Triangles (19 page)

so not my problem to worry about.

LATE SUNDAY MORNING

Sierra Summit is relatively quiet—

people still sleeping, or maybe at church.

I went to early services. Wouldn’t Mom and Missy be surprised? No one knows I’ve gone looking for God. Not sure I’ve found him yet, but there is this huge emptied well in me that feels sort of half full when I melt into the small congregation, sit quietly, and open myself to the light.

Not looking to judge or be judged. Just searching for possibilities. Which reminds me of Holly. I can hear her now.
Possibilities?

You mean, like, the kind with penises?

I wish I could quit thinking about her.

Maybe the movie will help. I drive

around the parking lot, looking for Missy’s van. It’s easy enough to spot—

a hulking blue Ford, big enough to hold 350/881

Shelby’s special equipment. Not that Miss takes her out much anymore. The two of them are cave dwellers. Glad Shane talked her into venturing out into the real world. The one she inhabits is where nightmares germinate. I dial her cell.

She picks up too quickly. Waiting for it to ring? “Hey, girl. I’m here. Where are you?”
Mom thought Thai sounded good

for lunch. You ready to Thai one on?

Oh my God. A joke? She must be hitting the plum wine. “Sounds great. See you in a sec.” The restaurant is right next door to the theater, which is much too far across the blistering parking lot. It must be pushing ninety-five already. I can see Mom and Missy through the window. Wow.

The resemblance gets clearer every year.

Mom must have found the fountain of youth.

She could pass for Missy’s sister. Considering 351/881

the way pain has notched itself into the skin around Missy’s eyes, her not-much-older sister.

NOT ONE WORD

Of which I say, of course, as I join them at a simply appointed table.

Hope the food is spicier than the décor.

I slide into a stiff, straight-backed chair. “Hello, girls.” I look directly at Missy. “Great to see you out

in broad daylight. I was beginning

to think you’d joined the living

dead.” Missy’s smile slips and, too late, I consider what I just said.

Shit. Damage control. “What?

You don’t read vampire novels?”

The corners of her mouth twitch,

but her eyes hold zero humor.

Not a big fan of the genre, no.

Mom attempts rescue.
I am. Just
as long as the vampire doesn’t

sparkle his victim into submission,
or come in through her window

to hang out and watch her sleep.

Can’t stand boring bloodsuckers.

OKAY, THAT WAS FUNNY

Too bad I just took a big sip of water.

It comes snorting out my nose. That, at least, makes Missy laugh, though Mom looks horrified at the spray.

Andrea Dawn! You are disgusting.

If there was ever any doubt about
your paternity, this erases it. Uh …

Not that there ever was, of course.

Wait. What? The buoyant mood

sinks just a bit, but I can’t quite wrap my brain around the reason.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”
No, no. It was just a joke. But then
it didn’t sound like one and I …

should probably just shut up now.

What looks good?
She opens her menu.

Wow. Talk about planting a seed

of doubt. But he has to be my dad.

I inherited his skyscraper forehead, steep cheekbones, aquiline nose.

My eyes are the same peculiar

speckled blue.
Robin’s eggs,
Mom 354/881

has always called them. And always

she adds,
Just like your father’s.

Which should completely assuage

the disquiet sifting through me

right now. The waiter ambles over

to take our order. Mom requests

green curry with tofu—having

a vegetarian day, I guess. Missy asks for pad Thai, obviously the only

dish she knows. Somehow I’ve lost

my taste for Thai. But, lucky me,

they also have limited Japanese.

“I’ll have the tempura vegetables

and a California roll, please.”

The waiter nods, heads toward

the kitchen. Mom waits until

he’s out of earshot.
You have to
be really careful of sushi, you know.

One time your father got hold of
some badly prepared sashimi. Boy,
was he sick! I mean, geysering out
both ends. He never touched it again.

Perfect. I’ll probably never touch

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it again, either. And it’s long been a favorite of mine. “Thanks, Mom.

Maybe I’ll just stick to the tempura.”
THE CALIFORNIA ROLL

Goes untouched. I must be losing

it. Mom and Missy chitchat around

bites but, as hard as I try to tune in, my mind keeps sliding away from

now, into a slipstream of yesterday.

Black-and-white reruns of Oregon.

Missy and I, silent, outside the window as Mom and Dad loudly “discussed”

the emotional toll of communal sex

and possible outcomes. One of them

being pregnancy and hazy genetic

markers. Holy shit. I am mired there in the manure when my cell rings.

The conversation around me halts

as I reach for my phone. Harley.

In hysterics.
Mom? Come and

pick me up right this minute, okay?

Please. I want to go home, and

you have to take Brianna home

too. I freaking hate her. I thought …

She shatters, and I’m not there.

357/881

“What did you think, honey?”

I thought she was my friend.

A FRIEND

Is a wellspring

of understanding.

A catch basin for grimy

little secrets that can

scarcely be voiced.

A friend

holds the tissue

box when you splinter.

Accepts confession, and yet

won’t

demand details,

regardless of perceived

juiciness, too intimate to

confide. A friend is never too

cross

to commiserate.

Never too busy to

pull up a chair. Never so

certain

about an outcome

as to insist you’ve made

a mistake. A friend is never

so unclear about the definition

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of friendship as to straddle its

boundaries.

Holly

NO RUN TODAY

Hangovers and jogging do not

mix well. Can’t believe I got so

toasted last night. Can’t believe

I did half the things I did last night.

Bryan and I were only supposed

to talk. But misery loves sympathy.

And I’m great at commiseration,

especially when fired up on rum.

We met up at a quiet little club.

Low light. Corner booth way in

back. He was already there when

I arrived, and the way his eyes

stopped scanning the room once

they found me made me feel

like the only woman in the place,

though that wasn’t even close to true.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt exactly like that, and it only got better

when he stood and held out his

361/881

hand, coaxing mine into its warmth.

He tugged me close, put his mouth

against my ear.
Thanks for coming.

His voice was a low growl, and my

body responded with animal interest.

I tried to ignore the hollow

longing, but by the time our first

round was drained and another

on its way, it had swollen into

something I couldn’t ignore. Easy

banter was not enough distraction,

so I chose a direct route to distance.

“What’s up with you and your wife?” He was evasive at first.
How long
have you and your husband been

married?
The quick change of subject surprised me. I wasn’t there to talk about myself, let alone Jace or our relationship. I didn’t want to think about us at all. “Nineteen years, give or take. I was …” I wished I could lie about my age, but he knows how old

Mikayla is. I could have been pregnant 362/881

when I got married and all, but … oh, hell. “I couldn’t quite drink legally yet.” He smiled.
Hope you had champagne,
anyway.
Then he grew serious.
Tanya
and I have been married for twenty-six
years. Yeah, yeah, I’m older than I look,
and so is she. She looks absolutely
great for her age, in fact. I’ve no
complaints there. But after so many
years together, things have gotten
a little stale. She goes to work. I go
to work. We both come home tired.

We have dinner. I grade papers. By
the time we go to bed, well …

My head bobbed up and down

as he talked. “I know the ‘well’

intimately. Some of us get there

long before twenty-six years.”

His turn to nod.
I think most couples
get there eventually. The question is,
what next? For me, divorce was

unthinkable while our daughter

was with us. Now Rhiannon is in her last
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year of college. Still, I’ve been looking
for ways to avoid out-and-out mutiny.

The writing is one, of course. If I
manage to publish a book, it will
satisfy at least one very big desire.

I’m not sure the cerebral can totally
replace the carnal, however.

CAUGHT UP COMPLETELY

In my own little set of fantasies,

I did not expect what he said next.

He lobbed the words like grenades,

and they fell around me: splat, splat, kaboom!
Have you and your

husband ever tried swinging?

Call me naïve, but my doofy brain

only went as far as the playground.

Maybe it was the second mojito, almost finished. “Not since the kids were little.” Bryan tried not to laugh, without

success.
No. You know. Sex, with
another couple. Or maybe a three-way? Another woman, another man,
whatever.
My jaw must have dropped.

Yeah, that’s pretty much how my
wife reacted when I suggested we
should give it a try.
He signaled 365/881

the waitress to bring another round.

Have you never even considered it?

I PLUMBED THE QUESTION

And how, exactly, to answer it. Hell, he’d opened the door. “I’ve thought about it. But Jace would never …”

Are you sure? Because, in my truly-not-humble opinion, the guy
always
thinks about stuff like that first.

Then my comment seemed to sink

in. His emerald eyes traveled over

me with pantherlike zeal. The hungry cat in them only amplified the desire, pulsing like a heartbeat just in front of my pubic bone. Once again, I tried to redirect myself. “If Jace even suspected I’ve considered having sex with someone else, he’d insist on marriage counseling.” Bryan smiled with feline intensity.

So you
have
contemplated sex outside
your marriage? With multiple partners?

Just then, the waitress delivered

our drinks. I waited for her to leave.

Looked him right in the eye. “Yes.”
AND THAT LED

To an invitation I’d never imagined when I agreed to meet Bryan for drinks.

One I never even knew was possible

in a Podunk little city like Reno.

But Bryan knew.
Would you want

to give it a try? I’ve heard about
this place. You have to be a couple
to get in, so we’d have to become
one for a night. What say you?

Are you up for some fun, or …

“Or what?” I asked, half wondering

if he could hear the buzz in my head.

Or are you all talk?
He reached across the table, traced my lips

with one finger. It was almost

sexier than sex. Almost. He could

have taken me, right there in

that bar, with everyone watching.

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At least, I think I would have

let him. Actually doing something

like that is probably daunting.