Triangles (6 page)

I get the urge to run after her, pull her to me, daughter to mother, confide that sex 76/881

isn’t the way to make a man love you.

That love and sex can, in fact, remain independent of one another. Maybe even should. Half of me wants to tell her all that.

The other half suspects it would be useless.

TUMBLING TOWARD EXHAUSTION

I wash my face, slather on

pricey antiwrinkle cream.

Brush my teeth. Take a pre-

bed pee. Routine. Routine.

Routine. As I slip into my

favorite nightgown, Jace

comes into the bathroom.

He takes one look at me

and scowls, etching his

forehead.
When are you

going to get rid of that

thing? It’s ratty as hell.

Still pissed. “Screw you.

It wasn’t my fault she went

to the party.” And I’m not

in the mood to let him take

it out on me. I go on to bed,

slither between the cool sheets.

Before long, Jace joins me.

Offers a lame
I’m sorry.
But when he tries to touch me, I

turn away, scoot clear to one

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edge of the mattress. Wisely,

he leaves me alone there.

QUIVERING RAYS

Of daybreak bring me wide awake. I thought I might sleep later, considering what time I finally went to bed. But no. Beside me, Jace mumbles in his sleep. Hope whatever dreams have captured him have tempered his anger. I slide quietly into the silence of Saturday, early morning. Put on my running clothes, despite a hint of hangover.

I can use a good sweat, not to mention a way to process everything that went down last night.

Being a teen is hard, but being a parent is harder.

I mean, we’re supposed to have all the answers.

Seriously? Sometimes all I have is questions.

Who am I really? What do I want? Is it too late to take an alternate route to wherever it is I think I want to go? And since I have no clear idea what my ultimate goal is, how can I reasonably counsel my children about setting their own course? How do I teach them morals when I’m questioning my own right now? Grant was a delicious piece of temptation. Not sure what I would have done if Andrea hadn’t been there.

BUT ANDREA WAS THERE

So instead of Grant being a source

of guilt, I’ll let him be inspiration.

I really am going to write erotica.

As I run, a story begins to percolate.

When I get home, I let myself in

quietly. The TV is on. Brianna is up.

I can hear her talking on the phone, no doubt to her best friend, Harley.

But everyone else is still in their rooms.

I sneak into my study, find the journal Mikayla gave me for Christmas, open it to the first crisp white page. I write: We leave our companions talking politics at the table. He takes my hand, leads me down the long hallway, out the back door and into a pale-lit passageway. City stink mingles with summer jasmine and his personal scent of leather.

He tugs me away from the neon-streaked street, to the far end of the alley. “No one here but us,” he says, pushing me back against a rough stucco wall.

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His fingers snake into my hair, pull my face into his and when his mouth covers mine, rum and mint flavor his tongue. The kiss I return is not gentle, and when his body rocks against mine, he is hard against the throb growing faster, faster between my legs.

He is strong. My heart pounds as he wraps my right leg around his hip, lifts. Beneath my short denim skirt, he finds nothing but skin and hot, wet pulsing. His fingers start there, work their way inside. My body screams for orgasm, but not like that. “Fuck me,” I beg.

His eyes, feral, meet mine. He smiles, props me up on his knee. Unzips his fine silk trousers, brings the swollen knob of his cock just outside my thrumming slit. Stops. “Say please.” I’m just about to say please when

yelling erupts in the other room.

Jace and Mik are at it. Better run

interference. First, I go back up to the top of the page. I’ll finish the story later. But for now it needs a title.

I write: Vanilla, close the cover,

and stash the journal deep away.

VANILLA

Unique to its place in the world,

and to its circumstances—

an orchid, aromatic in bloom,

and elegant in its simplicity,

vanilla

grows on a demanding vine.

One flower, one fruit, a handful

of seed pods, steeped to

unparalleled taste.

Flavored

in such a way, the simplest

of puddings becomes remarkable.

Why, then, the syntactical

disconnect, when the noun

becomes an adjective, modifying

sex
?

Applied to the partnered bed,

apt vanilla descriptions,

including flavorful, aromatic,

elegant, and demanding,

should be

considered desirable,

and no less so if readily

attainable. Throw in remarkable

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and unparalleled, vanilla

sex needs to be sought after.

Celebrated.

And not disregarded

in favor of sleeping in.

Marissa

SATURDAY MORNING

Is no different than any other

morning in the Trask household.

While Christian and Shane sleep in, I’m up early to take care of Shelby.

Someone has to do it. And that

someone is always me. She had

a good night last night, so after

a Pull-Ups change we move straight

into her twice-daily chest physio-

therapy. “Okay, cookie dough,

let’s get on with the CPT, shall we?” Cheerful. I am always cheerful,

or try to be. Suction first, to clear her esophagus of overnight slime.

Then a series of chest compressions to loosen any buildup. Front.

Flip to right side. Flip to left side.

Back. One hundred times, give

or take. Sometimes I lose track.

“Can you help Mommy count?”

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I thump away, and she does her

best to imitate my “One, two,

three.” They come out little

squeaks, but we both know

what she means. “Fabulous.”

Relatively phlegmless today,

at least so far, I am hopeful

that the morning will remain

relatively uneventful. “Would

you like to swing for a while?”

The smile that pops out on her

face makes her look completely

human. All little girl, except

if you look real hard, you can

almost see a halo. And I think

it’s growing. Coalescing.

Probably just lack-of-

sleep hallucinations. Can’t

remember the last time I got

more than three uninterrupted

hours. “I’ll go get Daddy to

take you outside to swing.

It’s a Daddy kind of job,

isn’t it, cupcake?” Why do I

keep calling her food names?

LACK OF UNINTERRUPTED SLEEP

Moved my husband into the guest room a couple of years ago. If any guests happen to show up, Christian would

probably sleep in his car. That’s not likely.

We don’t often get visitors since Shelby’s condition was diagnosed. Andrea hardly ever comes over, and she’s my sister.

Can’t really blame people, I suppose.

SMA isn’t pretty. And it fucking stinks.

Antiseptic and medicine and sick-

dirty linens. The odors permeate

the house. No deodorizer can mask

them. Wonder if we’ll have friends

again once Shelby is … shit. I’ve got to stop thinking like that. I glance at the clock in the living room. Nine-oh-two. Christian can get up, damn it.

Don’t care how late he worked. It must have been late. I didn’t hear him come in.

I don’t bother to knock. “Christian, could …” The room is empty, the bed unruffled.

Looks like he didn’t come home at

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all. I could be angry. I could be

worried. But really, why bother?

IT’S NOT THE FIRST TIME

He hasn’t come home, and he always

has an excuse. Big project. Too tired to drive the fifteen minutes from work on the south end of the city to home, in the northwest. Still, I did promise Shelby her daddy would take her outside to swing.

I pick up the phone. Dial Christian’s cell.

Four rings, to voicemail. “Where are you?

Your daughter is hoping you can spare a few minutes for her today. Call, okay?” The teakettle whistles and as I pour the steaming water into a cup, I happen to glance at the calendar. This particular June Saturday is marked
Claire’s Shower.

Claire and I were flight attendants together, and though we don’t see very much of each other anymore, we did our share of high—and low—

altitude partying. She’s having a baby at thirty-nine.

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Lucky her. Everything looks fine, according to her ob-gyn. Then again, in utero, Shelby looked just perfect too. We didn’t know there was a problem until she was around seven months old and couldn’t turn over, let alone sit up. I hope things turn out better for Claire’s baby girl. The phone rings.

Christian.
Uh … hey. Sorry. We’re trying
to fulfill this big contract
… Yeah, yeah, yeah. What counts is,
I can’t make it home
until tonight. Tell Shelby I’ll play with her
tomorrow, okay?
He’s about to hang up when I locate enough guts to say, “You promised you’d take care of her while I went to Claire’s baby shower. That’s at two p.m. God, Christian.

Why can’t I ever fucking count on you?”
Ask your sister to watch her. See you later.

No apology. He’s just gone. A white-hot cinder flickers in my head. “Bastard!” The word slithers from my mouth, much to the amusement 90/881

of my son, who has come into the kitchen in search of breakfast. He laughs.
What have
I been telling you these last few years? Dad
is
a bastard. Question is, why does he stay?

I WAIT FOR HIM

To quit rearranging

the contents of the refrigerator.

When he emerges,

cheddar and pastrami in hand,

I look into his eyes,

search for the intent of his query.

I see only honest curiosity.

“Why wouldn’t your father stay?

This is his home, right?”

Shane shakes his head. His hair,

which has grown too

long, sways like wheat in wind.

He doesn’t want to be

here. Not one iota. He quit caring
about us a long time ago.

I watch him start stacking a huge

sandwich. Try to think

of a denial he’ll go for. Can’t quite manage it. “He loves you.

I’m sure of it.” But what I don’t say is deafening in its silence.

I KEEP SHANE COMPANY

For a while, sipping my tea as he eats.

Why can’t we share more minutes

like these—almost a normal family?

I want to stay here longer, but Shelby lies alone in the other room, waiting for the dad who is too busy to take her out into the soft morning sunshine.

I didn’t even turn on Barney. Before I go to her, I call Andrea, expecting Harley to answer. She always beats

her mom to the phone and I always

hear disappointment in her voice

when it’s Aunt Missy and not Brianna.

But today it’s Andrea who says hello.

“Hey. What’s up?” I wait several

minutes while she talks about going out with Holly last night. Finally, she yields to me. “Sorry to have to ask, but I was wondering if you could watch Shelby for a couple of hours

this afternoon. Christian was supposed to handle it, but he has to work, and 93/881

it’s Claire’s baby shower and …”

Damn. I sound borderline hysterical.

So I know she must feel awful

when she answers,
God, what is it
with husbands—or ex-husbands?

I wish I could, but I have to drive
to Fallon to pick up Harley at

her dad’s. Steve was supposed to
bring her home, but now he says
he’s got the flu or food poisoning.

If it’s just bad fast food and a stinky
bathroom, it could wait, but if it’s flu,
we’ll all get it and
… She pauses, perhaps intuiting that beyond all reason I am in tears. “Never mind. It’s only a dumb shower, and looking at baby

clothes will probably make me all

weepy anyway. Just never mind, okay?” I half slam the phone. Not her problem.

Why should she care? “Put your plate in the dishwasher,” I remind Shane. If I don’t, I’ll find it in the sink. Oh hell, I probably will, regardless. That, stupidly, makes me 94/881

cry even harder. I’ve got to stop or Shelby will get upset. And if she starts to cry too, I’ll be up to my elbows in snot.