The Weight of Life

by Whitney Barbetti

  Laughing, I pressed my face against his chest and his arms came around me again. “I’m used to it.” I thought of my family. “Of disappointing company. So, on the scale of disappointing company, yours hardly measures.”

  “Lucky me.” He rubbed my back, warming me against the chill in the air. “I’m guessing your parents are the base for this scale.”

  “You’re right.” My hands made circles over his back and I settled more and more against him, feeling comforted for the first time in a long, long time. There was something so supremely serene about just touching another human, feeling their heart beat against yours, the rise and fall of their chests in time with your breaths. “Sorry my mom wasn’t on her best behavior. I’d blame it on the long flight, but she’s just always like that.”

  “It’s okay. You haven’t met my parents—and I hate to compete against you, but let’s just say I’d totally win the sourest parent award.”

  “You sound so confident.”

  “I haven’t spoken to my mum in five years. She lives in the south of France with whichever old guy she’s suckered into taking care of her.”

  “You don’t get along?”

  “We don’t have anything in common—so we’re hardly in the same place long enough to not get along.”

  “And your dad?”

  “Passed away when I was young.”

  “Now I really feel awful. At least I have parents who travel halfway around the world to see me.”

  He squeezed me tightly and then pulled back, holding his hand out to take mine. “Is that why they came?”

  He was astute, I had to give him that. “Actually, they came because Jude was coming.”

  “Right. And have they gone out of their way to spend any meaningful time with you.”

  “It’s only been one day,” I reminded him, but I knew he was right. They already had plans to do some sightseeing tomorrow—had even purchased tickets—and I hadn’t been invited. “My relationship with them is complicated.”

  “All relationships are. I think that ‘complicated’ is in the very definition of relationship. But tell me what’s different about yours.”

  “The walk isn’t long enough to get into it,” I joked.

  “I’m good with bullet points.”

  Sighing, I said, “Okay. Well, I was the healthy child—meaning I didn’t ‘need’ them like Jude did. And before you say anything—I do not begrudge him for his heart condition. I don’t blame him for taking up our parents’ attention. They had a choice in how they raised us and they chose to put Jude on a pedestal to measure my faults against. I was too risky, too selfish, too … too much of everything that didn’t suit them. And the fact that I could never narrow my focus on any particular thing: a career, a hobby, a goal, a place to live … well, that was horror personified. They wanted me to be really good at just one thing—the way Jude is really good at so many things—and I think I subconsciously defied them by taking on so many things and being relatively mediocre at them all.” Realizing I was just verbally vomiting my feelings, I gave him an embarrassed smile. “I don’t think that was bullet points.”

  “I followed it just fine.” He didn’t make me feel bad for spewing my thoughts, and he didn’t try to reassure me with absolutes that I didn’t need. “But I disagree with you.”

  “Why?”

  “I could use many words to describe you, but mediocre wouldn’t make the list.”

  I shrugged, secretly interested in what words he would use, but too embarrassed to ask. “I don’t think I’m mediocre.”

  “Well, now you’re just lying.”

  I looked up at him, but it was harder to see his face with it in the shadows now that we were far from the bridge. “I’m not lying.”

  “The night you came to Free Refills, when you were already drunk? Maybe you don’t remember the things you said, but I do.”

  I groaned. “I’m scared to think about the things I said.”

  “One of the more interesting things was what you said about Jennie. You complimented her talent with pouring drinks. And then you flipped the compliment and compared yourself to it. If I remember correctly, you said, ‘I’m not good at anything.’”

  “How embarrassing.” I cringed and wished I could erase that night from his memory like it’d been erased from mine. “But she is—she flips bottles and cups and manages to hold a conversation as she’s pouring without even looking. And she never spills.”

  “Don’t tell her this, you’ll inflate her ego to a size where it’ll be impossible to work with her. But you’re plenty good at a lot of things, Mila. Like accents.”

  I huffed. “Fat lot of good that’s doing me. I haven’t had a voice gig in a while.”

  “You’re good at being a people-person.”

  I pulled away to look at him. “Are you being serious?”

  “Completely. Look—what you did tonight at the Free Refills? That’s not easy. People liked you and more than that, they wanted to keep talking to you. I don’t have that. Jennie doesn’t even have that. I think she scares people, to be honest, which is half the reason I keep her employed. But you—people look forward to talking to you. That’s not something that can be learned.”

  “Anything can be learned.” I kicked a pebble out of my path.

  “And dancing—you’re a good dancer.”

  I laughed and shoved at him. “You’ve never even seen me dance. You’re listing these things on my verbal resume without really knowing them.”

  “Lotte says you’re good.”

  That gave me pause. “Lotte is really good. Great, actually.” It surprised me that she’d call me good at dancing, given her level of skill and my very rudimentary knowledge of dance. “And okay, I don’t mean to sound all doom and gloom—but I’m just illustrating one of my many conflicts with my parents.”

  “And I’m just explaining why they’re wrong.”

  When we reached the hotel, I kept pulling on his hand, leading him to the elevator and up in it, and didn’t let go until I reached my hotel room door.

  Part of me expected him to grab for me the second we were inside the door, but he didn’t. He walked around the room, taking in the various things I had laid about for work. He picked up a piece of paper and chuckled.

  “What?” I peered over his shoulder. He was holding the paper I’d written on during my first phone call with Jude about Free Refills.

  “‘Free Refills in Camden. Good Sangria.’” He raised an eyebrow. “Best damn TripAdvisor review I’ve ever read.”

  I took the paper from his hand and swatted him gently with it. “Shut up,” I said on a laugh. “I wrote that down so I wouldn’t forget the name and place.”

  “Because you wanted to go back?”

  I nodded, and looped my arm around his as he looked at the rest of my notes. It was oddly intimate, but not uncomfortable, to have him looking over my notes, reading things I’d written. “You’ve been busy the last few days.”

  I’d hit up a bunch of tourist spots and off-the-beaten path places on the days Ames and I didn’t spend together. “I’ve slacked off a bit recently.” I squeezed his arm. “Been distracted.”

  “Hm.” He kissed the top of my head and turned to the bed. “Tired?”

  As much as the cold air had roused me, being back in my warm hotel room, my muscles tired and my mind at rest, I knew I could fall asleep in a heartbeat if I laid down. I looked longingly at my bed for a moment, before looking back at Ames. In the darkened room, with just the light of the moon coming in the window, I had the most overwhelming desire just to hold him.

  So I did.

  In the second before I was in his arms, he opened his—expecting me. When his arms wrapped around me, I sank even more into that cozy feeling. He rocked us back and forth. “Lie down. You’re tired.”

  I gripped onto his forearms. “Lie with me?”

  I felt his nod against my head, so I peeled back the comforter and shrugged out of my jacket. I briefly debated lea
ving my jeans on, but knew I’d sleep horribly with them, so I dropped them too and then climbed into the covers, curled up on my side with my back to him. After a moment, the bed dipped behind me and he scooted in and curled his arm over my stomach. Gently, he pulled me back so I was flush to his chest.

  He dropped a kiss on my neck and made a sound of contentment in the back of his throat as he curled against me.

  Even though he was wrapped around me, it felt like he wasn’t close enough. I took his hand on my chest and guided it under my shirt, over my stomach and breasts until it was pressed against the skin just below my neck. My heart thumped and Ames kissed my neck again and within seconds, I was asleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I awoke, it was nearly ten in the morning. I came out of sleep like a car slamming into a wall, realizing my parents were next door and Ames was still in bed with me.

  “Shit!” I whispered, climbing out of bed and pulling my phone from my jacket. I had three missed calls and four texts.

  Mom: Get dressed. We’re going to breakfast at nine.

  That had been sent at eight.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I whispered.

  Mom: Are you really still sleeping?

  Mom: Are you even in your hotel room?

  It was almost comical, the way I could actually hear my mom’s trill through these messages.

  Jude: Mom’s hangry. She’s about to demand access to your room from the front desk.

  Ames shifted, pulling my attention from my phone momentarily. “Good morning,” he said, all sleepy and sexy. His hair was in a hundred directions, his eyes still opening slowly.

  “Good morning,” I repeated, wanting to climb back into the bed with him. But my phone buzzed in my hand and I laughed in a way that probably sounded maniacal. “My mom has been texting me for two hours. She gets really cranky if she doesn’t eat first thing in the morning.”

  Ames looked at the clock and then started. “Christ. I didn’t realize we’d slept so late.”

  I laughed again, and turned to the mirror, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Yes. So, I have to go.” I grabbed my jeans from the floor and shoved them on, before stepping into the bathroom and throwing my bra on. I grabbed a few bobby pins from the counter and stuck them between my teeth as I pulled my hair into a high bun. I came out of the bathroom with just my bra on and two bobby pins sticking out of my mouth as I secured my bun with one.

  Ames pulled his pants on, and then slid his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. “Guess I’ll see you later?”

  I put the last two bobby pins in my hair and yanked a sweater hanging in my closet. “Yes. I’ll try to sneak away,” I promised. I glanced back at the bed. “But, if I can’t, you can always come back and have an adult sleepover with me.”

  He raised an eyebrow, looking far too devilishly sexy for this early in the morning. “An adult sleepover? How does that differ from a regular sleepover?”

  I didn’t know what it was about him that made me feel shy, but I nibbled on my lip as I turned to the mirror and swiped mascara over my lashes. “The difference is that clothes are optional.”

  His smile spread and my limbs went a little jelly. I pretended to be very interested in my concealer, even though I could see him walking toward me out of my periphery.

  He pressed up against me, hugging me from behind, and dropped a kiss to my shoulder. “It’s a date.”

  Giggling, I dropped my concealer and turned around, so that we were facing one another. He caged me to the bureau with his arms braced on its surface as he leaned into me. “A clothing-optional sleepover is a date? Our first date?” I hoped my face showed just how ridiculous the notion was.

  “Okay. Maybe that’s not a date.” He tugged on the neck of my sweater. “I’ll think of something.”

  He leaned in, and I felt my chest go tight in anticipation. Just as his lips hovered over mine, my mom’s banging on the door that adjoined our rooms stopped us.

  He pointed at the door to the hallway. “I’ll just go out that one. See you later.”

  As soon as he was clear, I unlocked the door adjoining our rooms and my mom breezed in. “Honestly, Mila. Must you sleep all day?”

  I brushed the front of my sweater, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I had a late night.” I picked up my phone to put it in my pocket when a text from Ames came through.

  Ames: Passed your brother in the hallway. I tried to give him a bro wave, but then I realized what it must have looked like … me sneaking out of your room in the morning.

  “Shit.”

  My mom spun around. “What?”

  “Nothing.” I tucked the phone in my purse and slung it over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Jude and my dad were in the hallway, waiting for us. Jude watched me, and I studiously avoided making eye contact until our parents were ahead of us, walking down toward the elevators. “It’s not what you think,” I whispered to Jude.

  “You don’t know what I could be thinking.” He put his arm on my shoulders. “You’re happy, and smiling, and that’s good. So, no comment.” And when the elevator opened, Jude called to our parents, “We’re going to take the stairs. Get a little cardio in.”

  “It’s one whole flight of stairs,” I said on a laugh as he pushed open the door to the stairwell.

  “Then we’ll take it really slow.” When the door closed behind us, he stood at the top step, unmoving. “Is this good?”

  “I thought you said ‘no comment.’”

  He nodded. “I did, but that was before I realized I could talk to you away from Mom and Dad for a second. I just want to make sure that whatever it is you’re doing—that it’s not too soon for you.”

  He meant Colin. I took in a deep, clarifying breath and released it. “I miss him, Jude. So, so much. I can’t go an hour without thinking about him.” I wrapped my fingers around the cool metal of the bannister. “The loss—the sadness I feel—lives in me, of course it does, but it’s contained.” I worked out how to explain it, feeling completely bereft of coherent thought. “For me, grief isn’t a disease that spreads. It lives in the hollow part of my heart, but it’s not my whole heart.”

  Jude was looking at the ground between us, and I recognized it as his pensive pose. “You’re stronger than I think even you know.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” I took the first step down the stairs and waited for him to follow me. “It’s a choice—to wallow in despair or to acknowledge what can still bring happiness to my life. And I’m choosing to live despite the heartache. That doesn’t make me strong.”

  He let out a deep sigh and followed me down the stairs. “It makes you a survivor instead of a victim—and Mila-moo? That’s something to be proud of. I’m proud of you.”

  Moments like this were exactly the reason I loved my brother so much. Where my parents faltered, Jude was steady—my crutch. At the bottom step, I turned and wrapped my arms around him. “Thank you,” I told him, hoping he knew just how much it meant to me.

  That night, my parents forced Jude and I to participate in family time, which meant lying on the extra bed in their room while we watched the movies of their choice and listened to them argue about the characters in them. I went through a whole bottle of wine by myself and when my phone buzzed around midnight and we were only halfway through Stand By Me, I knew I’d have to tell Ames we’d meet up another night.

  Ames: No problem. The pub is hopping tonight. Lots of people. I suspect it’ll be another late night.

  Mila: I wish I was there to help you.

  Ames: I wish you were here, end of.

  I did my best to bite down on the smile that spread across my lips, but Jude caught it and raised his eyebrows.

  “How long do you think this’ll last?” I whispered to him, shielding my face from our parents with one of the fluffy pillows.

  Jude craned his neck. “Probably another hour or two.” A loud snore sounded from my father and Jude added, “Maybe less.”

  I
sighed and uncovered my face. The movie was good, but being forced into family time—when all we did was sit there together, silent except for the occasional bickering from Mom and Dad—was the last thing I wanted to be doing that night.

  “Who are you texting, Mila?”

  Briefly, I debated lying to her. But the forced family time had pushed me over the edge. “Ames.”

  She wrinkled up her forehead. “Who?”

  “The bartender I introduced you to.” I waited for it—almost craving the reaction I knew I’d get from her.

  I watched the realization come into her eyes, watched her nod and then took in the way her lips turned downward. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I could show you, if you don’t believe me.” My voice was cool, but firm.

  She hugged a pillow to her chest. “Oh, I believe you. This is just the kind of thing you would do.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” But I knew what it meant. My mother was as predictable as the sunrise. That’s where her safety net lay—and having a daughter that was wholly unpredictable really cramped her style.

  “It’s been three months. Honestly, Mila.” She made a sound akin to a ‘tsk’ and shook her head.

  “Is there an acceptable time in which you’d prefer me to adhere?”

  “Colin—your boyfriend—died three months ago, Mila. You think having a romance with a man halfway around the world is a good idea?”

  “Thanks for reminding me how long ago Colin died, Mom, because you’d think I’d have forgotten that horrible, horrific day.”

  Before I could continue, she jumped in with, “It does seem like you have forgotten.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t grieve the way you’d like me to. Just because I’m not sad all the time, just because I’m talking to a man,” I waved at my phone, “doesn’t mean I’m heartless.” Jude put a hand on my arm but I shook it off. “I loved Colin.” I pressed a fist to the mattress. “I loved him. But I’m more than my heartache. I’m more than you think I am.” My voice broke, and I swallowed down the emotion that filled my throat. “Don’t make his death insignificant just to further your agenda.”