Nineteen
NINETEEN
ETHAN
P ulling Taylor’s suitcase out from underneath Samara’s old bed feels like saying goodbye all over again.
Why had he kissed him before he left the cottage and then said that boneheaded thing by the cars?
Because he’s a stickler for self-flagellation, that’s why.
This past week, he indulged too much on the sweetness of Taylor Frost, and now his stomach is upset as he folds Taylor’s clothes and grabs Taylor’s toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom they’ve been sharing. Even now, gone only for a few hours, the house is abysmally quiet save for the sound of Nana’s paws pattering on the wood floor. It’s going to take ages to reset to the stillness he’d made friends with.
No. Not friends.
You can’t be friends with something you learned to tolerate.
That’s what he’d done. As he steps back into his own bedroom, last night’s acts still floating in the air, he notes the creak of a floorboard and dissects how different it is from the sound he heard when Taylor got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. A dull ache roils in Ethan’s chest as if Taylor’s brief absence were a virus taking root.
There are no antibiotics for being lovesick.
Only known cure: time, space and, with any luck, forgetfulness.
He hadn’t meant to offend Taylor by his “older guys” comment. In fact, he had blurted it out because of his own insecurities.
Guess this is it, then.
That was the sentence that had gotten his hackles up since it sounded like Taylor was going to be able to walk away from this easily. Nothing in Ethan’s life, when it comes to his emotions, has ever been easy. ADHD has made sure of that.
Ethan carefully folds Taylor’s tie-dyed hoodie that he dropped on the floor earlier and rakes over how he’d fallen out of love with Amy, but still couldn’t regulate his emotions when it came to the dissolution of his marriage, his family. His head knew the relationship had run its course. His heart knew the love was no longer there. But his emotions kept bouncing around, causing confusion.
His therapist called it Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria—-overwhelming dysregulation. A feeling Ethan likens to Godzilla rampaging the city within his sternum.
In the kitchen, he takes the rest of the box of green tea Taylor likes from the cupboard and, from the pantry, he takes the untouched bag of mint Milanos he bought on his last trip to the grocery store. Both get dropped into a tote bag and left by the door.
Nana, clearly confused by this, yowls a bit at the disruption. She’s a smart girl. She knows what suitcases usually mean. “Don’t worry. I’m not the one leaving.” Ethan’s heart grows heavier.
Before he exits the cottage, he removes the extra towels from the bathroom and the sheets from the bed. Without care, he throws both in the wash together on a warm cycle. The wet splat of fabrics of differing weights tumbling around makes his stomach contract. Needing to get away, he leashes up Nana, pulls up the handle on the suitcase and beelines for the Snow White cottage. Hoping he doesn’t leave mushy memories like bread crumbs along the way.
* * *
Be to the resort in twenty! Samara’s text reads.
The twinkling chime of his phone beneath the counter stirs Ethan from his stupor. He doesn’t know exactly how long he’s been standing comatose behind the reception desk, staring out the window onto the front lawn where he can slightly make out the AND THEY LIVED… sign, but far too long comes to mind.
Can’t wait to see you, he types back.
The next time the front door opens, he expects it to be Amy, Samara, and Taylor. Instead, Gabriel’s wife, Giselle, swans inside wearing a shawl and sunglasses. When she’s not at the law practice, she dresses like the coolest mom at Coachella, all flower patterns and flowy fabrics. How many colors is too many to wear at one time? Giselle doesn’t care. “Hello, hello,” she says, blowing Ethan a kiss.
“What brings you in tonight?” Ethan asks, trying to sound jovial. It’s good practice for when he has to play the welcome brigade.
“Dinner, of course,” she says.
“With Gabriel?” Ethan asks, not seeing him around.
“With the whole gang. Amy didn’t tell you?” she asks with an air of disconcert.
Ethan stifles a groan. “Who exactly does the gang include?”
Gabriel comes up behind him, clapping him on the shoulder, which startles him. “Me, the missus, Amy, Samara and Taylor.”
“Who’s Taylor again?” Giselle asks after kissing her husband and leaving behind a plum-colored lipstick stain on his tan cheek.
Gabriel locks eyes with Ethan. “The assistant.”
Almost as soon as he says it, the missing party members squeeze through the front door all at once. “Is anybody going to help with our bags?” Amy asks as if she’s carrying any herself. Taylor comes up the rear, looking like a pack mule with a backpack, two duffel bags and a ginormous, metallic rolling suitcase clunking behind him.
“Amy!” Giselle coos, wrapping her up in a hug.
“Plug your nose. I smell like airplane,” Amy says sardonically, mid-embrace.
When the group parts, Samara stands near the door, AirPods still stuffed into her pierced ears, looking around. Muscles in Ethan’s body that he had no idea were clenched loosen. “Hi there, Birthday Girl,” he says, his heart working better than usual.
“Sixteen. Meu Deus! Where does the time go?” He intercepts the hug Ethan has been craving since he last saw his daughter two months ago. Or was it three now? Christmas, for sure.
“Hi, Uncle Gabriel.” Samara’s gaze finds Ethan’s over Gabriel’s shoulder. She rolls her blue eyes, which match Ethan’s own, and flashes a sarcastic smile before letting go and coming to him.
“Welcome home,” Ethan says. He pointedly ignores the light chuff that Amy gives as he squeezes his daughter tight. My, she’s gotten tall. And she’s wearing the choker Taylor says is practically a uniform at this point.
“Bet Cat Town hasn’t been the same without me,” she jokes. Her makeup skills have sharpened significantly since the holidays. Not even a single smudge of eyeliner after being cooped up in transit all day.
“It misses you,” he says, refraining from adding the painfully obvious I miss you, too.
When they break off from the hug, Amy does an overblown chill—always the performer. “I hope the table by the fireplace is open in the pub. I’m downright freezing. Ethan, the heat in your car doesn’t work. Be sure to get that fixed.”
Even in his personal life, Amy seems to think she calls the shots. Didn’t she sign that privilege away in the divorce? Should he have ever given it to her to begin with? Maybe that’s what’s holding him back most from Taylor Frost. But he can’t think of that now.
“I’m starving!” Samara cries, leading the way toward The Thirsty Goat. Ethan doesn’t think he could eat a bite with the way his stomach is behaving right now.
“Why was she in your car?” Gabriel asks.
“Long story,” Ethan grumbles quietly. “Let me grab the bags and store them until we’re finished.”
“I’ll help,” Taylor says, still encumbered by half the load.
The last thing Ethan wants is to be in tight quarters with Taylor right now. The luggage room behind the reception desk is a little larger than a walk-in closet. They can’t accommodate that many guests, and most leave promptly after checkout. Today, however, the room is a minefield of tripping hazards. He makes a mental note to talk to his staff about their organization skills.
“Place them anywhere you can find room,” Ethan says, not looking at Taylor. He shoves his way inside.
“I tried to get out of it,” Taylor says, voice lower than Ethan has heard it before. He grunts as he sets down the loaded bags.
“Out of what?” Ethan asks.
“Dinner. I told Amy I was tired from the drive. I didn’t want you to think I was crashing your family reunion,” he says. There’s sourness in the air like someone spilled expired cleaning agents all over the luggage. He wants back the luscious magic of the cottage again, feeling at home in Taylor’s presence.
“Nonsense. You’re not cra—”
Knock. Knock. Gabriel pops his head in. “Amy told me to come and find you two so she can order.”
They’ve been gone, what, two minutes. Ethan hopes there are pounds of vacuum-sealed patience hidden somewhere inside one of these suitcases that he can borrow, because his limited reserve is not going to last him the next several days.
The Thirsty Goat is bustling and loud. The bar is full, as are most of the tables. Amy and Giselle have pushed together two four-tops right in front of the fireplace. He’d done away with the long table they had there for the longest time. People always complained it got too hot sitting right there. Amy runs cold, though, so he’s not surprised to find her bundled in Giselle’s shawl, holding court already.
The only two open seats are on the nearer side, beside Samara. Ethan takes the one next to her with Taylor on his right. As soon as he settles, he’s split down the middle. His attention is unable to land on anything concrete because he’s overjoyed that his daughter is here and yet too acutely aware of his recent lover’s presence.
When Vanessa, the costumed “barmaid” for the evening, comes by to take their order—two plates of nachos to start, a round of non-alcoholic ciders and fish and chips for all—Ethan says a silent prayer that this will all go smoothly. He’s about to ask his daughter about the ride, but she’s already speaking over him.
“Did you get to listen to the new playlist I started? Indie Rock Realness?” Samara asks Taylor.
He shakes his head. “Your dad’s car doesn’t have an aux hookup. Oh, that reminds me.” Taylor fishes Ethan’s keys from his pocket. It’s impossible for their hands not to touch in the pass-off. Shivers race through Ethan’s body at the contact. His eyes dart around, worried the others at the table are closely observing him, reading too much into this exchange.
“Don’t you think it’s time for a new car, Dad?” Samara asks. “That clunker felt like it was going to fall apart every time we hit a pothole.”
“I hit one pothole!” Taylor protests, and they both laugh like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Ethan can’t recall the last time he laughed with Samara that freely. Exchanges become stilted when an entire country rests between you for most of the year. He yearns for the days when he’d return to the cottage after work and join Samara in front of the TV, laughing at some cartoon.
“You should get a hybrid crossover,” Amy says, adding her two cents into a conversation she wasn’t initially a part of. “I’ve been thinking of maybe investing in company car decals. I’ll give a little bonus to any employees willing to brand their rides as marketing.”
“I like my car,” Ethan says defensively, defiantly ignoring her ridiculous business idea. Their employees are locals. Who in the immediate area doesn’t already know they are there? Though, he zips his lips. He gave up his right to overarching business decisions when he gave up the title of husband. Why was he willing to play his new role, but Amy insisted on maintaining their old dynamic?
“I like it, too,” Taylor says, gaze fixed firmly on the frosted mug of cider that’s been set in front of him. He murmurs a thanks to Vanessa as she passes by.
Taylor’s defense, however muted, reminds Ethan how much history that car has. Amy would throw out the antique bath with the bathwater if she had the chance. He hopes Samara doesn’t inherit that ideal, especially since he sank a lot of money into that vintage camera for her. What if she turns up her nose at it? That would kill him.
God, his heart feels like it’s on a silver tray slapped down in the center of the table ready to be carved up and served.
“For Christmas, I’m getting you one of those cassette plug-ins,” Samara says.
“Surprised you even know what a cassette is,” says Giselle with a high laugh.
Samara rolls her eyes. “I know things! They’re popular again! It plugs into the radio so you can still hook up your phone.”
The conversation turns back to music. Samara and Taylor are volleying comments back and forth over a new song by someone named Phoebe Bridgers and a group (perhaps?) called boygenius. His head spins with all the references. Amy and Giselle are discussing some outdoor concert she went to with some man whose name Ethan doesn’t catch. Gabriel is swiping all the best loaded nachos from the large plate while he thinks no one is looking.
Ethan is…overwhelmed. The back of his neck grows hot at all the stimuli. The proximity to the fire doesn’t help. Neither does Taylor’s nearness. In seconds, he’s soupy.
It’s times like these he wishes he carried around his noise-canceling headphones like his therapist suggested. It would filter out some of the background sounds so he could focus. Instead, he picks a fixed spot to give his attention to. Surely, he should find a better spot than the corner of Taylor’s pale, pink mouth as it moves a mile a minute, spouting off song lyrics he has memorized, but it’s too late. He’s locked in on the place where there may just be the vaguest hint of a freckle Ethan hasn’t noticed before.
And he’s glad. Glad that Taylor and Samara get along so well. Taylor, despite his awkward departure earlier, is a stand-up person and a good role model for Samara. Someone responsible and friendly who takes Samara and her interests seriously.
Amy leans across the table with a napkin she wet in her water glass. “You’ve got cheese all over your face,” she says to Samara, blotting at her.
Samara recoils. “Stop it!”
“No, you stop it!” Amy responds harshly.
Samara stops fighting and lets it happen to avoid any more eyes cast in the direction of their table.
He supposes even if he had Samara under his roof, he’d still have this idea of her as a young girl who needed his constant attention and care. It’s the way parents are. But Amy’s behavior still grates on him.
Because there’s control and then there’s controll ing . He’s lived under Amy Lu’s thumb. For a time, it was comforting. Someone else could write the to-do lists, allocate the tasks, tell him where to be and when to be there. It skewered his executive dysfunction, but it also stopped him from developing skills himself. Her absence left him reeling with indecision and stagnation.
At this table, it dawns on him that as his wife, she was parenting him. He was letting her. And he doesn’t want Samara to develop that sort of calcified resentment.
After the scene ends and the conversation restarts, he catches a sneaky glance shared between Samara and Taylor that says, Can you believe her?
A smile floats up onto Ethan’s face as the fish and chips arrive. At least she’s got an ally.
Ethan takes this opportunity to engage Samara about her photography, which lights her up almost as much as the conversation about music did. She’s eagerly showing him shots on her phone of different pieces in her newly-minted portfolio that she’s proud of.
“Portfolio?” he asks. Even to him, from his mouth, the word sounds way too grown-up.
“Yeah, all real photographers have them. My teacher has been telling me for ages. I’m thinking of starting a website. Taylor is going to help me,” she says.
Taylor nods and smiles. For the first time tonight, Taylor really meets Ethan’s eyes and there’s something about their unlikely trio on this side of the table that feels right. Like the rest of their dinner companions have flown away and it’s just the three of them, chatting excitedly about shutter speeds and lens lengths and how much Samara missed the fish and chips here.
Ethan doesn’t need an X-ray to know that his heart is whole again for the first time in many, many weeks.