittling me in front of my boyfriend, father. Well-intentioned but totally misguided. As always. I’ll text you later, Beth.”
I head for the front door.
“For the record,” Kellan says, “I have never taken steroids. Ever. And to answer your question, Paul, the Stingray was a gift from General Motors after I helped them raise a million dollars for a shelter in Detroit that was slated to be torn town. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Kellan joins me on the porch and closes the door. He exhales loudly.
I haul ass down the walkway to Kellan’s Corvette. The sooner we’re out of here the better.
Kellan fires it up and we drive away.
I’m relieved that my mother does not appear standing on the driveway in her apron, begging us to stay in order to make us the assholes if we agree and the assholes if we refuse.
“Is it too late to go to Sheila’s?” I joke.
“I don’t know. Let’s see.” Kellan pulls over and digs out his phone. I watch as he types a text to Sheila.
Utter disaster at
Chez Valentine Turkey Day.
You guys eaten yet?
Sheila writes back right away.
Fun.
No, not yet.
Can u get here by 6?
lol
Kellan swipes through his phone and puts it to his ear.
I listen to his side of the conversation.
“Hey, Rob. It’s Kellan… Happy Thanksgiving to you, too. Listen, Claire and I need to get down to Lindbergh pronto… Nope, one way. You won’t even have to shut down. Just open the door, drop us off, and head right back. Turn and burn…. About thirty minutes…. See you then.”
He ends the call.
“Yahtzee.”
“Huh?”
“My friend Rob owns an air charter service out of Sac Exec. He said he’ll take us.”
He texts Sheila.
See you at 6.
Hooray!
Kellan pulls out into traffic and steps on it.
“We’re going to the airport? Now? We don’t have clothes. We don’t even have toothbrushes.”
“Don’t worry, we can buy all that stuff when we get there. Or order them online and have them delivered.”
“Where are we going to sleep?”
“We’ll find a hotel.”
“The Del?”
“You want to stay there?”
“Yeah!”
“Okay.”
Kellan pairs his phone to the Bluetooth receiver on the visor above his head. He calls Kim at the Concierge Desk at the Del Coronado. She’s pleased to hear from us and books us a village suite, like we had last time.
“Okay, all set,” Kellan announces.
“That was fast.”
“Yes. That’s probably the best part about having money: the freedom and ability to get stuff done when you need it done.”
I’m scared but mostly thrilled at the prospect of doing something so spontaneous. It makes me feel alive. And horny. I start thinking about what I’m going to do to Kellan at the Del when we get there tonight. Unless I drag him into a bathroom at Sheila’s and have my way with him there.
WE DRIVE INTO Sacramento Executive Airport.
Kellan guides us to a security gate, punches in a code on the little box, the gate opens, and we drive up to a sleek white private jet with a red swooshy thing painted on the side.
Three people are standing in front of a red carpet, wearing brown leather bomber jackets with patches on the shoulders and Olympus Air Charter embroidered on the back.
We park and get out and Kellan introduces me to Rob, his son Shane, who is sixteen, and his daughter, Bella, who is eleven and so cute I want to kiss her.
Bella guides us down the red carpet to the jet, and we all climb aboard.
“Sorry to take you away from your turkey dinner,” Kellan says.
“No, it’s fine,” says Rob. “Audrey is still cooking. We usually eat around six anyway. It’s only three. We’ll be back in time. Shane needs the hours anyway, so he’s excited.”
This is my first inkling that Shane is going to be involved in the flying. He and Rob go to the cockpit and get the engines started. Bella makes sure we’re strapped in and then straps in opposite me.
A few minutes later, we’re airborne.
Rob eventually comes back and chats with us while Shane flies. Rob assures me that Shane is fully qualified. “He flies this thing by himself. Single-pilot IMC. He’s even crazier than his old man.”
“You’re not old, daddy,” says Bella, without missing a beat on whatever game she’s playing on her iPad.
“Thanks, sweetie.”
During our flight, Bella serves us cold drinks on little square napkins, and little white dishes of nuts, and a variety of gourmet cheeses and crackers, and fresh raw vegetables with several kinds of dip. Her food and service is every bit as good as that which Kellan and I received flying First Class commercially. She chats with us and says that sometimes she and Shane fly the plane while daddy sleeps in the back, but not to tell the insurance adjuster that. She tells me that she wants to be a fighter pilot, and that she saw me on TMZ and that she’s following me on Instagram and may she please have a selfie.
I oblige willingly.
We both make a peace sign and she snaps the pic. She writes a caption and posts it on their official company Instagram page, which I immediately follow. I tap the heart to like her post:
Had the distinct pleasure of flying with the one and only Claire Valentine today. Thanks for being a perfect passenger. #OlympusAirCharter #SuckSqueezeBangBlow #HowAJetEngineWorks #TurkeyDay #99s #LadyPilots #ShinySideUp #KSAC #119PointFife #IronBorn
WHEN WE LAND at Lindbergh field 50 short minutes later, Rob comes out of the cockpit. “Keep it running, Shane!”
“You got it, dad. Thanks, Mister and Mis
ses Kearns! Happy Thanksgiving.”
Kellan and I wave goodbye to Shane. Bella gives me a big hug as Rob lowers the stairs for us. He’s called ahead and there is a black SUV waiting for us.
“Tony will take you anywhere you want to go,” says Rob. “I’ll put the Stingray in my hangar. Text me if you want to pick it up there or I can take it to your place. See you, guys.” Rob hugs Kellan, and then me. “Great meeting you, Misses Kearns.”
“We’re not married,” I say.
“I know.” Rob smiles.
“Bye, Claire!” Bella shouts from the stairs. “Let’s go, daddy. Mom says the pies are almost out of the oven.”
“Okay, sweetie.”
Rob bounds up the stairs, pulls them up, and the jet taxis away and is airborne 60 seconds later.
SHEILA OPENS THE front door.
“Holy cow that was fast. How did you get here so fast?”
She hugs me tight, and then Kellan.
“Come in, come in.”
Sheila introduces us to her family, all of whom are very sweet and welcoming. Rami and Aaron are both there with their girlfriends, and Heather is there with her girlfriend Sidney of four years who looks like a young Audrey Hepburn. Sidney and Heather are clearly in love. I’ve never really known a lesbian personally. But it’s nice to see that they’re happy.
There are a number of other people there as well, and Sheila immediately begins berating herself for not making everyone wear name tags.
It’s a pool party with a big buffet. Sheila loans me a bathing suit that actually fits me, and she loans one of her husband’s pair of trunks to Kellan.
The barbecued turkey is a first for me but it’s delicious. The stuffing is the best I’ve ever had. I have a moment when Kellan and I are sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling our feet in the water, enjoying the food and music and laughter and good company, a moment in which I realize that, two hours ago, we were at my parents’ house having an awkward get together. And now here we are, surrounded by people who seem to be happy and kind and loving toward one another, as though they’re actually friends, if not outright family. It causes me to wonder about my own family. Why were my parents not happy when I committed myself to being a writer? Why were they not happy when I told them I’d met Kellan and I was crazy in love with him? Why were they able to do nothing but complain and point out my mistakes today? I start to feel bad for Beth. Maybe we should’ve brought her with us.
“Don’t think too much about what happened earlier,” Kellan says. He’s eating a big turkey leg, like a cave man. “We tried to be nice. We tried to be cordial and have a nice day but it didn’t work out. We’re here now. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”
I realize Kellan is right. “Okay.”
AROUND 10:30 P.M., everyone leaves.
Sheila is relaxing in the hammock by the Jacuzzi with a wine cooler in her hand. The caterer finished cleaning up, charging an extra but totally worth it fee to do so, and Sheila’s hosting duties are officially over.
She and her husband invite us to stay but we already booked the Del.
An Uber SUV arrives and drives us across the big blue bridge to the island and drops us off at the historic hotel.
I’m so excited to be back that I can barely contain myself. I start snapping pics on my phone. Kellan reminds me repeatedly that I already took a picture of this or that last time we were here. But that was my first time here and everything was new. Now that we’re back, things look different. Familiar, but new at the same time as I realize some of my memories weren’t entirely accurate.
We stop by the Concierge desk and chat with Kim, who is very pleased to see us. She calls Manny and he comes and says hello and escorts us to our bungalow.
“How was your Thanksgiving?” Manny asks.
“Started out pretty poor,” says Kellan. “But then we chartered a jet last minute and flew down here and had a perfect day with friends, and now we’re here with you. So we’re very happy. How about you?”
“I’ve been here all day, working.”
“You didn’t spend the day with your family?” I ask.
“No, my family is all back in Guatemala. I used to be a drug enforcement agent down there. We would go out into the jungle and look for narcotics manufacturing facilities. But I got in one too many gun battles and got shot in the leg so my wife and daughters convinced me to find another line of work. So I work here now, at this beautiful hotel. I live with some other guys from Guatemala and I send most of my money to my wife. We’re saving up so she and the girls can come here, too.”
“How sweet…” I’m so touched by his story.
“Please let me know if you need anything else. Good night.”
Manny leaves.
“Wow,” I say, “what a story.”
“See? You never know just by looking at a person what their story is and where they come from. I’m glad I tipped him two hundred bucks. That’s a lot of money in Guatemala.”
“What did he mean when he said ‘anything else’?”
“I asked them to stock our room for us.”
We go inside. The fridge has food in it, there is bottled water, and some dry goods and bread and sweets in the cupboards.
“Manny went shopping for us per my request. I gave Kim a list of items and they took care of it.”
Even the bathroom is stocked with a full array of toiletries.
On the bed is an array of brand new socks and underwear and tee shirts.
“When did you do this?”
“On the plane, while you were playing Candy Crush with Bella.”
“How long are we going to be here? And how are we going to get home?”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m sure something will present itself. We can catch a commercial flight out. Or we can call Rob. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind coming down to pick us up. Should we call Tank and Chavez and Newberry and the guys and see if they want to go for a swim?”
“Tonight? Right now? I’m so full. I ate so much turkey and stuffing at Sheila’s. As tempting as that is, I think we should stay in tonight and have our own workout.”
I never had a chance to have my way with Kellan while we were at Sheila’s. So I tear his clothes off and have my way with him in our private bungalow.
We fall asleep several hours later, sated, satisfied, and in each other’s arms.
Chapter 20
DECEMBER DAWNS STORMY and cold.
Kellan and I train our asses off.
Rather, we continue to train our asses off.
Sometimes we run in the rain for our cardio. We then come home, strip off our wet clothes, and jump in the hot Jacuzzi. Kellan loves seeing my nude body covered in goosebumps, my nipples puckered and erect.
Pictures of us soaking wet and running in the rain begin to appear on Instagram and Twitter and Facebook. I kinda hope Calista sees them and feels intimidated.
During our spa soaks, when we’re not making love, Kellan continues to read Harry Potter. He’s up to Phoenix. I desperately want him to hurry up so we can talk about the series. Kellan has a special gazebo thing he puts over the spa so we can sit and soak and read and make love and not get wet when it rains.
We alternate between training at home and training at Iron Palace, but it starts to get a little hectic, with people asking for selfies and wanting to talk about Calista Roth and the movie. And pretty much everyone there now knows that A) Kellan owns Iron Palace, B) Kellan and I are a couple, and C) we trained on the beach in Coronado with the SEALs.
The same thing happens at Mel’s Diner. We don’t mind exactly, because it’s flattering and it beats the heck out of being a no-name nobody no one gives a crap about. It’s nice that people are rooting for us. It’s just that Kellan and I are on a mission and the socializing interferes with our training and our focus.
So we wind up training mostly at Kellan’s house.
Social media starts asking where are Kellan and Claire? Did they break up? Is everyth
ing okay? Have they had a spat? Are they in a fight?
We finally decide to start posting regular updates of ourselves training at home in order to reassure everyone.
The haters still talk all manner of smack, saying Kellan is a steroid monkey with a tiny dick and no balls and I’m a transsexual man-dyke and they wouldn’t fuck me with a zombie’s dick.
At first it’s hurtful. But the zombie dick comment is so funny that it actually causes a shift in my mind. I realize how absurd it is, all these people sitting there in front of their computers or holding their phones, clamoring over our photos and video clips and updates, yet when we do put something out, their response is hurtful and hateful and negative. It’s ridiculous.
For months, Kellan has been telling me to focus on the positive, on the people who have nice things to say and who are supportive.
I resolve to do so.
More and more, I am truly understanding that doing well in life invites such vitriolic cyber-invective because the success is a mirror in which the naysayers and dipshit trolls must gaze themselves and their own fears, failures, and inability to succeed or perhaps to even try.
Whatever.
Lead by example. That’s another thing Kellan is always telling me.
In other news, the fallout from what Kellan and I are officially referring to as the Thanksgiving Day Dinner Debacle is surprisingly absent. My mom doesn’t call and leave me a 17-minute voice mail telling me how disappointed she is and how hurt my father is and how abandoned Beth was.
She doesn’t do anything.
I haven’t heard a peep.
And Christmas is coming.
I begin to wonder if we’re locked in a game of digital chicken; it is a matter of pride and resolve to see who will break the silence, like in that old adage about he who speaks first during a negotiation loses.
Whatever.
I’ve pretty much decided that I’m not going to subject Kellan to another round of Valentine Family Psychoanalysis With Gravy. We will stop by for an hour on Christmas Eve or something, just long enough to drop off some cookies and a few gifts, drink some egg nog, and then get the you-know-what out of there, before the character assassination and accusations of bulimia and steroid use can begin.
Unlike my mother, Denise is relentless. Her texts arrive in such a flurry on an almost daily basis that I can’t keep up. Denise has an innate sense of vengeance she channels into being an excellent attorney. She uses that sense to keep me abreast of the online chatter and social media goings on as they pertain to Kellan and me. Mostly me. Whether the tweet or post or comment or whatever is positive or negative, but mostly negative, Denise sends me the link so I can remain up to date on the all the S-H-I-T being talked about me and my fat face or my too-big tits or my disgusting ass or my dumb hair or my embarrassingly-retro fashion sense.