by Lia Riley
“Want me to throw her off the cliff? I know a guy who knows a guy.”
“Machiavelli much?”
“I’m on standby for whatever you need.” His voice is low pitched, but steady. His chin is high and posture strong. “You can do this, Captain.”
“Can I?” I lean into his strength, hoping to absorb a little self-possession.
He kisses the side of my hand. “I got your back, you know that, right?”
An image flies into my brain, of Bran standing there, bemused, holding my spinal cord. I choke on a nervous giggle, but the rigid tension remains.
His eyes soften in a silent plea. He wants to help but I don’t know what to ask for. In so many ways, just the fact he’s here is enough. Then we’re there.
“This is a surprise.” My voice is reedy, obviously nervous.
“Hello.” Mom’s formal. Polite. But her hands ball so tight the knuckles go bloodless.
How would she react if I cast a bland smile and kept walking? Of course, I stop, because I can’t resist self-torture. “What are you doing here?”
“You mailed a graduation invite.” Mom is startlingly pretty. She lives in Hawaii so her highlights are au naturel. She’s all defined cheekbones and wide-set eyes. Her hummingbird-boned hips are so narrow it seems impossible she was ever pregnant twice.
“No, I didn’t actually.” Don’t get up or anything. God forbid she hugs me or demonstrates actual motherly affection.
I’m in a slouchy hat, wearing my glasses, dressed in the disheveled way she abhors. She doesn’t wear makeup or blow out her hair, but her yummy-mummy hippie chic takes commitment. She’s like Gwyneth Paltrow, looking effortless, but doing three hours of Pilates a day, surviving on mixed greens and wheatgrass shots.
“Oh.” Her perfect posture wilts. “Your father must have sent it.”
“I don’t know. He’s pretty busy.”
“Yes, I imagine. His life is full.”
How does she sound Zen? Her ex-husband started a new family. Whatever. She’s probably loaded up on Xanax.
“Guess it must have been fun for him the first time round.” I bite off the words and spit them at her.
She blinks twice. “He’s an excellent father.”
At least I lucked out with one half of the parental equation. My laugh is bitter, a little hysterical. I can’t even pretend at self-control.
Bran rests a hand between my locked shoulder blades. He’s so close I can feel his heart beating against the back of my ribs. I lean into his strong, steady rhythm. The cramping in my chest eases a little.
Mom shoots him a pained smile, but returns her gaze to me. Her nose wrinkles. “You look—”
“I know, I know.” I wipe my hands on my holey-kneed jeans. “No effort.” How does this happen? I get in front of her and it’s like boom—back to being the always-lacking daughter, consumed by the need for approval, and hiding the hurt behind self-deprecation. My mom is a perfectionist and I’m a walking mistake. We are genetically programmed to be at odds.
“I was going to say happy,” she says softly.
I arch a brow. Seriously? We’re really going to do this? Mom appears back in my life for graduation and decides to fly the peace flag? Make it all better? No way. This isn’t a Lifetime movie. A knot forms in my throat. I need to strive for some shred of empathy; she’s hurting, and hurt people often hurt people.
The guy behind me, giving me the courage to stand here, taught me that lesson. Maybe she’s lonesome. Maybe she’s guilty. Maybe she’s grieving. The thing is, I’m not sure I’m ready to give her compassion, but I also don’t want to carry around more painful baggage.
“I just arrived.” She pauses. Takes a visible belly breath. “Parked the rental car a block away, took a walk by the house.”
Our old home is at the end of the adjacent side street. No way I’d go look. Not yet. I’d rather tear out my toenails.
She fingers her amber necklace. “Looks nice. Different—they painted it blue.”
Well, la-di-frigging-da. My tenuous grasp on inner calm breaks. What’s next? A convo about how the Giants are doing? A little idle speculation on the weather? Jesus Christ, Mom. How about, “I abandoned my family when you needed me most and that sucks.”
“It’s peaceful,” she murmurs. “There are flowers everywhere.”
“Sounds like a cemetery. So…” I make a big show of glancing around. “You here by yourself? Not seeing any young, hairy-chested boyfriends. I heard you were at a meditation retreat while I was laid up in a South African hospital. That’s your equivalent of a pickup bar these days, right?” I’m out of line, but fuck-a-rubber-duck, so is she.
Her thin lips mash together. “The retreat center had a strict no–cell phone policy.”
“Funny, I’ve been in California for a month and never heard from you. Not one single phone call. Must have been one hell of a retreat.” I needed you, damn it.
Bran slides his fingers up my spine, begins to knead the back of my neck. He keeps silent, but his touch tells me everything I need to hear. You are loved, you are wanted, exactly as you are. Perfectly imperfect.
She avoids eye contact, kicks off one sandal, and gouges her toes in the gravel. “I came to watch you walk for graduation. Also, I—I left Hawaii.” Mom gives her necklace another twirl. “I got a job and am moving back to California.”
“Come again?” She’s returning to California? Joining the workforce? Since when did Mom ever do anything more strenuous than drive to the gym? She’s the only child of wealthy parents. My dad doted on her.
“I found a position at a resort an hour and a half south of here, in Big Sur, as a yoga instructor.”
“For real?”
She flashes a brief, shyly proud smile. “The owner is one of Grandpa’s friends, and he was willing to overlook my inexperience. I recently completed my teacher certification. That retreat was my first gig.”
I shove up my sweater sleeves, overheating.
“I know I’ve missed a lot,” she whispers at last.
“Yep.” My move to Australia. My fallout with Bran. My freaking cerebral malaria. The fact I don’t know what to do with my life and wish I had a mommy who could make it better.
“Losing Pippa…” Her voice falters on my sister’s name. “Having a child die young, gone forever without any reason…” Her chin dips to her chest as her shoulders slump. “You, you can’t imagine what that’s like.”
“Especially when you’re left with the one who’s not your favorite.”
Her head snaps up. This time she looks at me, really looks at me, and the pain in her eyes makes me sick to my stomach. Mom displaying humanity is overwhelming my circuit board. “Why would you say that?”
“Oh, come on, you always loved Pippa best.” I hate the bitter taste of jealousy on my tongue. “She was like your Mini Me.”
“Someday you’ll have children of your own and see how that’s impossible. I haven’t been what you needed, what you ought to have had, but my heart broke in an instant. Utterly.” A single tear runs down her cheek. Another chases in hot pursuit. The sight makes me a little dizzy.
“Why are you here?”
“When your father got through to me, about how sick you were, you were already flying to California. I didn’t know if you’d want me there, or if I’d make it worse. Things haven’t been easy between us in a long time, but the idea of losing you too…” She rubs her eyes. “It doesn’t bear thinking about. I knew it was time to leave Hawaii. Begin to face my life, the consequences of my decisions.”
I want to be angry—incandescent with self-righteous rage. Tell her I am making my own peace, no thanks to her. I could say it’s A Separate Peace, but she won’t get the book reference. She doesn’t read. Another sign that she may have incubated me in the womb, but if we were seated next to each other on an airplane, we’d politely ignore each other. We are not kindred spirits. We are not bosom buddies.
I don’t owe her anything.
Exc
ept my whole life.
Maybe that’s why there’s no surprise when a crash of longing slams me. Despite everything, I want her love. Maybe I don’t need it. Not in the way I would if I was a little girl. I’m furious but even still, God, I crave her forgiveness and approval so bad I can taste it.
It’s a fight not to plop on that bench, rest my head in her lap, and ask her to rub my back the way she used to, and sing, “You Are My Sunshine.” Even when I grew up and realized the lyrics were creepy, it still gives me a Pavlovian response of warmth and security.
Instead, I do none of those things. As much as I want to let go all my resentment, find Zen, empathy, compassion, I don’t know how. Bitterness and resentment tangle around me like rumpled bedsheets, and the more I struggle to break free, the tighter their hold becomes.
We stare each other down, like marathon runners, ultra-marathon runners. The finish line should be in sight, somewhere ahead if we push, give it all we have. But I only have enough energy for myself, and the guy behind me.
I’m tapped. My bucket’s empty. I want to try with Mom. I do. Just…not right now. “We’re going to have dinner at Pizza My Heart after the graduation ceremony.” Pepperoni and mozzarella is all I’ve got to offer.
“Your favorite restaurant.”
“Want to join us?”
“Are you sure?” She gives me a hesitant smile, seems to understand that this isn’t going to be a big run toward each other in slow-motion makeup, followed by a giggly sleepover where we braid each other’s hair and catch up on secrets. “I don’t want to impose. I only wanted to see your face, check if you were okay.”
“I’m trying to be.” I’m trying so hard. “Please, come.” Why am I urging her? Mom and Jessie together at the same table? Dad’s head is going to explode.
“I’m proud of you.” She opens up her purse, and for a moment I’m terrified she’s going to offer me money. She has access to her family’s fortune, and since she and Dad divorced, she’s not afraid of using cash as a replacement for basic human affection. She forgets, I’ve always been her cheap-ass kid. The one who didn’t love to go shopping over the hill at Santana Row. Didn’t buy cute stuff. Her money doesn’t get me all excited.
“Mom, listen—”
“Here.” She passes me a plain, white card stamped Bee Stolfi, Yoga Therapist. “That’s my new number, if you’d ever like to talk.”
“Thanks. Look, I…I got to go. I’ll send you the details about dinner.” I shove the card in my back pocket.
“I love you, Talia.”
Maybe I should answer in kind, maybe I shouldn’t take four or five fast steps, literally dragging Bran down the sidewalk. Then I release his grip and spin. “If you want to blame someone, why don’t you ever blame the guy who hit her car, Mom?”
“I did.”
“But you said—”
“Talia, honey, for a long time I blamed everyone. Yes, that included you. And your dad for having a birthday. And me for making reservations at the restaurant rather than staying home to cook dinner. Everyone was to blame in my mind. Except you’re right, only one person really is, a drug addict who decided to text and drive. And even then, what’s the blame going to give me? Not your sister. Not peace. All it does is carry me further from you, and away from my best self.”
I’m trapped in the doldrums, wanting to care, and not being able to muster the energy.
“The accident wasn’t your fault.” Her voice wavers. “Peanut, it was never your fault. I’m so sorry for ever making you feel that way.”
This is too much. My legs are weak. I need to sit, have space to process, and that’s not going to happen here on a sidewalk. “Mom, I can’t…I have to go. I’ll…I’ll be in touch.” I half run before tears overwhelm me.
Joggers and cyclists stare as I storm past, but there’s nothing I can do but keep moving forward. “What was that?” I say to Bran when I can finally speak, over a block away. “I just acted like a douche canoe businessman. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ Might as well have said ‘I’ll have my people call your people.’”
“Want to talk about what just happened?”
“Which part?” Holy crap. A lot went down the last hour. My plan this morning was simple: Walk to the farmers’ market. Buy a scone and coffee. Maybe go wacky with a punnet of strawberries. Instead I ended up in a twisted haunting from Ghosts of Christmas Past.
He hovers beside me in full protective mode. “Let’s get you back to the room.”
“Please.”
He takes my hand and doesn’t say anything for the rest of the walk. He doesn’t have to. It dawns on me. Bran gets it. The minute the hotel elevator doors shut, I face him. “How did you survive the after-anger limbo? When you and Adie broke up, the pregnancy, everything? You went numb. How did you come back from that place?”
“I met you.”
I stiffen. What if something’s wrong with me? I have Bran, but still feel like shit about my mom.
“After meeting you I wanted to be a better guy. I messed up a lot.” His eyes darken, going a little haunted. “But I’m trying. The trying helps.”
We exit on our floor and I follow him out. “So there’s no magic. Just trying. More work.”
More opportunities to mess up.
“Hey, now.” Bran covers my mouth with his, slow, like we’ve got all day. I breathe him in, salt spray and sunscreen. Our tongues meet and we both shiver.
Okay, maybe there’s magic.
The kiss deepens, turns fierce. I taste the sea, suck his lower lip while his hands explore my waist. My shirt hitches at my belly. The slide of my bare skin on his hard abdomen radiates through me with tremendous force. I don’t know how he does it, gives me a way to channel all my feelings.
I unearth the room key card from my hip pocket and shove it into the lock. We fly forward, collapsing on the carpet. He somehow back kicks the door while I unleash my emotional hurricane into the kiss. We’re talking anger and lust, shame and hope, grief and most importantly, forgiveness. If I can forgive him, maybe I can forgive my mom.
Maybe I can forgive myself.
He strips off his wetsuit in a quick jerk, and reveals lean, naked muscles. I shimmy off my skinny jeans and kneel.
There’s a sound of foil ripping. He removes my shirt from behind with quick, efficient tugs. “Better.” He pops my bra off before my next breath. I don’t know exactly how many he’s removed in his life to perfect the move, but I swear he never fumbles. Every freaking time it makes me want to combust.
“I need to get back on birth control,” I murmur huskily. “I can’t stand barriers between us.”
“Sounds like a plan, but for now this is part of the game.”
“Put me in, coach.” I wiggle against his erection as he sucks in a ragged breath.
He doesn’t laugh at my dumb joke, too occupied with turning me around to face him and sucking my nipple into his mouth. My brain can’t wrap itself around the incredible sensation. We kneel before each other and I rake my hands down his cut waist. “Can you go-go-gadget me to the bed?” I teasingly skim the length of his shaft, not touching him with anything approaching the pressure he needs.
“No.” His finger strokes my inner thighs, drawing right up close before backing away. Apparently two can play at this game. “Fucking hell, sweetheart. Do you know, do you really have any idea, how beautiful you are?”
This is part of Bran’s voodoo. When he looks at me with those eyes, I feel it, beautiful on a cellular level.
“God, just gorgeous.” He sits back on his heels, taking his time to look his fill. That lazy, hooded gaze sends goose bumps prickling down the back of my arms. I’m positive my eyes mirror his same desire. The air is thick with it, pulsing and hot.
He rises in a fluid motion and pulls me with him. I’m just getting to my feet when he slams his lips on mine, his tongue sweet and deep. Our teeth knock, not in a way that hurts or is awkward, but is everything hard, and raw, and urgent. I yank his hair, thickened with salt
water, urge him closer, as if I can break apart the arbitrary skin and bone separating our bodies.
Tomorrow we’ll be in Bankside, at Jessie’s house. No way is my guy squatting in the veranda alcove anymore, but shacking up in the nursery isn’t going to cut it. We need to get moving.
But first, I need to get there. With Bran. Right now. We stand naked before each other. The sun pours through the window, makes his olive skin glow. He lifts me off my feet, hitches me against his pelvis, and thrusts us against the wall. My shoulder nicks the picture frame and it rattles in protest.
I lock my legs around his hips. He plunges to the hilt, and I’m full, tender, stretched and it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.
He braces his forearms under my knees, holds me open, completely exposed. I lean back, hands splayed on the walls as our gazes lock and he’s just there and I’m just there. His face reflects the love that fills my heart to bursting and that’s when I have it.
Enough.
Chapter Twelve
Bran
The field is crowded with graduates. In their flapping black robes they resemble a murder of crows. No way I’ll spot Talia out there. Some people have messages spelled on the back of their caps in bright electrical tape. Things like Go Kristi! or Slug Power.
We wandered campus before the ceremony. Talia explained how American universities have mascots, a tradition she says started during the U.S. Civil War, when soldiers kept animals like dogs or eagles as regimental mascots. After the war, the tradition seeped into their inter-collegial competitions. When established, the University of California, Santa Cruz, wanted a response to all the bulldogs and hawks out there. They settled on the humble banana slug.
“His only superpower is the ability to slime.” Talia found me one, inching through the undergrowth, a brilliant yellow. It reached a redwood base and started to climb.
“He’s got a way to go,” I said.
“Adventure Slug.”
“Reminds me of you.”
“Wow.” She knocked my chest.