“…You know the one thing you’re fighting to hold
Will be the one thing you’ve got to let go
And when you feel the wall cannot be burned
You’re gonna die to try what can’t be done
Gonna stay stay out but you don’t care
Now is there nothing like the inside of you anywhere…”
– MUTEMATH
____________________
I step off the plane onto the jetway where I am immediately assaulted by the stale desert air that barrels its way aggressively between the plane’s outer skin and the gap in the top of the long extended walkway that will eventually spill into the artificially cool terminal of Phoenix’s Sky Harbor Airport. I steal a moment to inhale deeply and take in the distinctive smell that permeates the air here — which can only be described as “cracked earth”. If you’ve spent any significant time here, you know what I’m talking about; the mixture of unfettered sunshine, settled dust begging for rain, and the faintly sweet smell of the mesquite trees that seem to sprout up like dandelions across the desert floor.
Every once and awhile, on very hot days when I’m anywhere else in the world, this smell fills my lungs and hits my brain as a subtle reminder of this place. But it’s always fleeting, not like it is when you’re actually standing in the middle of the Sonoran Desert and it’s assaulting you from all sides.
But I’m not here just to get a physical reminder of the distinctive scent of this place, I’m here to support my fiancé, Owen Mahr and his merry band of miscreants, otherwise known as Omicron, the biggest rock band on the planet. And so with my seven-week-old baby in tow, we’re back on the road with the band. While I secretly pray that the tabloids, who sent me scurrying to the other end of the country like a rat in the subways while a train barrels down, don’t find me.
Conveniently, Phoenix also happens to be where my paternal grandmother resides. Having decided several years ago that she preferred the dry heat and constant sunshine of the desert to the damp, morning fog of the greater San Diego area. She also managed to drag my grandfather here with her, kicking and screaming, after my father and uncle took over the family business and politely suggested that his meddling was no longer needed to ensure the future security of the business. When he passed away suddenly several years ago, my grandmother could not bear to move away from the memories she’d built here with him — so here she remains.
While it’s only been a year since I was last here to visit her, it feels like it’s been far longer, given the monumental changes that have occurred since. And as I make my way into the terminal, I can’t help the uneasy feeling of needing to please her in spite of everything that I’ve managed to not only build but also hold together since I was last here.
My grandmother is a formidable lady in spite of (or as a result of, maybe) her small physical stature. She is the final say on all things Jensen and it is her word alone that brings the family to heel when one of us gets some questionably wild idea that needs to be tamed. And it is her blessing on both my union with Owen and of the charity I hope to launch that will ultimately determine whether my recent choices of companies kept and forged will keep me on her good side, or ostracized from the family forever.
The only other family member who’s opinion has anywhere near the impact on me is that of my cousin, Timothy. Who is, for all intents and purposes, the younger, male version of my grandmother. And in spite of being three years my junior, has perfected a stare-down that is nearly as formidable. His hard stare is capable of making me squirm in my chair when its’ full force hits after having done something particularly stupid like; get pregnant in a drunken haze from someone I can’t remember, only to run off with a rockstar who has more pull with the ladies than a tractor in harvest season.
But I won’t need to deal with his scrutiny for another month when the tour hits Los Angeles. So first things first, right?
As Julia and I make our way down to the baggage claim and to the hired car that Owen insisted on supplying, I feel the shiver of nerves roll down my back and through my fingertips. What if my grandmother hates the idea of this foundation and hates my choice in mate? Because while I have always been strong-willed and one to refuse the conventions of approval of my actions from my peers, the approval from my grandmother, is a whole other ball game, as they say.
The band arrives tomorrow and so I will have an entire day with her and my aunt who is in town visiting for the week from California, while my father and uncle are at a company conference in Palm Springs.
As I step off the escalator, I’m ambushed by Owen’s bodyguard, Justin, who’s smiling and waving animatedly in my direction, while I can only shake my head in mock exasperation and try not to laugh. I ask him what he’s doing here, away from the tour and the job he was actually hired for. But I already know the answer, given Owen’s reaction to the incident on the street in New York the day he left for Seattle.
Our bags are already resting in a small pile around Justin’s feet as he asks me if he can carry anything else. I shake my head and offer to help drag out the other bags from the terminal and to the waiting car, but Justin declines as he balances everything like the star attraction of a Cirque du Soleil show and leads us out of the cool air and back into the oppressive heat.
Justin and the hired driver get Julia’s car seat securely anchored into the backseat, before I set her in and settle myself next to her in the car. Followed immediately by the Mercedes streaking through the Phoenix streets toward North Scottsdale.
It takes longer than I seem to remember, before we finally pull into the driveway of my grandmother’s house. With views of the entire valley from one side of the house and of Pinnacle Peak from the other, I have many fond memories of summers here as a kid spent by the backyard pool, movies with my cousins and shopping at Scottsdale Fashion Square while we tried to stay out of the blistering afternoon heat.
We’re barely out of the car when all four-feet-ten of my grandmother comes scurrying out of the house with wide arms as she pulls me into her soft body and exclaims that my fiancé is a “major hottie”. Her opinion, it turns out, is solely based on the photos that hit People magazine last week after the first night of the tour. Apparently, in the Las Vegas heat, Owen stripped out of his stage-approved, G-rated wardrobe and gave every female on the planet eight more reasons to squeal at unreasonable decibels in delight at the mere mention of his name — my grandmother included. After seeing the photos for myself, I’m just happy that he stopped with his shirt or there’d have been riots in the damn streets for all the hoopla over his extremely well sculpted torso and eight-pack abs plus that inexplicably sexy set of muscles at his hips, that I’ve heard referred to as the “Loin of Apollo”. And for which, I’ve been subjected to reading about online endlessly for the last several days.
My grandmother leads us inside where I’m pulled into another hug from my aunt while my grandmother goes for Julia, detaching her quickly from her carrier to nuzzle her soft little face with a sigh of granny contentment. I introduce them both to Justin, who is clearly uncomfortable being the sole guy in this reunion of sorts, but he hides it well as he explains that he and the driver are going to head down to the band’s hotel to check us in and unload the hired Mercedes of our luggage.
The four of us settle into comfortable furniture as I’m grilled on everything that’s happened in the last couple of months, since I’d last talked with them both. We discuss number five and the game she’s decided to play with our lives by selling out to the tabloid, for which everyone, family or otherwise, is in undisputed agreement that she deserves no mercy from me, Owen, or anyone else. We talk about Owen and the engagement, which has yet to become public knowledge. And for which, Owen and I are unified in the decision that it shouldn’t now or preferably ever. To this point, we’ve managed to keep the news to the inner circle only and we have no intention of ever alerting the press unless it becomes absolutely necessary.
My grandmother and Aunt titter adorably over the ring, which I have to admit, I’m still getting used to wearing. And were I totally honest with those around me, I’ve rarely been doing so since Owen put it on my finger. Especially while I was still traipsing all over Manhattan and slightly nervous to have it grab the attention like one of those Hollywood premiere spotlights in the dark, from anyone who may have caught wind that I’d left the tour. Clearly, Owen and I will have to find some sort of reasonable resolution about the ring once he arrives tomorrow along with how we’re going to handle this whole engagement thing from here forward.
Julia is placed back into her carrier, that’s been set onto a deep-seated patio chair, and is sleeping peacefully while the adults settle in on the mist-cooled and shaded patio by the pool for a light lunch while we continue to catch up with one another. I listen avidly about the family’s business and what my beloved cousins have been up to in the months since I’ve last seen them. All three seem to be doing well with their respective paths in spite of being scattered around the country pursuing various careers and away from the shelter of my somewhat overprotective but extremely well-intentioned aunt and uncle.
After lunch, we change into our swimsuits and spend the rest of the afternoon lazily bobbing with the baby in the sun-warmed water. My aunt and I pass her between us while my grandmother does her pool aerobics in the shallow end. By four in the afternoon, my grandmother has moved on to her own personal happy hour martini before we all dress for supper, load Julia into my grandmother’s sedan and drive down the mountain to town to the Scottsdale Princess Resort where we have reservations at my favorite Mexican restaurant, La Hacienda.
After a lovely, lingering supper, where we’re all stuffed absolutely silly; first sharing tableside crafted guacamole, lobster tacos and a squash blossom quesadilla. I followed this up with a very excellent pescado zarandeado. The conversation is as good as the food, and they practically have to roll me out of the place to get me to the car for the half-hour drive from one hotel to another. And in spite of the lively conversation as my aunt guides the car south on Scottsdale Road, passing Gainey Ranch and the Railroad park we used to go to as kids. My eyes start to droop thanks to the long day and the overindulgence at dinner, before she can even turn west onto Lincoln Drive. I force my eyes to stay open, searching in the darkness for Mummy and Camelback mountains as we pass between them. Finally as we reach the base of the Phoenix Mountains Preserve, my aunt turns into the historic and exclusive Biltmore Resort Hotel.
I’d called Justin as soon as my grandmother’s sedan had been delivered by the valet, since I will need him to meet me in the Biltmore’s lobby to get my room key. So, I’m surprised to see him waiting outside at the valet station when my aunt pulls the car to a smooth stop under the entrance’s canopy. Justin opens the back passenger side door, immediately retrieving Julia’s full carrier, deftly unhooking the base from the anchor mechanism. He cradles the complete contraption in his arms as the valets rush to open doors for me, my grandmother and aunt and help us all out of our respective seats. I turn to head into the lobby when Justin stops me, explaining that we’re in the Villas that surround the Catalina Pool. He points to an oversized golf cart as the valets guide my relatives over to the cart and help them into the wide bench seats. My day-bags join them, thanks to a bellhop and Justin and I climb into the cart before it takes off, making a smooth u-turn in the circular driveway.
The hotel, considered the finest in the city, was designed by Albert Chase McArthur in 1928. However it was thanks to his collaboration with the celebrated architect Frank Lloyd Wright, acting as a consulting architect, that elevated this hotel to legendary status. Floodlights bounce off the façade, showcasing the peaks and valleys of the “Biltmore Block”-constructed, architectural masterpiece. The Catalina Pool, replete with yellow and blue Spanish tile was added in 1930, when the resort was owned by the Wrigley family. We don’t have far to go before the cart darts between several smaller buildings and past a nondescript sign that reads; “Catalina Pool Villas”. The cart turns into this grouping of buildings, winding around past several tennis courts before stopping in a smaller alleyway between one of the villas and a larger building across the cart path.
The villas are situated more like condos, one each per floor, in two-story buildings. There are a few free-standing, while others are built as duplexes and triplexes. We’re directed to the lower-level door of the villa directly in front of us, while Justin explains the living arrangements while we’re here. We have three full buildings, one villa each for the band members, with Owen, Evan and Max each getting ones on the first floor. While Joseph, the band’s manager, and our personal security team take the remaining three villas above us. Though I would argue that with ours on the end, situated neatly between the Catalina pool, the main resort pool and the Spa is the best of the group.
Justin explains that Joseph will be our upstairs neighbor, then points out Evan’s villa, situated diagonally from ours, which will also contain the security team — keeping them centrally located between all three spaces. While Max and the Manager are across the path from us and part of the Saguaro Pool Villas group.
I open the door to our villa and am immediately struck by how spacious it is. There’s a bedroom flanking each end of the space, accessed directly from the elevated entryway. A couple of steps down reveals that the villa has been newly and fully renovated, if the top-of-the-line, fully equipped kitchen is any indication. I immediately walk over to the full wall of multi-slide patio windows and unlock the center panel before sliding the windows to full-open. It’s a gorgeous night out and after being in the still-chilly nights of Dublin and New York, I relish the opportunity to let in the night air. I take in the full patio, which houses a table with seating for six, comfortably-padded chaise loungers and a full outdoor kitchen setup before I finally notice the small gate that leads over the lush grass and the sparkling Catalina pool immediately beyond.
Back inside, there’s a full dining room area with another table for six, situated on one end of the room, which is flanked by a sitting area and anchored by a full, gas-powered fireplace — which has become all the rage in the last few years. Justin points out the fully-stocked fridge, full of our favorite snacks and beverages and the pantry shelves full of tortilla chips, gluten-free crackers and, for some unknown reason, Oreo cookies.
I notice that Julia’s portable crib has been placed into what is clearly the master bedroom, with its patio access and en-suite bathroom. The second bedroom, on the other side of the living space, has a bathroom accessed by both the bedroom and hallway and is big enough to house two queen-sized beds, allowing us to sleep at least six in this place.
The hotel staff have finished depositing the rest of our things and offer to take my grandmother and aunt back to the main entrance, so we wrap things up for the evening, distribute hugs to one another and all-too-soon, Julia and I are left alone to settle into our house-sized suite.
* * * * *
The next day, after much discussion, begging, pleading, and eventually having to resort to mild coercion on my part, Justin finally relents and lets me forgo the hired car in lieu of a rental car I’ve decided that I’d rather drive around town while I’m here. To be honest, I’m rather surprised that Justin doesn’t make me take a driver’s exam before he finally hands me the keys to the rented and utterly impractical Porsche 911 convertible that I’ve managed to secure for the next few days. And while I know this choice is completely frivolous, over-the-top, wealthy person obnoxiousness, I can’t help but be excited to be all of the aforementioned things for the next four days for the opportunity to drive really, really fast in the desert.
However, I also know that this choice is also completely kid-unfriendly, so I’ve arranged for one of the office assistants to come to our villa and watch the baby for a few hours while I follow the security team and band’s publicist back down to the airport. We’ll be picking up my fiancé and his band of freaks and where I’ll be able to steal him away for an afternoon to drive around my old summer stomping grounds before we head back to the hotel to change for dinner with my aunt and grandmother.
With the significantly heightened security, due to the band’s arrival this morning, it’s only because I’m in the company of the tour’s advance team that I’m allowed down anywhere near the band’s arrival gate. We’re in terminal 1 this morning, where private flights are welcomed into town and where you still have to use the old-school “air-stairs” to get on and off the plane. Commercial flights stopped using this terminal before I’d hit puberty, but they still relegate private flights to the original terminal.
Thanks to the internet for making an entirely new hell possible for the “celebrities” of the world, the entire place is crawling with both Phoenix and Sky Harbor Airport police who have their hands very full corralling the fans who’ve managed to hear that the band’s plane was due into town this morning in advance of tomorrow’s show at Sun Devil Stadium on the ASU Campus. And while I wait anxiously just inside the building as the external staircase rolls up to the door of the band’s plane, I simultaneously try to ignore the increasing screeching noise that’s coming from the surprisingly large gaggle of fans roped off about a hundred yards deeper into the terminal.
Justin jokes quietly in my ear about the fans’ determination to break the sound barrier, when the band’s head of security, Salvatore Valenti (Sal, for short), pushes through the door with a fatherly squeeze to my shoulder and a quietly-delivered invitation to go out to the plane if I don’t feel like waiting any longer to see my fiancé. The move is discreet and seamless as he passes by before going to inspect the security measures the airport has taken before he’ll let his charges off the full, commercial-sized jet plane. I nod in thanks, but elect to remain where I stand, preferring not to be the roadblock to everyone in the touring party while they’re trying to get off the damn plane just so I can run my hands over Owen’s well-sculpted ass ninety seconds sooner.
After a full inspection and a couple of requests for changes, Sal finally approves the crowd control measures taken by the airport and city police and radios back to the airplane that it’s okay for everyone to come off and get to the cars. Sal explains to the gathered fans that if they can stay calm, the guys should have some time to stop and say hello. But any shenanigans on the fans’ part, he’ll call foul and that will be the immediate end of this impromptu meet-and-greet.
I’m only half-listening to Sal’s fan instructions though, as I watch the plane for my lover, finally catching my first glimpse of Owen as he makes his way carefully down the stairs and onto the hot concrete tarmac. I see him adjust the collar of his t-shirt, loosening it around his neck as the blast of desert heat hits his skin. And while I know he can’t see me through the dark-shaded film on the terminal glass, I’m pretty sure he knows I’ve come here to meet him.
Evan and Maggie are the first through the doors and as soon as the fans figure out that the man under the ratty baseball hat is their favorite guitarist, the wail of excitement hits maximum velocity as it reverberates through the building like a round — bouncing off the glass in a series of endless echoes and enveloping us like the worst kind of surround sound.
“Holy shit! Don’t these people have jobs or something?” Maggie exclaims in her lyrical Irish accent as she pulls me to her hip in a half-hug while Evan greets me with a sweet smile, a quick hug and a chuckle of disbelief of his own at the sheer intensity of the reception they’re receiving on a Thursday morning. We chat for a couple of minutes about the flight before my friends are ushered over to the fans to start this unscheduled meet-and-greet, so we can eventually be on our way. As the fans’ tittering hits DEFCON-3, I barely have time to take a breath before Joseph and Max step out of the heat and stare disbelievingly at the sheer number of people packed into the other end of the room. Joseph comments about not wanting to be swallowed up by the horde as he scans the area, desperate for an alternate exit, while Max’s eyes light up at the prospect of communing with the bevvy of cute girls who have started screaming their names.
“Hiya baby.” Max turns his attention my way as Joseph releases me from a hug and murmured comment in my ear offering congratulations on the engagement.
In all of the hoopla, I don’t even see Owen cross the threshold or come up to pull me against him from behind as Max raises an eyebrow and takes a long drink from his bottled water. Nor do I notice the elusive and extremely well-dressed Aileen Fitzgerald slink through the door, along with several staffers and their five-year-old daughter, Regan, until she stops in front of Max and starts tapping her foot lightly on the stone floor, as a look of boredom and agitation rapidly takes over her conventionally pretty features. Max notices though and lets the bottle slip from his lips with a resounding pop. For which he only gets an exasperated roll of the eyes in return from his perpetually absent wife. Regan, however, giggles in mirth at her daddy’s antics.
Owen quickly notices the lack of any conversation amongst us, and makes to introduce me to Max’s wife and daughter. Perhaps it’s a move to lighten the darkening mood that’s rapidly descending over the group thanks to the building tension between the Mister and Missus Fitzgerald. Ever the diplomat however, Owen makes introductions while Joseph heralds me as the soon-to-be Missus Mahr. As this declaration hits the air, Aileen finally snaps out of her piqué-fueled stare-down with her husband to study me intently for several long seconds before she finally remembers herself and flashes a smile in my direction. And in that fleeting moment, I can see what fascinated Max all those years ago.
However, the tension is only dissipated for a moment, when Max declares that we should all go skinny-dipping in the middle of the day in the hotel’s pool. I can’t help instinct and instead of just letting the comment hang in the air, I immediately tease Max about five-star hotels letting boys like him onto their properties. While Aileen seethes and volleys back a scathing rejoinder about propriety in public. I know, I should know better, but the comment from his wife brings out the protective instincts in me and I feel the need to try to defuse the tension for a second time in as many minutes. Instead of taking the free out though, Max pointedly ignores Aileen and dishes it right back at me, teasing me on an Olympic level about the opportunity of finally getting a glimpse of his best friend’s girl naked.
I shudder inwardly, knowing what he’s doing. Max is deliberately trying to get Aileen to publicly blow a gasket. Why, I’m not sure. To prove to me that things really are as bad as he believes them to be when he calls me in the middle of the night to share all of his secrets while out of earshot of his wife?
He’s playing with the rules of this game. Twisting and turning them to his advantage however he sees fit or when he feels my affection for him is slipping. But doesn’t he feel the chemistry threatening to spill over as my stomach churns while he stares at me like that? And it doesn’t even seem to matter that the reaction is unwanted by me, given the update in my status or that our significant others are standing less than five feet away from us.
And while the tension ramps back up to somewhere just short of critical level, I elect to bury it and the illicit affection I’m feeling as Owen possessively pulls me tighter into his side. I’m relieved for the reminder of where my heart and mind should be focused. Moments later, we head off toward where the fans are corralled.
As we approach the throng of mostly female fans, who are now at DEFCON-1, I remember the very large ring I’m now sporting and quickly make to hide my hands from public view until we can get to the safety of the cars.
* * * * *
“Anyone else want a lift back to the hotel?” I ask as we finally make our way outside to the cars parked along the curb. We can still clearly hear the fans freaking out for having met the objects of their desire through the glass and over the sound of the jets taking off just beyond the building. Car doors stand open to a small army of SUV’s and passenger vans ready to help everyone make their escape before the fans crash back to earth like dead satellites and figure out where we’ve gone.
Engines idle, just waiting for the gear to shift and the gas pedal to be engaged, to take the band and their entourage to the hotel that will serve as command central for the next several days. Evan gives a low whistle of appreciation as he inspects my sweet ride, while Owen hands off his carry-on to Justin, who’s arranged with Sal for us to have a few hours of security-free time, before coming over to join us by the candy-apple red Porsche.
The trade-off for me being allowed to drive myself around town is that we have strict instructions not to stop anywhere overly public or to linger if anyone recognizes us. We also agree to call when we’re on our way back to give our head of security a head’s up, so they can see to crowd control, even though I’ve secured valet services with the hotel for the next four days.
Owen climbs into the passenger side with a satisfied sigh as Max looks longingly at his bandmate’s afternoon of freedom before making eye contact with me. If the pleading look he flashes my way is any indication, Max would clearly prefer to ditch the growing tension between him and Aileen and come along with us, even if it means being the third wheel and abandoning his daughter for the afternoon. But the moment passes quickly as he sighs visibly and climbs into the back of the dark SUV next to his wife while Jasmine climbs into the front passenger seat and the oversized vehicle pulls away from the curb, speeding off toward the hotel.
Joseph, on his own for the first couple weeks of the tour, wins the extra spot on our excursion as he hurdles into the car’s jump seat in the back, while I make my way over to the driver’s side, close myself in, buckle up and turn the car over in a seamless set of motions before I hit the button to activate the wind screen behind the backseat. The screen lets us enjoy the hot sunshine but still feel the cold air from the air conditioning and having the top down more bearable in the heat.
Once I’m all set, I smile a little wickedly at my companions before stepping confidently on the gas and clutch then quickly shifting from first through second and third gears. The car takes off like a thoroughbred at the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby, as I make the quick decision to take the long route for our little expedition and head off the opposite way from the other tour vehicles, taking 24th street.
“This is so strange!” Joseph says several moments later, while we’re waiting at a stoplight.
“What is?” I ask Joseph, as I glance over at Owen who just sits rigidly in the passenger seat, eyes wide, in petrified silence.
“You. Driving. It’s just not right.” Joseph announces with a chuckle and a shake of his head.
“Amen.” Owen says with a definite nervous tone to his voice.
“Owen, are you scared of me driving?” I giggle. “I drove while we were in Minneapolis.”
“Yes, but that was a four-cylinder sedan. This is practically a race car…and there’s no top on this car.” Owen says in all seriousness.
“You’re scared!” I tease with a chuckle. Nah, I’m outright laughing like a banshee.
“Not at all, darling.” Owen lies, for he is clearly clutching the door handle in a death grip. And I just cackle with glee as I make the right turn on to Camelback and take off at top speed down the wide street while the radio blares Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” as we fly through the streets of Phoenix.
Owen, Joseph, and I arrive at the Biltmore at a little after three in the afternoon. I’d cavorted my companions all over town, showing off places I’d hung out during the yearly summers I’d spent here. And as we arrive in the lobby, deciding to walk through the lush grounds to our villa, the much-debated gossip among the staff is that Max won the battle of whether to swim or not to swim (albeit not naked, thank goodness).
Aileen had tried to put her foot down, adamant that Regan should take a nap, in spite of her protests that she was no longer three and didn’t need to. Regan wanted to swim with her daddy and his friends in the warm Arizona sun. Max, siding with Regan usurped Aileen’s authority and set off a holy war between the couple. So, thanks to the ensuing drama, I’m not as surprised as I should be to find that Max is holding court with several tour staffers in the hotel bar, clad in his hotel robe, with potentially nothing on underneath.
Max sees us and comes over to throw himself around Joseph’s shoulders while his eyes roam over my sun-kissed skin and simultaneously tries to convince the three of us to join him in the bar. But we decline, claiming the desperate need for a shower after being out all afternoon in an open-top car and Owen’s desire to reunite with his baby girl. We shuffle through the main building of the resort before pushing out the backdoor and onto the pathway leading to our villas, ready to relieve the junior staffer, who’s been hanging with Julia for the afternoon.
As we reach our villa building, and we part ways to head to our respective suites, I remind Joseph that we’re all going to dinner at seven-thirty and we should meet in the lobby at seven. While it’s all a little early for us, we’re making an exception for my grandmother, who isn’t much good past ten-thirty now that she’s hit her late seventies. Joseph smiles, says goodbye and climbs the stairs to his suite.
Max, on the other hand, decides that he’s had enough fun at the bar for the moment, so follows us down the path and into our suite, where he tosses himself onto the sofa in the sitting room and flips on the television like he owns the place. Owen sighs, a quick flash of concern crossing his face before quickly schooling his features. He’s been around long enough to have seen this scene more times than he can probably count at this point, so barely a beat passes before he wordlessly walks from the suite’s foyer directly through our bedroom and into the bathroom for a shower.
“Max, honey, can I ask you a question?” I sit down on a plush armchair, after thanking and dismissing the staffer watching Julia and where I ready myself to feed my starving daughter. I cover up so as not to give the resident flirt a free show and let Julia at her meal.
“Of course, baby.” He smiles, glancing over to my perch. He’s leering anyway and I try not to roll my eyes in response as Max gives up on hoping to see whatever he was hoping to see and returns his gaze to the television. Perhaps trying to find a better show than the one I’m not giving him. But he seems to only be absently flipping through channels on the TV and unable to fix his attention on any one particular show.
“Why are you here and not with Aileen and Regan?”
“She kicked me out after I didn’t do what she wanted and let Regan go swimming instead. It’s so rare we get a free day, I didn’t want to waste an opportunity to spend some time with her.” He says nonchalantly, looking blankly at the screen.
“She kicked you out because of that?” I ask seriously.
“It doesn’t take much these days,” he says cryptically.
“Max, do you love her?” I finally just give in and barrel through any decorum that’s left in my relationship with Max with this very personal question.
Max says nothing for several long moments while he formulates the right words in his head before releasing them to the room and giving them a reality he’s not yet had to face in mixed company.
“I respect her a lot.” He admits. “And I love her, but,” Max stops and thinks for another moment before deciding just how honest he wants to be with me on this otherwise sunny Thursday afternoon. “I guess I don’t know if I’m in love with her anymore, you know? Not after the last six months, anyway.”
“Yes. I understand.” I reply in a near whisper. He’s talking about Christmas and whatever transpired before that and while he was on the Spanish Riviera with her.
“She’s my wife and my first real love, so I’m always going to love her in some way. But it just doesn’t feel the same as it used to. You understand, right? Your parents aren’t together anymore…” He looks back to the screen where his eyes light up like a child to Pinky and the Brain. And I know I’ve lost him for now as he sighs in contentment and declares his love for this animated kid’s show before crossing his legs beneath him on the sofa and the subject of his crumbling marriage is forgotten in a swirl of Cockney Mice and Technicolor.