“True,” I agreed. “But you married a man who couldn’t be trusted with his money, or his phone camera. Now, you can rent someplace nice after this is all over, or better yet, buy somewhere within your price range, which is still not a number to be laughed at, and find yourself a job.”
“A job?” My mother’s eyes widened. She looked like I’d just suggested she become an escort. I placed an order for both of us. Peppermint tea for her, iced Americano for me. This time, I paid.
“Yes, Mother. I didn’t know the sheer act of working was quite so outrageous.”
“Of course it’s not,” my mother huffed, convincing exactly no one in the room with her fake sincerity. “But no one is going to hire me. I have no experience to speak of. I married your father at age twenty-two, fresh out of college. The only thing on my résumé would be the summer before college. I worked at a Hooters bar. Think they’ll accept me back thirty-six years later?” She arched an eyebrow.
I handed her the tea, took my coffee, and strolled back to the sunshine. Spring wrestled its way into the city, carrying cherry blossoms, sunrays, and seasonal allergies. The trial was nearing its end with every day that passed, and with it my goodbye to Christian.
“You were the head of the luncheon committee at your local country club, were you not?” I asked, skipping over a French bulldog’s leash.
“Yes, but—”
“And you were the director of my school’s charity board?”
“So what! That doesn’t mean—”
I stopped in front of my door. I wasn’t going to invite her up. Mainly because I had to get ready and meet Christian in a few hours at the pool. Indulging in this sinful affair was quickly taking over bigger chunks of my life.
“Come work for me,” I uttered, without even realizing what I was saying. “You have good organizational skills, you look presentable, and you know how to convince people to put money into things. That’s what you’ve been doing your whole life. Come work as a marketing assistant for me.”
“Arya.” My mother placed a hand over her heart. “You cannot be serious. I can’t work a nine-to-five job at my age.”
“You can’t?” I asked. “That’s a nice use of words. Because I was under the impression that you both can and should, considering the financial situation you are about to get into.”
“I’m not like other people.”
“Isn’t that what we all think?” I wondered aloud. “That we’re different? Special? Born for bigger, brighter things? Maybe, Mother, you are just like me. Just a little less well planned. And a lot more prone to surprises.”
I got into my building and slammed the door in her face.
Christian was waiting for me at the indoor swimming arena of the gym, his body sprawled over the edge of the pool. He was lazily stunning, like the Creation of Adam painting. Each individual ridge of his six-pack was prominent, and his biceps bulged. I noticed his upper body was still dry.
He’d waited for me.
I tossed my towel over one of the benches, swaggering over to him. The pool was normally empty by the time we met. It gave us privacy. Security in the knowledge no one was going to catch us. Even if they did, what could they say? We were just two strangers, swimming in different lanes, directions, and streams of life.
“Beautiful.” He looked up. For a second there, I allowed myself to fantasize that we were a real couple. Everything was normal, familiar, soaked with potential. But then I remembered. Remembered what he’d done today before coming here. Remembered this was only a charade. A distraction. A means to satisfy a very feral need. I slapped my swim cap over my head.
“Miller.” I dived headfirst into the lane next to his. I resurfaced moments later, swimming to the edge of the pool, to him. “How’s the trial moving?”
“Rapidly.” He slid into the pool effortlessly. The water was warm, perfect, the scent of chlorine and bleach heavy around us. “We’ll be making our closing statements sometime next week. You’re not planning to come, are you?”
I shook my head. A part of me pretended my dad had died. In a way, he had. Because the version of him I loved so much was gone, or maybe had never been there.
Christian dipped his head into the water and emerged with waterdrops clinging to his thick eyelashes. “Good.”
“Are we going to compete or what?” I asked. We did a front crawl. Fifty meters. He always won. But I always tried.