by Mary Whitney
She didn’t turn around at first. She simply answered, “No, Adam, I’m not.”
I was silent as I “processed” yet another non-emotional response to my father’s death. I was a reporter, a profession that required distance and calm, but I wanted some recognition from my family that Dad wasn’t going to be around much longer. Lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t notice Mum quickly washing her hands and sitting beside me.
“Adam, I realize this is hard for you—not having seen him in a while. He has changed and will continue to. It’s difficult to see, but dwelling on it right now doesn’t help anyone. When you’re here, just be with him like you normally would. If he wants to talk about it, he will. If he doesn’t, let him be. Enjoy your time with him.” Giving my hand a motherly squeeze, she smiled wistfully. “That’s what I try to do.”
I nodded, deciding there was only one person I wanted to talk to at that moment, only one person who could help me make sense of all of it.
She didn’t fail me. Exhausted from travel and the time difference, I settled in bed just as Nicki rang me. “Just the person I want to talk to right now,” I said.
“Aw, thanks. I know you’re probably seriously jetlagged. I called as early as I could.”
“I told you I’d wait up for a call from you.” I took a breath and added, “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too. How are things?”
“Not so good.”
I told her everything I’d witnessed since arriving home. She listened patiently, only commenting enough to prod me into telling her more.
When I finished, she asked, “Is your dad still eating?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Well, I just remember with my grandmother that she was doing okay until she stopped eating. I think both she and her body decided they couldn’t fight the cancer any longer. I don’t know if that’s true for everyone, but maybe it’s something you could look out for.”
“Oh. Okay.” I thought about Dad’s condition for a moment and regretted being such a git to Sylvia. Just as we all grew by milestones like walking or talking, Dad was dying by milestones whether we noticed them or not. I needed to start paying attention. “So do you think I can go back to DC? Or should I stay here in case he gets worse?”
“I don’t know, and I really don’t know your family very well. But if Sylvia thought she should leave, you might want to do the same.”
“But why wouldn’t he want his children here? We’re a close family. It still doesn’t make sense to me that Dad only wants us to visit—not stay.”
“Like I said, I don’t know about your dad. But I’m pretty sure one of the reasons my grandmother liked having me around was that it spared my dad from having to see her so sick.”
I took everything Nicki said to heart, and it was our talks each night that made the trip bearable. She gave me just the right balance of lending an ear but also getting my mind off things. Despite the heavy conversation, I always teased her; sometimes it was laced with sexual innuendo, which got me a reprimand. Her giggles told me she loved it, though, so I kept it up.
During the day, I did my best to do as I was told by all the women in my life—Mum, Sylvia, and Nicki; I just let Dad be. We watched football and talked casually about politics, but he slept so much that we didn’t have that much time together. The last night of my stay, I couldn’t help but ask what he wanted me to do.
We’d finished watching Match of the Day and turned over to the BBC News Channel for the headlines when I said, “You know, I’m going to be back here in a fortnight for Logan’s visit to London. Maybe I should just stay here until then.”
I promptly received a stern, baffled look. “What on earth for?”
“Maybe to help Mum.”
“No need. We’re doing fine.”
“Are you sure? I could—”
“You should carry on, Adam,” he said with an intense stare.
My father and I rarely had heart-to-heart talks. The few that we did have were horrible—like my battles with him over Nicki or Muff or even when I had announced I wanted to go into journalism. Yet when he simply told me to “carry on,” everything about the way he said it sounded like it came from his heart. Sylvia was right. You could tell what he meant.
So I nodded, acknowledging what would be one of his last directions to me as my father. I would carry on. As I turned back to the television, he pointed to the screen and exclaimed, “Now, there’s that Nicki Johnson again. How is she?”
They showed a shot of Nicki on the BBC, giving some details about President Logan’s upcoming trip to London. I smiled. “She’s good.”
“I get such a kick out of it whenever I see you two spar.”
“I wouldn’t say we ‘spar.’ I just ask the appropriate follow-up questions.”
“Oh no, you spar. There’s a repartee. Your mother thinks so as well. Perhaps you don’t notice it, but others do.”
His comment caught me off-guard, as I wondered if my friendship—or whatever it was—with Nicki was noticeable to those who didn’t know us. I quickly dispelled the thought, though, when I saw how chipper he’d become. Physically, he was a shell of the man he used to be, but at that moment, he seemed bright and sharp.
I told him something I thought would make him happy. “Nicki’s asked about you.”
“Really? She was such a nice girl.” He briefly shook his head as if his mind had wandered. Then he looked at me once more and ended the heartfelt conversation with a mindless question. “So, do you still go to the embassy to watch football?”
That night, I kept my conversation with Nicki short. I had to leave early in the morning to catch my flight back to the States. When it came time for us to say goodbye, I suddenly felt awkward. I fumbled for the right words but only found the uninspiring. “Thank you for calling every evening.”
“What? Don’t thank me. I love talking with you.”
My mouth opened and immediately shut when her words registered with me. She’d said “love,” in regards to me, in present tense. I had no idea if it meant anything to her, but it meant something to me—so much so that I almost reflexively replied, And I love you.
My feelings for her had been creeping up for weeks, and since our night together the weekend before, they’d only solidified. I did love her. Again.
Yet, I didn’t want to tell her on the phone. I needed her to hear it from me in person or else I worried she wouldn’t believe it. While I mulled everything over, my stupid silence must’ve made her uncomfortable. She quickly sputtered, “Well, I gotta run. Catch up with you when you get back. Night.”
The line went dead. I wanted to kick myself. Goddamn it. You’re a fucking idiot. Now she’s hurt.
At once, I tapped a desperate text to her.
You didn’t let me say goodbye. Goodnight, sweetheart.
I wasn’t sure if she’d like it, but it made me happy to write it. Then I got her response.
:) Goodnight.
Throughout my travels the next day, I racked my brain, thinking of how I could get Nicki alone—really alone—to tell her how I felt. It was time. I was tired of the game. Of course, I would wait as long as it took for her to come around, but I wanted to speed it up.
I still hadn’t decided how to best approach her when I got a phone call from David the following morning. “Hey, cuz. You can thank me again.”
“For what?”
“I booked a date with our two little birds for this weekend.”
“David, I really don’t think they qualify as our birds yet.”
“Speak for yourself. I’ve got Lisa right where I want her.”
“Are you sure? Knowing Lisa, I bet she wouldn’t even like being called a bird.”
“Fine. Then, she’s my swan.”
Tired of his routine, I cut him off. “What did you plan? You know Sylvia is coming down on Saturday.”
“That’s fine. She can join us. We’re going boating on the Potomac.”
“Boating?” I was
more of a rower than David, but that wasn’t saying much.
“Yep. It was Lisa’s idea. I bet if I row her along, it will melt my ice queen’s heart. Sylvia can be in your boat.”
Sylvia’s presence would make Nicki comfortable, but she was also going to be really fucking annoying. I grumbled, “Great. Thanks. You’re always thinking of me.”
“Not really, but I’m happy to be of help when I can.”
“Are you sure you can row a boat?” I ask.
“Not at all, but I’m already planning on capsizing.”
“Why on earth would you plan that? She’ll be irate.”
“Maybe, but she’ll definitely end up half-naked.”
I could envision a soggy Lisa ridding herself of a wet T-shirt. “It might work.”
“And you know what comes after half-naked?”
“What?”
“Fully naked,” he said with supreme confidence.
That week, Nicki and I occasionally chatted but kept it light—until the end. I always called her “sweetheart” when we said goodbye. Late one night after I’d said it, though, she was quiet and then replied, “You used to call me that. No one else ever has.”
Why was I saying it? Was it only a meaningless term of endearment, the kind David threw around? Or did it mean something more? Had I ever said it to anyone else? I couldn’t be sure, but I remembered calling Muff “honey.” Felicity had been one of the women I’d called “babe.”
In fact, there’d been a number of “babes” in my life, but I didn’t want another, so I told Nicki what I wanted. “Well, I hope that one day you’ll be my sweetheart again.”
“That’s very…sweet.” Her speech was hesitant and soft. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Just think about it and know I mean it.”
“Okay.”
“See you on Saturday. It should be fun.”
I could hear the happiness in her voice as she said, “Yes, I think it will.”
On Saturday, we all met up at the boat hire place on the Potomac, which was more of a dirty urban river than a clear mountain stream. Still, boating would be fun, and it would’ve felt like an official double-date had Sylvia not been in tow. David and Lisa were in one canoe, whilst Nicki and I shared ours with Sylvia, who I was sure would be an irritating combination of nosy little sister and backseat boatman.
When we got on the water, Sylvia lounged at one end of the boat in her resort wear, nattering away. Occasionally, she’d answer a phone call and completely ignore Nicki and me. Whilst it was rude of her, it was nice to talk with Nicki alone, but Sylvia would always quickly be off the phone and again babbling about everything and nothing.
Despite having to contend with the annoyance of Sylvia interrupting my time with Nicki, it was a pleasant day to be out on the water. Not far from us, we could hear Lisa and David bickering about how to row the damn boat.
After a while, David perfectly executed his planned capsizing. There they were, flailing about in the water, Lisa both angry and laughing. Soon after they pulled themselves back in the boat, both were down to only their swimming costumes. Lisa wore a hot little bikini that was definitely worth staring at. David didn’t only ogle, though. He had a running flirty commentary about her body that got me thinking of how much I’d like to get Nicki half-naked.
I looked over at Nicki, who glanced back at me. It seemed David and Lisa’s sexual tension was wearing on her, too. I stared at her with a sly smile so she could know exactly what I was thinking. Her cheeks reddened, and I said under my breath, “I really wish my sister wasn’t on this ruddy boat.”
Nicki’s blush deepened, and she looked down, embarrassed, as Sylvia called out, “I heard that, Adam!”
After a few hours, we headed back to dry land. Putting herself to some use for the first time that day, Sylvia announced she would cook us dinner at my flat. As we rowed back, I watched David and Lisa quietly confer. Afterward, she told Nicki she’d be heading to their place to get some clothes. I shook my head. My cousin’s plan was unfolding perfectly.
So Nicki and I went back to my flat with my third-wheel sister tagging along again. When we arrived, we all decided a shower was in order. I offered the guest bathroom to Nicki, who immediately went in while Sylvia started cooking in the kitchen.
Knowing that Nicki and Sylvia were occupied for a while, I had a leisurely shower, with a quality wank for good measure. I’d stared at Nicki enough on the boat and caught a glimpse up her shorts more than once. Green swimsuit. High cut. What lay beneath was what I thought about in the shower.
As I pulled out a pair of jeans from my chest of drawers, I saw the time. I’d been gone for half an hour. I panicked a little at the thought of Nicki sitting alone in my living room, and walking back in there, I saw my instincts were right. There was a freshly showered Nicki standing in front of my bookcase. She’d been looking at the print she’d given me so many years ago, and when she placed it back on the shelf, she pulled out the book of Wordsworth that sat behind it.
I swallowed hard. Of all the books on the shelf, why did she pick that one?
She looked up at me and said, “Hi. Sylvia is in the shower.” She stroked the book’s leather binding. “This is beautiful. It looks very old.”
“It was my grandfather’s.”
“Really? That’s wonderful.” After opening it, she innocently touched the pages. My heart stopped when she noticed the small gap in the middle of the book and asked, “What do you keep in here?”
Without pausing for an answer, she opened the book to the marker. It was a blessing she hadn’t waited for me to respond, really, because I wasn’t sure what to say—it meant too much. So, in unceremonious silence, she pulled out a photo of herself that I’d taken our last day together sixteen years ago. Surrounded by sunlight, there sat my young Nicki, smiling at me.
Her eyes widened as she recognized the photo, and they soon darted down to the opened page. After reading for a moment, she whispered, “Splendour in the grass.”
When she looked back up, she gaped at me in disbelief. I only nodded. How could I explain what had made me keep her photo there for years? It was silly and sentimental. I had nothing to say, so I let Wordsworth speak for me as I recited some of his poem:
“What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind.”
When I stopped, Nicki looked stunned. Under her breath, she said, “Yeah, I know it. I was an English major.” She looked back down at the photo. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not so long ago.”
Her doe eyes met mine, and I swiftly grabbed her into my arms and leaned down to kiss her while she placed the book back on the shelf with one hand. The first kiss was soft and quick, but when I went in for the second one, her mouth opened to mine, and our tongues met.
I tried to make the kiss as soulful and romantic as possible, and after a time, Nicki gasped, “Adam, what are you doing?”
In between kisses, I told her exactly what I was doing. “I’m falling in love with you again.”
She didn’t answer me aloud. Instead, she wrapped her fingers around the base of my neck and pressed her whole body against me. The feeling of warm romance between us soon rose to one of heated passion, so when my dick got hard, I made sure she felt it.
Sounding almost dizzy, she whimpered, “We can’t.”
My lips found her neck. “We can.”
“But no…”
“But yes.”
I pulled away and held her face in my hands. She seemed happy, but bewildered. It was time for me to tell her my intentions. She needed to hear me, and I needed to say it.
“I love you, Nicki, and it’s not simply that you’re an old flame. This is new.” Her stunn
ed expression came back, and I smiled to put her at ease. “I love you, and as long as you know it, I don’t care who else does.”
First wrapping her hands around both my wrists, she slowly pulled my hands off her face. That confused me. Maybe she wasn’t ready for a declaration of love for me? Or God forbid, was she about to say that she now only loved me as a friend? I might need to fall to my knees and cry like a baby again if she told me that.
As if to answer my private questions, she stood on her tiptoes and beamed. “I love you. I think I always have.”
My joy was overwhelming. I nodded toward the Wordsworth book back on the bookshelf. “Well, you can see a part of me never stopped.”
Just then, Sylvia called from behind, “Adam, you left me no hot water. The shower was freezing.”
I winced in sheer hatred of my sister and her God-awful timing. When I opened my eyes, Nicki giggled. I stroked her hair and grinned. “Obviously, this isn’t the end of our conversation.”
She grinned right back at me. “I hope not.”
Sylvia must have understood something was up, because as soon as she walked toward us, she gushed, “I’m sorry. Pardon me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Well, you did.”
Nicki squeezed my hand but then dropped it, saying, “Sylvia, let me help you cook.”
While they busied themselves in the kitchen, I sat on a stool, drinking beer and chatting with them. Occasionally, Nicki and I would look at each other and smile. Each time, she’d give a slight shake of her head, marveling with me over what we’d begun—again.
Almost two hours later, David and Lisa arrived—their hair still very wet. Nicki spoke in a low voice as she took her change of clothes from Lisa, likely asking what had taken the two of them so long.
Lisa shrugged with a poker-faced response, which brought Nicki’s volume back into earshot as she looked at her friend as if she were mad. “That’s it? Who takes a shower together and doesn’t have sex?”
I choked on my beer. Nicki had a point.