Page 13 of Hello Darling
5
Stella
After my yoga class is over, I am so relaxed and centered that I feel totally at peace with the world and have a new respect and admiration for our new British gym member. Just kidding—I feel exactly the same. Creating a relaxing environment, reminding people to breathe, correcting their poses while pretending not to hear students’ kweefs is not as relaxing as you’d think. Evan Hunter was gone by the time my students started arriving, which is probably a good thing, as they probably would have freaked the fuck out. No amount of Cow Face Pose can calm Edna from Sunrise Coffee Roasters down when she’s worked up about something.
I head home once my older brother Keaton shows up. He and Billy take turns looking after administrative duties this evening until Billy teaches his six o’clock core strengthening class and then Keaton leads a sculpting class. When Keaton walks in, I scan his bearded stoic face to see if he knows about Evan Hunter, but it doesn’t look like it. I’m impressed by Billy’s restraint, until Keaton mutters, “I hear you’re in love with a British guy.”
I scoff. “More like Billy is.” As if.“Does Dad know? God, he didn’t tell everyone, did he?”
“Calm down. He texted me and Dad.”
“Okay, but we have to be discreet about it.”
“You’re the one who’s super obvious about being in love with a fancy actor, you starfucker.”
“I meant about him being a member not about—you know what—I’m not even. Don’t forget to do the night deposit.”
“I won’t. Don’t forget to not be a starfucker.”
“I definitely won’t, because I’m not one.”
“That’s what all starfuckers say.”
I flip him the bird over my shoulder as I walk out the door. This is the joy of being the only girl in my family. I guess I’d rather have them tease me about a fictional crush on an actor than my all too real Halloween party face-mash with The Kwas.
The sun has set, and as I drive home I scan the well-lit Main Street to see if anyone’s running around screaming that they’ve spotted a movie star. So far, it seems he’s still under the radar. He’s pretty good at being incognito for a tall pretty man who glows. He certainly didn’t cause a stir while he was working out today. He had the usual gym armor—wireless headphones—plus that look of intense concentration that he had when he was jogging past me and ignoring me at the beach.
I did happen to catch sight of him when he was working his lats and delts and was somewhat impressed by his perfect form on the lat pull-down machine. But I keep an eye on all of our members when they’re using the equipment, that’s part of my job. It’s also a part of my job to sometimes wear tight little spaghetti strap tank tops without sports bras and this was the first time I had ever felt self-conscious when a member was looking at me. Although, I’d probably feel the same way if Queen Elizabeth saw me in a ballerina pink top that showed every tiny curve of my body including the nipple curves.
Damn Brits. It’s like I have an inborn fear of imperialism. I’m sure if I were around for Beatlemania I would have just laughed at their accents and yelled at them to “go home!” Then gone home by myself to listen toRubber Soulover and over again while crying. I don’t know.Doesthe lady protest too much?
I mean.
Doth she?
I doth think not.
Sometimes a protest is just a protest.
As I pull into the driveway, past the main house, I wave to my landlord Whit and his husband. Whit is carrying a bucket and other cleaning supplies to his car, along with Brett who’s holding a stepladder. Probably going to clean one of Whit’s listings before an open house. If Monica from “Friends” were a middle-aged gay male realtor, she’d be my landlord Whit. I love my landlord and his hubby.
I love my home. I live in the guesthouse on Whit and Brett’s property. It’s a pretty little one bedroom near the edge of their expansive backyard, which butts up against a small stretch of private beach. I have my own little enclosed garden, which my cat is allowed to enjoy on warm days when I’m watching over her. I never want to leave this place.
After feeding Muffin Top, I’m throwing together my version of my mother’s recipe, the soup she’d make us all when we were feeling under the weather. I’ve got leftover roast chicken, a fridge drawer full of organic vegetables that have about a day left before they get ugly, and a pantry stocked with gluten-free pasta and so much bone broth, if I actually consumed it all I’m sure I’d just become such a perfect physical specimen that no one would be able to handle it. Which is why I make a lot of soup for my family.
While my dad’s soup is simmering, I receive a text from my oldest brother, Martin. He’s at school in Bellingham, finishing up his sports psychology degree, and he sucks at responding to my texts, but then I get random ones like this:Hear I’m gonna have to punch Kwas in the balls next time I see him and now you’re lusting after some pretty boy Brit. S’up with that?
S’up with that indeed. Not even going to dignify it with a response. I immediately write back that I miss him and ask when he’s coming home, and he doesn’t write back. Such a jerk.
I give Muffin Top thirty solid seconds of love and attention before leaving for my dad’s. We had planned to go to a movie tonight, but I’m not going to let him leave the house. I’ll go on my own. I’m dying to see this oldie but goodie on the big screen, and can’t think of anyone besides my dad who would want to see it with me.
My dadstill lives in the house we all grew up in, the house he bought with my mother, the one they were meant to live in together for their whole lives. It’s less than a ten-minute drive from where I’ve been living for the past four years. I ring the doorbell and knock, even though I have a key and texted him that I was coming. I once walked in to find a pink-haired tattoo artist from San Francisco waiting for my dad on the living room sofa, buck-naked. After my initial reaction of wanting to stab my eyes with a fork and scream at my dad for being a dirty old man who obviously never really loved my mom, we decided that it would be best if I simply waited for him to answer the door when I come over. It’s amazing how family conflicts can be worked through with a little time, a fair amount of dark ale, a promise to date age-appropriate women, and a new sofa to replace the one that was totally defiled by out-of-town ass.
I’ve seen what this man is like when he’s devastated and I’ll do anything to keep him from being that vulnerable again. Even if that means giving him space to be a man, and being completely (okay, mostly) non-judgmental about the tourists he occasionally has discreet flings with. He’s a good-looking fifty-eight year-old widower with a hot bod. He’s a catch. I get it. He’s made a family with the love of his life and built up a healthy family business. He’s entitled to some out-of-town tail every now and then. We all are.
It doesn’t change the fact that this house is still every bit my mother’s. When my dad opens the door for me, he blows me an air kiss, then immediately cleans the doorknob with an antibacterial wipe. The skin around his nostrils is pink and he’s wearing baggy sweats and fuzzy slippers.
“Hey there, champ,” I say, as I carry the soup-filled glass container to the kitchen. In this natural light-filled kitchen, with its wood paneling and breakfast nook and view of the garden, somehow the smell of my mom’s perfume and oil paints and pies still linger. I know my father will never sell this house, and part of me is glad of that. Part of me feels like I should be encouraging him to move on, like my brothers do, but I also think they should just shut up, because why should he move on? This is the perfect home.
