Chapter Thirty-Four #3
“I can indeed,” Mum says reaching for her glass. “What that man said was nothing I haven't read before. It was almost tame, in fact, compared to what I’ve read.”
Maeve and I both sigh together, practically in a melody. I turn to Dad.
“Don't look at me!” He holds his hands up.
“God, no, if it's not a crossword answer, your father's not writing it. I'm talking about the books I read. They're often described as smut.”
“Oh, you like erotic romance?” Jenna stretches towards my mother. “Who are your favourite authors?”
“Well, I'm quite partial to...”
And this is precisely my prompt to push my chair back, which I do, saying, “I'm just going to the little boys' room.” I walk away as my mother and Jenna continue to share author recommendations and book names, and did I really just hear the words “kitchen counter cunnilingus” leave my mother's mouth?
When I'm done in the bathroom, I find myself slowing my pace as I cross the entrance to the kitchen.
I can almost feel the energy emanating from it, feel the heat of the chaos I know is inside, and sense the weight of the pressure.
It reminds me of how challenging cheffing is, and how the harder it is, the more rewarding it can be.
I've always been someone drawn to risk, and that's something I get to play around with every night in a restaurant kitchen when there are always deadlines, always things out of your control, and always multiple things to think about at any one time.
But now, glancing back at our dinner table and seeing my mother and Jenna's heads practically touching as they look at something on one of their phones together, I realise I'm a risk-taker with my heart too.
First, Arnie with our friendship that our relationship could have nuked had it all gone wrong.
And now, Jenna. The risk is massive - she is older, she lives in a different country, she may well decide she wants an older, more successful and more financially-independent partner - and the stakes are high, but the reward - having her, holding her, loving her and having her love me - it's undeniably worth it.
With this thought erasing all others, I walk around the outside of the seating area and find a spot at the walled viewing platform that gives a slightly different view of the sunset to the one in the beach bar or Jenna’s villa.
From this more elevated position it feels a bit more like I’m eye-to-eye with the sun and the effervescent copper glow it casts across the sky.
Our table in the restaurant isn't going to let me see the sunset’s final minutes, but from here I can see it all, all the while warmed by the sun’s buttery glow. I sit sideways on the wall, and watch.
For the second time that day I feel almost paralysed with the hopeless desire to have Arnie there with me.
This thought is not out of the ordinary, but the reason I want him there possibly is.
I want him there to ask his advice. How do I tell Jenna how I really feel?
How do I find out if she wants to also give this a go after this week?
How do I tell someone I've known for only three days that I think I'm falling in love with her?
As ridiculous as it sounds, considering who he was to me, I know that Arnie would know. He would know how to do all of that.
Arms wrap around my chest and a warmth presses against my back.
“Hey,” I say as I lean back against Jenna.
“You're not wearing your sunglasses,” she says.
“I'm not looking directly at it.”
“But then you won't be able to look for the green light.”
“You know,” I say. “I think you can believe something is there, even if you don't see it.”
“That was profound, Aiden,” she says after a few seconds.
“What the fuck are you doing calling me Aiden?”
I feel her body move in a shrug. “Just testing to see if you prefer it.”
“God, no. I'm Marty to you.”
“But your parents call you Aiden.”
“I'm Aiden to them. And that's okay. I want to be Marty to you,” I say.
“What was Arnie's real name?”
“How do you know Arnie wasn't his real name?”
“Well, first of all, I don't know many twenty-something-year-olds with the name Arnold. And secondly, I assumed Marty was originally his nickname for you, and so you must have had one for him.”
My chest gives as I exhale. “You're right, but it's not much of a story. We were kids playing rugby together and nobody was called by their first name. O'Martin was my surname. His was McArnold. Marty and Arnie. It was easy.”
“Yeah, zero points for creativity.” Jenna chuckles.
“I think for two eleven-year-old boys it was pretty creative.” I sigh and slide my hands up to keep her grip on me.
I suddenly feel like I'm about to cry. The one thing that stops me is the silence that we share as we watch the sun continue to sink lower.
Her chin is on my shoulder, her hair tickling my cheek.
I feel safe and I feel loved. I can't help but wonder if it's her love I feel, or Arnie's.
Or maybe, possibly, both?
“You miss him so much it hurts, don't you?” she whispers in my ear.
I nod. “Pretty much feel like it might kill me sometimes.”
“I loved hearing you talk about him at dinner,” she says, her hands stroking my chest. “I know doing so must hurt, and I see how being with your family is also like a near constant reminder, but please don't stop talking about him, Marty.”
“I want to keep talking about him,” I say, and my tentativeness is so audible in my voice. “Can I keep talking about him with you?”
Her exhale moves my body. “Of course.”
“We only have one more sunset here together after this,” I say and saying it feels like a new sharper knife piercing a new fleshier part of my heart.
“Marty,” she says. “Let’s not talk about this now.”
“But we could have more sunsets somewhere else?” I ask, ignoring her warning.
“We could,” she says but I struggle to hear the certainty in her voice. I feel her head move, her eyes now face down in my shirt.
It's not the answer I want, but it's not the answer I feared most. And more importantly, I've started the conversation.
The sun has all but melted into the sea when we hear a click behind us, and our heads turn in sync. My sister is there holding up her phone.
“That is the kind of photo that could launch your social media career, Aidey, just in case you need something to fall back on,” she says. “Also, we need you at the table. It's cake time.”
The cake is indeed there on our table and Jake is standing beside my mother, looking even pinker and more harassed than before, but I know she won't notice as she chats away, touching him lightly on the arm.
I take Jenna's hand as we walk back to the table and choose not to mention how the shoulder of my shirt is now damp, because even if she was crying, she is smiling now.
Back at the table, I admire the cake – a layered strawberry and cream creation - and dutifully sit there grinning while Jenna, my family, her brother, surrounding tables and a handful of equally harried-looking serving staff all sing Happy Birthday to me.
It's more people than I expected to be celebrating my birthday this year, and while there is one voice I miss with every note, I can't help but feel buoyed by their singing.
I blow out the candles with far too much gusto and fanfare, which I hope covers up the fact I made what feels like one of the most important wishes of my life.