no male word for whore, for bitch, for others,” she said, lifting her glass of wine to her lips, “that I’m too blissfully relaxed to come up with at the moment. Damsel is another.”
“Well, we should own it,” I said, moving back to her hair, running my fingers through it again. “I’ll gladly be the damsel in distress.”
Tammy laughed before taking another sip. “So, damsel in distress, any other roles you don’t like?”
“Nice try,” I said, wanting to take advantage of her lounging against me all relaxed to find out more about her, about those scars and why she carried that heavy burden. I knew the outcome had become very much like mine—feeling empty and unfulfilled and yet with too much history of being hurt to easily put that aside—but I didn’t know the why of it.
And with her on her second glass of wine, the tendrils of steam drifting off the surface of the water to gather on our skin, it seemed like as good a time as any.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I said. “You haven’t told me about the things you look back on and regret.”
“I’m regretting having this entire conversation,” she muttered.
“We don’t have to have it,” I told her. “Let’s talk more about the Milk Caper.”
Relief in her eyes, though it was trailed almost instantly by determination. “No,” she said. “That’s not what I want to do. I just . . . my mom died when I was six. My dad fell apart. Hell, my family fell apart. We were three separate beings in a house, then two after my brother moved out. By the time I left for college, I don’t think I spoke to my dad more than once a week, my brother even less.” She sighed. “Though not for a lack of my trying. I wanted to—no, I was absolutely desperate for someone to connect with me, to come to my school plays or soccer practice, to take pictures of me before I left for a dance.”
She went quiet for a long moment, and I struggled to find the patience to let her finish her story on her own terms.
“That’s when I started finding all of those things I wanted in other people. Sad, huh?” she said, straightening, draping her arms back over the edge again. “My boyfriend at the time, his mom was the one to take the pictures. I played soccer for myself, for my team, no fans in the stands. I never got flowers after a play. Silly small stuff, you know?”
“Not silly.”
A nod, her not contradicting me as she went on. “But it was also more than that. No home-cooked meals, no family time. When I was old enough, my dad gave me allowance to buy my own food, just like he did for my brother. We each had our shelves in the fridge, a cabinet with our purchases. We were like roommates.” Tammy sighed. “It was hard after my mom died, having that change. But later, I adjusted, and . . . I just forgot, you know? And then I’d go to a friend’s house and see how different it was—”
“And you’d remember all over again?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway, by the time my dad died, I was sad, but it was almost a relief. I didn’t have to keep trying to make a place in his life for me.”
“And your brother?”
Her smile was sad. “He’s a product of the same system. How do you think it goes?”
I traced her palm with my fingers, her skin warm and damp. “I can imagine.”
“I’m sure you can.” Her hand twitched. “I think it’s been six months since I’ve talked to him? I called him on his birthday, we spoke for two minutes, and that was it.”
“And on your birthday? Does he call you?”
The pain in her eyes sliced me to the quick. I was a fucking idiot for having asked it in the first place.
“Never mind,” I said, the words clipped out as rapidly as possible. “Let’s talk about—”
She squeezed my hand. “I really am okay.”
That smile she gave me did some squeezing of its own, grabbing my heart and clutching tightly. “Sweetheart—”
“You know what I want to do?”
“What’s that?”
“I want . . .” A sigh, quiet as the breeze on a midsummer night rustling through grass, brushed along my spine. “I just want to stop looking backward and to just live my life.”
“That sounds like sound advice.”
“Either that or thrusting my head into the sand like an ostrich.”
I squeezed her hand. “Don’t