Axis of Aaron (55 page)

Ebon, she seemed to think, wasn’t quite ready.
 

But Ebon was plenty ready. He was thirty-one fucking years old. He’d put in his time. He’d mourned, and mourning was exhausting. Yes, things had turned out miserably with Holly, but they were over now. She’d betrayed him, she’d harmed him, she’d died. End of story.
 

But what was
your
role in all of it?
Aimee would ask.
 

Aggravated, Ebon would go for a walk.

Were you true to her?
Aimee would say.
 

Ebon would retort that of course he’d been true, then stalk off.
 

Was she truly a monster — or can you, if you try, see things from her perspective? Is there any way, if you look at your relationship objectively, that you can see what
you
might have done better?
 

That line of questioning annoyed Ebon most of all, because it turned an accusing finger right back at his own face. He wanted to yell at Aimee for saying those things — for having the audacity to presume she knew anything at all about his dating record and marriage. Sometimes, he
did
yell. But whenever he did, Aimee took the assault with obnoxious patience, allowing him to vent, suffusing him with a patronizingly kind smile. And then, instead of standing corrected, she’d wait a few hours and ask the same things again.
 

Unwanted emotions prodded at Ebon like thorns, striking at random intervals. He’d be hanging a light fixture, and the wire would snag, and he’d throw it to the floor in a rage. He’d be brushing his teeth, would recall Holly coming into the bathroom to brush beside him (usually giving him a toothpaste grin in the mirror), and would break down. He’d spring awake in the middle of the night, almost always at 3:33 a.m., and seem to sense a body lying beside him, then feel a scooped-out sense of loss when he reached out to touch only frigid sheets. A time or two, he’d masturbated to thoughts of Holly with her lovers, imagining the other man’s touch on her skin, the other man’s presence where only he belonged. He’d done it with a grimace, furious: an act of violence rather than lust.
 

Aimee could see the turmoil on his face, but waited until Ebon was at his weakest to speak up. Her questions — always said with supposed love, sounding to Ebon like meddling — never focused on Holly anymore. Now, they were always about him.
 

Did you do your best?
 

Did you let her in?
 

Did you see her through your own biases and rules, or did you try and look at your life together through her eyes?

It made Ebon furious.
He
was the one who’d been wronged. He’d been a good man, a good husband, a dutiful partner and earner.
Holly
had done the betraying; she’d broken the pact they’d made on the altar, her promiscuous past supposedly left at the door. Maybe she’d never loved him. Maybe they’d got married because it’s what society had expected. In Ebon’s mind, their good times together had already begun to dim. He refused to read the first half of Holly’s diary — the part that might praise and adore him. Doing so would only pour salt in his wounds. He didn’t
want
to consider the good times. He didn’t want to give Holly
any
benefits of
any
doubts. She’d let another man put his dick in her. She’d been a cheating whore. That was all that mattered.
 

Ebon watched Aimee work on their renovations, watching her ass in her tight jeans, watching her in paint-spattered capris, watching the way her body shifted under loose tank tops. What had he come here for? He and Aimee had unfinished business together. He wanted her, and he knew she wanted him. So what was the problem?

So no, Aimee
didn’t
need to know about Vicky. Not if she wanted to psychoanalyze him instead of treating him like a capable adult. Not if she wanted to remain platonic, to stay on the right side of some invisible line until Ebon dealt with things that didn’t need dealing. Vicky wasn’t any of Aimee’s goddamned business. Vicky was willing to be the dirty girl Aimee had once been, before Ebon had been robbed of his only shot with her.
Vicky
didn’t ask Ebon stupid questions. Vicky knew all about Holly, but she reacted to the story as a friend should: with support, with scorn for the offending party.
 

How could she?
Vicky would say. Then they’d fuck for hours, and Ebon would drift into a cloud of bliss in which both Holly and Aimee were forgotten.
 

The beach walk had taken Ebon to Vicky’s door almost without conscious choice. He found himself on the doorstep and knocked, then was greeted by a vision in a pale-green robe.
 

“Oh,” she said. “Hey, Ebon.”
 

“Is there anything under that robe?”
 

Vicky cinched the belt tighter through her tiny laugh, then stepped aside and said, “Come on in. I was just going to take a bath.”
 

He strode into the living room and sat on one of the modern chairs. It felt more comfortable than it looked — one of Vicky’s many beautiful things, placed in sparse rooms as if for show rather than use.
 

“Don’t let me stop you from bathing,” he said, a sly smile picking at one corner of his mouth.

Vicky went into the bedroom. He heard the bathroom door next, then the sound of water shutting off. A few minutes later she appeared in loose khaki pants and a T-shirt. Ebon felt an elevator drop’s worth of disappointment. The first day he’d seen her, she’d been wearing a stunning red dress that clung to her ample curves. Sometime later, after he’d stalked her sufficiently, they’d gone to her place where the same red dress had come off. That first impression would forever haunt his mind, coloring the way he saw her. She’d always be the woman in the red dress to him. Seeing her in something as casual as no-nonsense khakis (with, he now noticed, her bright-red hair in a simple pony tail and no makeup), was somewhat disappointing.
 

“Would you like something to drink?” she said.
 

“Wine?”
 

“Ebon, it’s 10 a.m.”
 

“You don’t have wine because it’s 10 a.m.?”
 

“How about lemonade?”
 

Ebon shrugged. A minute later she was handing him a tall, crystal clear glass filled with something cheap and overly tangy. It seemed wrong. Someone as elegant and dignified as Vicky should actually squeeze lemons for lemonade, ideally using one of those stainless contraptions with a giant pull lever on the front.
 

“So what’s up?” she said.
 

“Just thought I’d come over.”
 

“Oh. Okay. I’d figure you’d call first.”
 

“Do I
need
to call?”
 

Vicky sat. She didn’t cross her legs demurely, but that was probably because she wasn’t wearing one of her hot dresses. He almost wanted to ask if she’d dress up for him. He hadn’t come in here horny, but now he was beginning to be. Stress and aggravation had balled up in his gut, and there was only one obvious release, if Vicky would just get with the program and play along.

 
“I guess not,” she said, sipping.

They sat for a few minutes, staring at each other.
 

“So … ” Ebon said.
 

“Yes?”
 

“Do you want to … ?” Ebon nodded toward the bedroom.
 

“Well, that’s romantic.”
 

“I just thought we’d established precedent.”
 

“A girl likes to be wooed.”

Ebon rolled his eyes.
 

“Unfortunately,” she said, “I have a visitor.”
 

He looked into the bedroom again. Her statement was so casual that Ebon felt insulted. Vicky should make such announcements with care — or perhaps with apology, knowing as she did what he’d been through with his cheating dead wife.
 

“Who?”
 

Vicky blushed. “I’ve got my period.” She flapped her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I thought that was universal slang.”
 

“Slang?”
 

“‘Got a visitor.’ ‘Aunt Flo is here.’ That sort of thing.”
 

“Maybe you could just say what you fucking mean,” Ebon suggested.
 

Vicky had been about to take a sip. She lowered her lemonade, slightly cocking her head.
 

“Nevermind.” Ebon resisted the urge to sigh, along with the urge to ask for a blow job. He wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who asked outright, but a lot had changed since he’d moved to the island. Not only had Ebon become acutely aware that life was short and that pussyfooting around was a waste of time, but Aimee’s platonic cocktease dance had left him with a strong preference for straight talk. A guy might get rejected asking for a blow job, but at least he’d know enough to move on.

For the scantest of moments, he saw himself through the eyes of the Ebon he’d always been, wondering at his own behavior. Then the introspection was gone, and he found himself wondering how to proceed.

“I just wanted to see you,” he said.

“Oh,” Vicky replied, seemingly unsure whether she wanted to let his earlier transgression go or hold it against him.
 

“I thought we could spend the day together.”
 

“Oh.” Kinder this time. A reluctant smile began to spread across her wide ruby lips. Even without makeup they contrasted markedly with her pale skin: a vividly colored cartoon drawn on a white moon. “That sounds nice.”
 

“Sure. So it doesn’t even matter that … I mean, just hanging out was my whole idea.”
 

“What do you want to do?”
 

“I don’t know. See the lighthouse?”
 

She chuckled, now seemingly defused. “I’ve seen the lighthouse.”
 

“Maybe you want to see it again. It looks like something that belongs in this house.”
 

Vicky looked around. Given her extreme décor preferences, that had been a fairly big risk. And with that thought, all of a sudden, it dawned on Ebon that he didn’t know Vicky well at all. She
felt
as familiar as someone from his past, but in truth they’d just had a few days of acrobatic sex and little else. She wasn’t even really his girlfriend. She wasn’t the one he should run to for comfort, though that’s what he was beginning to realize he’d just done. She was a woman who got him off, and now he was proposing a trip to the lighthouse and making design suggestions? It was presumptuous. Not right. Vicky might turn out to be an insufferable bore once he got to know her better, or she might not appreciate his base taste intruding on her artistic sensibilities.
 

But Ebon doubted she was boring. Far from it. She’d seemed so elegant and poised — so …
life-experienced and worldly
— from their first moments together. They’d had enough pillow talk for Ebon to know all he needed to know, so long as his infatuation stayed at the surface. She spoke French, for instance. She traveled the world. She had wealthy clients who whiled away their days in life’s most polished corners, and she had tastes that were exquisite to the point of impracticality for all but an isolated bluff island home. And yes, she was a mother, but Ebon tried not to think about that and to keep her mentally in place as a sexual plaything. In Ebon’s life,
depth
was what Aimee was for. Passion and love, despite what the romance books said, never seemed to blend when poured into a single bucket.
 

“Thanks,” said Vicky.
 

“So what do you think?”
 

“It’s pretty cold out.”
 

Ebon shrugged. “I just walked here. Without calling first.” He laughed uncomfortably to no response. “It’s not bad.”
 

Vicky looked uninterested. “We could stay in and watch a movie.”
 

“Which movie?” She’d probably want to watch something with subtitles. But sophistication was hot on Vicky. She might not be willing to have sex now, but somehow he was sure that the snootier the movie, the more it would add to Vicky’s mystique for the next time he unwrapped her. And hey, maybe she’d let him play with her boobs. Maybe she’d let him fuck
them
instead.

“Something funny,” she suggested. “I get bummed out when the weather turns.”

“Okay.”
 

“Maybe a Jim Carrey movie.”
 

Ebon’s head turned as if on a spindle. He was about to laugh at the absurd suggestion from the cultured woman, but Vicky didn’t look like she was kidding.

“Seriously,” he said.
 

“Or I have
Happy Gilmore.
Under the TV there. Have you seen it?”
 

Ebon had seen it, all right. With Holly. He’d even liked it. But for some reason, hearing such a low-brow suggestion from Vicky was like watching her sniff her own armpit.