24. Aaron
TWENTY-FOUR
AARON
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Gemma cry. Like, full on, cry cry.
Not the angry tears she sometimes gets on my behalf when I’ve been wronged, when the tabloids cross a line, go too far to invade my privacy or say something particularly shitty. She doesn’t get those angry tears a lot, but they happen.
But, like, actually cry ? Shit, I think I’ve only seen it a few times in our lives. When her grandpa died, when we were in eighth grade. (They were really close.) When her parents finally let her adopt a puppy in tenth grade, and the night before it reached eight weeks, the day before they went to pick it up, they got a call from the shelter that it got parvo and died. She swore off animals after that. I know she wants them, but she won’t do it now. Says she can’t handle the eventual goodbye, whether it’s in a week or a decade, that she’s just not cut out for pet parenthood. Caught her with red eyes a time or two over the years, so I suspect there’s been a few other instances, too, but not many. She’s a strong one, my Gem.
But I’m positive, had I stayed last night, not left like she’d asked me to, I’d be able to put another finger down, now. I heard her cracking and breaking through the door, and I wish I could put into words for you what those sounds, the awful fucking noises did to my insides, but I can’t. I’m an actor, not a writer, not a poet. And I’m not sure there’s the right words in the English language for the internal damage that was done to me to hear her like that. Knowing it was because of me? I’ve never been more inspired to get my shit together in my life. What kind of monster am I to hurt her the way that I have?
“I messed up.” My voice sounds croaky, quieter, like the shame in me is keeping it from coming out at full volume.
“What did you do, sugar?” Hers sounds humored, amused, full of adoration, and like there’s no way I’ve really messed up that bad. It only makes the knot of guilt inside my stomach expand, eating up the surrounding organs as it does.
“I, uh…” My head drops in shame, unable to look my mom in the eye as I confess to her. I can’t see those cobalt eyes, the ones my own are modeled after, lose the light they hold for me. Or watch her face, slightly softer as she gets closer and closer to middle-aged, wrinkle and frown in disappointment. I decide the faster this goes, the better. One hand scratches at the back of my neck in discomfort as I mumble the next words as quickly as I can get them out. “I made a move on Gem.”
Her entire posture changes at once, where she was leaned in close to me, full of concern, she plops back against the back of her dining room chair in an instant, slim arms dropping to her lap with a loud slapping noise.
“Finally! Fucking. Finally.” She lets out a loud laugh and brings her arms up in triumph, still slumped back in her chair, like she’s celebrating after some exhausting challenge. Her loose, dark blue shirt lifts with the movement, the sleeves dropping down toward her elbows as she pumps both fists in the air, delicate gold bracelets dangling and jangling as she does. The entire scene is…bizarre.
My head darts up instantly, shocked into disbelief by her response. The last thing I expected from her. Jaw dropped open, I stare at her, uncertain of how to process this.
“Oh, shut your fly trap. Don’t look at me like that,” she scolds, waving a hand at me.
Mouth stuttering, no sound comes out as I try to come to terms with the look of relief on her face. Finally, a single word comes to me. “Mom!” It might be a hiss, might be a more of a plea. The only other sound in her dining room is the quiet tick-tick-tick of the oversized farmhouse clock on the wall, centered above the long, nearly black, wooden dining table.
I expected her to feel let down by me not being the man she raised, for a heavy dose of chastising, some brutal life advice, and most likely, a slap upside the head.
Laughter? Relief? Joy ? Not on my list.
“Honestly? I thought you were gonna tell me that mood you been in lately got your ass fired and put on a blacklist and you need your daddy to get you a job at the plant.”
I gulp at the thought, not having considered that as a possibility, and make a mental note to call my agent first thing tomorrow and make sure I’m still on the right people’s “good lists.” We don’t do fruit baskets in Hollywood, but I might be sending out much larger tokens of my gratitude to my current bosses here shortly. I have been kind of a prick to a lot of people lately. And I’m self-aware enough to admit that I do not have the strength of mind or character to work a blue-collar job.
My eyes shut of their own accord, soaking in the embarrassment of the moment, before I have to face telling her the rest of the story. Before I can open them again, my head pops slightly to the side with the sting of a soft slap only a mom can lovingly deliver.
“What the fuck, Mom?”
“That’s for waiting until she had a boyfriend to do it.”
I nod my head and hang it down, allowing the shame to seep in. Of course she knows that part, too.
“But your daddy owes me a new bag.”
“You fucking bet on me?” The outrage chases just about every other emotion out of my consciousness.
Her eyes shine with a warmth reserved for someone who loves you absolutely unconditionally, even as she tsks me. “Of course we bet on you, sweetheart. You’re a fool where that girl is concerned, and we all knew this was coming. He just didn’t think it would take this long. I know you better, though.”
My mouth and my eyes pop open wide as fucking possible at that, my head doing this little wiggle full of attitude and disbelief, demanding she explain herself.
“Oh, stop.” She waves her hand at me again. “That girl has been in love with you since you two were barely teenagers. It was only a matter of time before you caught on to what was right under your nose. You call her Gem, sugar. If you two got married and she took your name, she would be Gem Stone.” My mouth drops at the realization, and as cheesy as it is, it does feel like some sort of proof we were inevitable. “You two were always meant to be. If you weren’t so full of yourself these past couple of years…” she mutters, trailing off, looking around the room.
While the insult settles in, finding somewhere deep and dark to start spreading within me, she stands up, darts off, and comes back a second later with a plate of cornbread muffins and a glass of water for me, then slides the butter dish on the table closer to me and nudges her chin at me to dig in.
“We all knew Hollywood was a dangerous choice for you, sugar. But between your daddy and me, and that girl at your side, we’ve all been able to keep you pretty grounded.” My mouth works furiously to devour the comfort food, not delicious only from nostalgia, this shit is actually bomb. “It was hairy there for a while. Those years you tried to distance yourself from us. Got too cool for a while.”
I stop chewing, a few of the crumbles in my mouth falling free as the realization that my actions over the years hurt my parents, too—the ones who’ve done everything to help me live my dream, given it all up for me—is almost too much to bear. I’m starting to see a pattern here, and I don’t like it.
Her hand comes out and pats me on the knee reassuringly. “Oh, don’t beat yourself up about it now. We’ll be doing plenty of that over this shitshow with Gemma.” She winks at me, and I groan in distress. Of course she’s not going to make this easy on me, tell me I did the right thing and let me go. I feel a mom speech of epic proportions brewing. She probably brought the cornbread out to trap me here, glue my mouth shut for long enough for her maternal wisdom to sink in before I could bolt out the door at her making me face my own fuck-ups and the demons that caused them. Sure enough, she starts in on me.
“But you had a few years there where you got a little big for your britches, you were off with all those fancy folks in your industry, all those beautiful women, while that young lady just stood by and waited for when you’d need her again.”
An image hits me of Gemma, off to the sidelines, as I introduced her to a flurry of women over the span of a year or two, ever patient with me, always there when I needed her. The pain of it almost doubles me over. She really has been there for me every step of my fucking way. And the first time she did something without me—made some strides in her life that didn’t revolve around my selfish ass, I fucking threw a Molotov cocktail into it.
My mom must see my wince because she reaches out to pat my face gently.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning. Tell me what you did, and we’ll work out how you’re gonna fix it.”
I told my mom everything . I didn’t leave a single dirty, hairy detail out.
The shame in her face, the way it fell at some of those bits… I’ve never been less proud of myself than I was seeing her son through her eyes tonight. The disappointment in them. She raised me better, and even though she’s made it clear over the years she knows I can be “a bit of a scoundrel”—her words, not mine (obviously)—it’s never been more apparent that she expected better of me. I can’t recall a time I’ve earned honest-to-God judgment from her, and the feeling of it is one I’ll do just about anything to avoid repeating.
When the tears started to fall—mine, not hers—hot, fat, leaving trails down my cheeks, she stayed silent, letting me get out all of it, every detail that I regretted, everything that made me embarrassed to be seen as her son.
Good listeners are so underrated. Too many people want to jump in when you try to talk to them, tell you what to think, or worse, what happened to them one time, rather than just give you the catharsis of a willing ear. Only two women in my life have given me that gift; my mom is the first of them, and remains the OG of word vomit therapy.
When I finally finish confessing my sins, my failed attempt at seducing Gemma last night in her hallway, my mom finally reacts to my tales. “Wow, sugar.” Those words are stretched out, every syllable full of incredulity. Her eyebrows shoot up as she stretches out, those thin arms of hers pushing her upper body backward off of her knees, and she flumps back in her chair. “That is a doozy.”
When she remains silent, I damn near explode at her, my arms waving wildly, a look of no fucking shit all over my face. “I fucking KNOW, Mom! You’re supposed to help me, here! Isn’t that what moms do ?”
“I’m going to help you, but you fucked this up good on your own.”
I start to make a rather immature, frustrated groan, and one look from her cuts it off in its tracks.
“So what of Kayla?” she asks. I hadn’t thought to mention her in my hour of ramblings, it was all focused on Gem, what happened between us at work, her fucking boyfriend, the mess I’ve made of everything. But I’m realizing why it didn’t work out with Kayla the first time. Or this time. She isn’t her . She isn’t it for me.
“I ended it.” I don’t tell her it was through a three-word text, but I suspect she knows.
“Hmm.” The knowing harrumph doesn’t bother me like it would from anyone else. The fact that my mom knows me this well isn’t a source of rankling, it’s comforting to me.
“And Gemma?”
A silent gulp comes from deep within my throat, the echo sounding throughout my entire body. “I don’t know.” The words are whispered so quietly, I can only hope she heard me.
“You haven’t talked to her since last night?”
“No, I haven’t texted, haven’t visited, she’s probably fucking blocked me and changed her locks by now.” My head falls into my hands and I slump forward in my chair, only half for dramatic effect.
“Well she’s stuck around you for this long. Probably hasn’t kicked you out over one weekend.” A much-needed breath rushes into my lungs as they open marginally at her reassurance. “But you were a damn tool, Aaron. And it sounds like you’ve already had some realizations on your own. That’s a good start. Now I’m going to get you to have some more of ’em.”
I nod my head, still held in my hands, not peeking up at her, but giving her the go ahead to start ripping into me and giving me a few new assholes. It can’t be worse than what Alex already did to me, right?
“What would your life be like without that girl?”
A shudder runs through me at the insinuation, the implication she’s already gone for good. I’ve had a taste of her absence, what my life looks like without her constant presence, and I don’t like it. I don’t like my life without her. Sure, there’s satisfaction on the job, I still get a rush when a new episode or movie comes out, but I’ve always shared those accomplishments with her . What would it mean to have those successes without her to share them with? I shake my head in my hands, rapidly, the thoughts too much to consider.
“Tell me, baby. What would your life be like without her in it?”
I sit back up, sighing heavily, knowing she’s not going to let me get away without answering this. Whatever mom voodoo she’s working, she has a path for me, she’s just feeding me breadcrumbs so I walk down it. Blindly, on nothing but faith, I follow where she leads.
“Well. Mornings aren’t the same without her there, our breakfast routine and all that. I’ve had four assistants since she left, they all suck.” I pause for a second, thinking it through. “It’s not like I expected to befriend my new assistant, like they would replace all the aspects of the relationship I had with Gem, but work isn’t really fun anymore without her there. She was such a big part of what kept me on track, what made me good at my job. She always grounded me, like she was the foundation of everything else, ya know?”
My mom shakes her head encouragingly, her eyes searching mine for the recognition she’s waiting for, and I continue.
“Anyway, things were okay with my girlfriend, until I realized it was Gemma I wanted. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, ya know, but who is?” I realize my mistake as I voice the words. It’s too bad I didn’t realize I had something perfect next to me the entire time— don’t think about it —and hurry on, rushing past them. “I could probably try to date someone else again, eventually, I dunno, maybe not.”
I squint my eyes, struggling to envision it for myself. Me with some other girl. Maybe Vanessa, that hottie I’d DMed a couple years back but our schedules never allowed for us to connect in person. Nothing. Not so much as a spark within my stomach as I picture it. If I were pressed to describe the sensation in my torso right now, I might say revulsion, actually.
“On second thought, I don’t know that I could move on, start dating someone else.”
My mom nods again, like she fucking knew that already. Then why did you ask? The salty voice in my head needs to chill, I’m the one that came to her for help, not the other way around. I keep trying her little exercise out, describing more of this barren life to her.
“I don’t really have any other close friends, but I’ve never really wanted any others, either. I’d have you guys, at least. So there’s that.”
“Gee, thanks.” Her dry tone and eye roll bring a smirk to my face. She knows what I meant.
“So basically, I’d be a mid-twenties loser, with nothing and no one but his career as a famous actor, his money and his mom.” I flash a cheesy grin, a fake one, that feels as hollow as I’m sure it looks.
My mom just raises her brows at me, waiting to see if that’s all.
“Fuck, that’s depressing, Mom. What part of that was supposed to help me, exactly?”
“We aren’t done yet,” is her only response.
“Thank fuck for that,” I quip. “If you let me leave right now, I’d probably drive off a fucking cliff.”
She gives me a small chuckle and slaps my knee in reproach, then continues her little mindfuck with me.
“Can you live without that girl?”
The answering thought slams into me, so simple, but so damn powerful. No. Not for another day. I never want to be without her in my life again. But how will I get back into hers? She’ll probably take a pair of scissors to my dick if I show back up there. I start to spiral again, visibly, because my mom intervenes.
“Answer me.” Her voice is gentle, but firm. She’s not letting me stray from whatever painful path she’s making me take.
“No.” The word is quiet, but there isn’t a hint of uncertainty in my tone.
“Good to hear. Now I want you to tell me what her life looks like without you in it?” It’s posed as a question, not a life-altering spear through the heart, but I’d like to file a motion to have it reclassified.
My mind is absolutely ambushed with a flood of images of her potential future without me in it. Her, at the library, making friends, leading reading groups, making her boss one happy, lucky son of a bitch. Her, with her side hustle taking off, the world fawning over her adorable, funny designs. She’d probably blow up on TikTok overnight, with tens of thousands of people falling for her in an instant, her hilarious relatability appealing to all, they’d be lining up to be her friend, just like I was all those years ago.
It’s when the imagined future of her and Spencer takes over my mind that I really start to lose my grip on reality. I see Gemma, in a wedding dress. Gemma, at an altar, outside in the woods in the autumn, looking like natural perfection. And I see Spencer by her side, eyes bright and the widest smile in the world on his face. Then the face changes. Eduardo. The guy from the smoothie shop by the production lot. And then it’s entirely faceless, some unknown lucky bastard living my dream.
All of the grooms aren’t me . And that’s what guts me. That’s when I realize that she could have everything she wants in life, whether I’m in it or not. But I can’t have anything I want in life without her.
A sob breaks free of my mouth and I clasp my hand over it, embarrassed, consumed by grief welling inside me at the thought of her moving on, being perfectly happy, chasing her dreams and living her best life, all without me.
My mom stands, walking the two steps over to me and wraps her arm around my shoulder, hugging me to her. I bury my face in her stomach, just as comforting as it was in my youth, and let the sobs out. I couldn’t stop them if I tried, but it feels so much better to have her compassion while I do.
She doesn’t push me to voice my imaginings, which I appreciate, so I’m guessing she knows I’ve gotten to wherever she was trying to lead me. This place where I finally see, in full clarity, what I’ve missed for so many years. And how badly I’ve fucked up my chances at finally getting it.
What is the point of finally realizing what your dream is, if you also realize, at that exact second, that you have no hope of ever achieving it?
One arm holds me close to her, while the other rubs up and down my back in soft, gentle motions that somehow soothe what should be inconsolable. Her familiar scent engulfs my senses, I feel her support in her touch, and I know she’s not going to leave me alone down here; Rock Bottom: population me .
The resolve in her tone sinks into my bones, filling me with a confidence, a determination I sorely need. “Now, what do you wanna do about it?”
And she doesn’t let me leave until we’ve made a plan. A good fucking plan. And now I finally know what I need to do.