Part 12 (1/2)
”You're in trouble.” He throws a piece of bread at me that bounces off my naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
”n.o.body cares about me. A Carressa d.i.c.k-pic would go viral, though.”
He stands, walks over, and lies on his side next to me. He runs a finger from my collarbone to my belly b.u.t.ton. ”You're starting to show.”
I laugh. ”You're making me fat.”
Blur.
A Frisbee flies overhead, caught by a teenage girl who throws it back to her partner. I'm surrounded by families in a public park, the Seattle skyline glinting in a clear, azure sky. A warm breeze tickles my skin. The gra.s.s around me is so green I think someone's littered the ground with emeralds. A little boy runs up to me with blond hair and gorgeous brown eyes with bursts of green at their centers.
”For you, Mommy,” he says, and hands me a dandelion.
I reach for him as he runs away from me to gather more flowers. I feel kisses on the back of my neck, hands resting on my shoulders.
”Let him go,” Max whispers into my ear. ”He'll be back.”
Blur.
I light a paper lantern over the ocean and let it go. Max stands next to me. Tears trickle down his face. We watch the lantern float away until it's only a speck in the evening sky. A tribute to our lost son- In a bittersweet afterglow, Val opened her eyes. Sten breathed hard underneath her, sweat moistening the collar of his dress s.h.i.+rt.
”Do you need me to keep going?” she asked. It wasn't explicitly part of their deal, but if she was going to use him for s.e.x, she could at least ensure he was satisfied. Maybe he'd count it toward her debt.
He laughed. ”Val, the generous lover. I never would've figured. Thanks but no thanks. I come when you come. I'm efficient that way.”
She slid off him and pulled her clothes back on as he did the same.
”Happy now?” he asked.
Her visions of Max were always the same. They were happy together, then they had a child-sometimes a boy, sometimes a girl-then the child went missing and they were miserable. Max couldn't understand. He hadn't seen it like she had, over and over again. Whatever happiness they found with each other wouldn't last.
”You did your job,” she muttered.
”I aim to please.”
”You can go.”
”I have your permission to get back to my actual job now? Thanks.” He opened the car door. ”Until next time.” Sten stepped out, then dropped his head back in. ”And don't drink and drive.” He shut the door, got back into his own car, and drove away.
Val closed her eyes and let her head fall backward. What the h.e.l.l was she doing? Having s.e.x with Sten so she could fantasize about a future with Max she was determined to prevent? She was losing her f.u.c.king mind. Val felt around behind her for the vodka bottle. She found it, unscrewed the cap, put the bottle to her mouth, then stopped. An unexpected but familiar taste lingered on her lips, like red meat with a hint of tobacco and mint chewing gum-Sten's mouth. He must have kissed her when she was in her trance. Why would he do that?
Maybe he cared. f.u.c.king Sten. The thought made her laugh so hard she cried.
Chapter Sixteen.
Max tried to focus on the last chapter of Capital in the Twenty-first Century in its original French, but his eyelids kept growing heavy and he'd have to shake himself awake. It wasn't the author's fault. He'd upped his dosage of OxyContin when the previous amount failed to keep thoughts of Val away. His father had begun making appearances in his nightmares, too, lecturing him about family and loyalty and sacrifices, before the touching began. Then he'd wake up in a cold sweat, furious with himself for putting up with the monster for so long, and needing to pop his meds to calm down. And so went his nightly routine.
In the day he'd catch himself thinking of Val, her crooked, sly smile, the smell of apple shampoo in her hair, the salty taste of her skin, the feel of her lips against his, when they'd first made love in the boathouse, their epic fights over a future she couldn't face. He'd wonder what she was doing at any given moment, who she was sleeping with, if she thought of him at all. He would turn his phone over and over in his hands, thinking up excuses to call her just to hear her voice, or maybe set up a meeting so he could see her, until he forced himself to drop the phone, get up, and take Toby for a walk or go for a run instead. The part of him that still loved her wouldn't die, and it wouldn't shut up. So he took extra meds to keep those voices silent. And so went his daily routine, until the days blurred into one another.
After a few more minutes of trying, Max gave up reading. He flipped to the last page and wrote a series of numbers at the top-the winning combination for next month's state lottery. He would leave the book at the library, or donate it to a used book store. If some lucky economist made it to the end, they'd be rewarded with a golden ticket into the world of one-percenters.
Max shut the book, then shook his head, opened it again, and tore the last page out. He'd tried the divine-charity trick before almost twenty years ago, when he was a stupid kid who thought he could use his ability for good. Make the torture of his own existence meaningful in some way other than to feed his father's greed. Lester found out, as he always did when Max tried to exercise some agency without his knowledge. As if someone told him. During the subsequent beating, Lester had ”explained” to Max that a dead-on prediction of winning lottery numbers wouldn't go unnoticed by the media. A legion of treasure hunters would track him down. Max had to admit Lester was probably right. Maybe one of these days he'd do it anyway, and jump off a bridge before they could find him.
He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it at the kindling box next to the fireplace. It missed and bounced off the wall, rolling onto the carpet. Toby launched from Max's feet and chased the ball as Abby walked into the living room. She knelt to pet him; Toby eyed her hand and growled.
”Toby,” Max snapped.
She gave up trying to make nice with the stupid dog and sat next to Max.
”So...I wanted to talk to you about something,” she said.
Max forced himself not to cringe. ”Okay.” Please don't ask about Val or the bar fight again. Every time she did, and he refused to give details, the tension between them ratcheted up another notch. It was a small miracle the police hadn't shown up yet to question him about the dead guy in the parking lot.
”I want to go back to school for my graduate degree in art history, after our wedding.”
Art history sounded like a pretty useless degree. Then again, he had a business degree he never used. Whatever floated her boat. ”Okay.”
”That's it? Just 'okay'?”
”What else do you want me to say? You don't need my permission.”
”No, but I'd like your support.”
”You've got my support.”
”Do I?”
Great, this was another conversation about Val. He willed himself not to get angry. ”You always have my support, Abby.” He put his arm around her rigid shoulders. ”You'll be my wife in less than two months. I'll always be here for you, no matter what you want to do.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her. She relaxed in his arms and nestled her head in the crook of his neck.
”I want to go to couples counseling,” she said.
Max felt his calm resolve wane. Another touchy, familiar topic. ”You know I can't do that.”
”We could at least try it.”
”I've been to psychiatrists before. They can always tell I'm hiding something. Then they insist I come clean so the 'healing process' can begin, and I can't.”
”So tell them the truth, like you told me.”
He pushed her away so she faced him. ”They won't believe me.” Frustration he couldn't suppress crept into his voice. ”I told you because I trusted you, and I could prove it. How am I supposed to convince a psychiatrist I'm not crazy? Jack off in front of him and then spout off tomorrow's NASDAQ numbers?”
”I could back you up-”
”No.”