Neil went out just like the lights. We used to cuddle to sleep—or at least hook our ankles together—but these days, I just got a kiss goodnight before he rolled onto his side, turning his back on me.
After a half hour, I accepted the fact that I couldn’t sleep. I texted Neil’s phone with my intended whereabouts, slipped on my yoga pants, and messaged Mom.
Can I come down or do you have a hot date?
She replied almost immediately: My hot date is sleeping. Why aren’t you?
Why aren’t you? I shot back.
When she replied again, it just said, Come down.
Walking to the guesthouse was out of the question in the February cold. I bundled up in my coat and went to the garage. Neil’s collection of exotic supercars were housed in a big hangar elsewhere on the property, but our day-to-day vehicles—the ones I actually knew how to drive—were parked at the house. I grabbed the keys to my car, a Jaguar Neil specified as an “F-type”, though he could have just been cursing creatively. He’d bought it for me for my birthday, though he’d tried to talk me into something more flashy and powerful. I’d picked it entirely on looks, which drove Neil nuts.
I pulled down the driveway, not bothering to turn the heat on, because the engine wouldn’t even warm up in the minute it took to get where I was going. The guesthouse was an adorable two-story that matched the main house in style. Back home in Calumet, homes like it were few and far between, and would have cost in the upper six figures there. With three bedrooms and two-and-a-half baths, it seemed like more of a single-family residence than a place for the occasional visitor. Even though it was close to us, pine trees surrounded it, giving Mom some privacy and isolation. And it looked more like where we used to live.
Since she was expecting me, I didn’t ring the bell. I toed off my wet shoes the moment I got through the door and slipped off my coat. “I’m here,” I said, at normal volume, since she’d said Tony was sleeping.
“You don’t have to be quiet,” Mom called from the kitchen. “Tony’s at his place.”
Mom had been dating our chauffeur for… Well, I’m not sure how long it had been going on. She’d come to stay with us “for a few weeks” after our trailer—my childhood home—had burned down back in Michigan. Somewhere between her arrival and our invitation to stay indefinitely, she and Tony had hooked up. I wasn’t sure we would have ever found out if I hadn’t caught them.
As much as I liked having an open, sharing relationship with my mother, I could have lived without sharing that particular experience.
Then, I remembered how I’d met Emma, immediately after she’d accidentally overheard me shouting, “Fuck me harder!” to her father during some loud morning sex, and sudden sadness stabbed at me. Now, nobody was in on the dual-mortification in-joke with me.
“Still doing the we-don’t-actually-live-within-walking-distance-so-why-rush-to-move-in-together thing, huh?” I hung up my coat on the pegs beside the door.
“It’s the only way we can pretend we’re a normal dating couple,” Mom said as I entered the kitchen. She liked to sit at the counter to watch television on the small set in there, for some reason. Maybe it reminded her of home.
“Well, at least someone gets to be a normal couple around here.” I opened the fridge and snagged one of Mom’s peach wine coolers.
“It helps that Tony hasn’t recently been through the worst tragedy of his life,” Mom reminded me, but in a sympathetic tone. “How’s Neil doing?”
“He’s…Neil.” I shrugged. “I can’t ever tell with him. I’m his wife, and I can’t tell.”
Mom nodded. “He’s a lot more reserved than the people you’re used to. Look at our family, and then, you go to college and you make friends with—”
“The most notorious oversharer in the history of the known world.” I laughed and unscrewed the bottle top. “I’m just bitching to you because I can, and you won’t think I’m horrible.”
She put out one arm, and I stepped into her half hug. Just being around my mom made me feel like someone had things under control, even when my life was fully not. Which was weird, because ever since I’d left home, I’d sort of assumed I was the one who had it together, and Mom was the one who was helpless. But the second I was helpless…
“Listen. I have a problem. Of the I-don’t-want-to-think-of-my-daughter-that-way variety.” I paused as the terror crept over her face. “You’re really the only person I’m brave enough to tell this to. Because I know you’ll still love me, and you won’t think I’m a terrible person.”
Her spine straightened, and she set her shoulders like a general going into the war room. “Okay. I am your mother, and I will not judge you or think you are a terrible person.”
“And you won’t act all weird when I talk about sex?” I asked, to make absolutely sure.
She closed her eyes and held up her hand, swearing, “I promise I won’t ‘act all weird’ when you talk about having sex with your old-enough-to-be-your-father husband.”
I sighed, already feeling judged, and sat down on the stool beside her. “So, Neil and I have not had sex since…you know.”
“Oh.” Mom frowned. “Well…it hasn’t been that long, honey. Going without sex for a few weeks feels like a long time, I’m sure, but it’s a drop in the bucket compared to how long Neil’s going to grieve.”
“That’s why I feel like an asshole just saying that out loud. I mean, he’s going through this pain, and here I am, just worrying about the last time I got laid.” A part of me couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with my mother. Sex stuff used to be totally of the table. So much so that she’d once told me to direct any sex questions to her sister, because Mom wanted to believe that I would die a virgin. “I just feel so selfish for even thinking about it.”
“You’re not selfish for thinking about it. If you were pressuring Neil or giving him ultimatums, that would be selfish.”
“That’s what I figured, but I can’t shake the guilt. Emma was his entire world, but I’m like, wah, my sex life.” Saying it out loud, I started to get the feeling that maybe I was being too hard on myself. Maybe I wanted to hate myself, rather than hate my circumstances. After all, I couldn’t be mad at Emma and Michael for dying. I couldn’t be mad at Neil for grieving. And I certainly couldn’t be mad at Olivia for needing us.