Axis of Aaron (41 page)

Watching Vicky trail off expectantly, Ebon remembered just how far into uncharted waters he was. He’d skirted the issue of Vicky with Aimee, and he’d skirted the issue of Aimee with Vicky. But Vicky had mentioned Aimee, meaning that she knew. But
what
did she know? And what, if anything, did
Aimee
know? He’d lied to her at least once about staying over at Vicky’s. So did Aimee even know Vicky existed? What had he told each woman about his relationship with the other, and had it been the truth? For that matter, what
was
the truth? And did it make a difference? Why
would
he keep secrets? There was too much unknown. Treading those grounds was asking to step on a buried mine.

“It’s fine. I’d planned to stay here anyway.”
 

Vicky’s face seemed momentarily perplexed. “Why would you plan to stay here?”
 

“Oh. I just meant that usually … I mean, in the past, we’d … ” Ebon had no idea how to end any of those sentences.
 

“You wanted sex.”
 

The statement was a splash of cold water. Yes, Ebon supposed he’d wanted sex. And, given the precedent that seemed to exist between them (he’d woken up nude in her bed, after all), he supposed it wasn’t an unreasonable expectation. But hearing it so baldly was disarming. Even Holly had usually been more discreet.
 

“Well … sure?” He didn’t want to say no, thinking it might sound like rejection.

“So you just assumed.”
 

“Well, I figured that … ”
 

“I don’t live here, Ebon. This is my weekend home. And I’ve told you over and over how much I value being alone. How much I need that time to recharge.”
 

“But you’ve been coming here this late in the year to see me.”
 

Vicky put her hands on her hips. Three strikes in a row.
 

“Oh, really.”
 

“That’s what you told me,” said Ebon sheepishly.

“Look, I liked having sex with you. I’d definitely do it again. But …” Vicky sighed, seeming to realize that she might be overreacting, trying to dial down. Softer, she said, “I just don’t do dependence well. You can’t go asking me for a dedicated drawer, assuming without being asked that you’ll sleep over, all that.” Still trying to dim what was clearly an honest and important set of statements, she stepped closer and ran her hand down his arm. “It’s just how I am. Yes, I’d love it if you’d stay over tonight. But … ”
 

“The fact that I assumed is a problem.”
 

Vicky rolled her eyes up and sighed, as if frustrated with herself. “See? I’m not good at relationships. I’m too selfish.”
 

Ebon had been thinking the opposite. She took care of him. She soothed his sorrows. She was his rock. Nobody had ever been that for him before, or had ever even tried. Even Aimee, though she’d given him a place to stay and an ear to hear him, was too flighty for Ebon to feel stable. Over the course of just a few months, Vicky had become his port in the storm — the fully realized woman that Aimee had never really become, that Holly had never aspired to be, and that Ebon was slightly ashamed to admit he needed, both because of the way he was wired and because more and more recently he felt like he was falling apart.
 

The disorientation. The skipped time. The spinning reality; the fact that seaside carnivals vanished and reappeared. It was easy to pretend that the lies weren’t there with Vicky by his side.
 

“You’re not selfish.”
 

“Stay. Go. You can choose.” She watched him, waiting.
 

“I’d like to stay at least for a while longer.” It was a non-response and a non-decision, but seemed to do the job. Vicky softened. Ebon sat back down on the divan and resumed sipping his cocoa.
 

“You were mumbling when you were passed out.”
 

“I was … dreaming …
 
about Holly.”
 

“Who’s Holly?”
 

Sip.
“My wife.”

“You’re married?”
 

“Of course I’m … ” Ebon trailed off as he raised his left hand to point out his rather obvious wedding ring, but apparently he hadn’t worn it today. During the pockets of time when Ebon seemed to be in control, he’d been about fifty-fifty with the ring. On some days, he was nostalgic for his early times with Holly before she’d shown her true colors. On other days — often those on which he read her journal and saw the monster under the surface — he took it off. Today must have been one of the latter.
 

“You’re kidding, right? You’re not actually married.” Vicky sounded as if she was trying to turn the words into reality, rather than waiting to see if they were objectively true or false.
 

“Was
married. You know this.”
 

“How could you not tell me?”
 

“It was … ” He was about to say
… a long time ago,
but it had only been a few months. Ebon’s sense of time was distorted and sloppy, like an overly cluttered room. He changed tacks and said rather bluntly, “She died.”
 

“When?”
 

“This spring.”
 

“This spring?”
Her hand went to her mouth, flat across like a Norman Rockwell of surprise.
 

“I told you all of this,” Ebon said. But was that true? He’d discussed it in depth with Aimee, but had just assumed with Vicky, given all their time together.
 

“No, you did
not
. I feel pretty sure I’d remember it. How did she die?”
 

“In a car accident.” Ebon thought about stopping, but something bitter made him add, “With her lover.”
 

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”
 

“It’s nothing.”
 

“It’s
not
nothing! How could you not tell me?”

Ebon wanted to say,
I assumed I had,
but decided it would do more harm than good.

“Ebon, Jesus! So, what … she was cheating?”
 

“Yes.” Part of him wanted to go on and tell Vicky all about what a cheating, filthy, traitorous whore Holly had turned out to be, but another part — a surprisingly
strong
part — held his tongue. Something about the dream (or whatever) was pushing against him, shouting that telling her all of that wouldn’t just be inappropriate and unfair to Vicky, but that it would also not be the whole truth. And yet it
was
the truth. He’d caught Holly red-handed barely an hour after she’d died, then repeatedly afterward while browsing her private, handwritten pages. He’d been the most stable notch on Holly’s bedpost, but nothing more. She’d been his world, but all he’d been to her was an earner, a sometimes-friend, and a toy.
 

That internal hand held him back. He felt a psychic aftershock that only dimly made sense: the feeling of a shaking room, of the world crumbling away. Something that shouldn’t be said, or recalled.
 

“I’m so sorry.”
 

“It is what it is.”
 

“How have you been dealing with it? Did you talk to anyone about it?”
 

“I talked to Aimee.”
 

“Why?”
 

“Why not?”
 

“I don’t understand you, Ebon.” Vicky shook her head. “You won’t talk to me about any of this, but you’ll talk to her?”
 

“Jesus, Vicky. Of
course
I’d talk to her about it. And I’m telling you now.”
 

“What do you mean, of course you’d tell her?”
 

Ebon felt frustration mounting. He was tired of not knowing where he stood, tired of hiding without the benefits of choosing to hide, tired of not being able to trust the ground underfoot — literally, it seemed, in some cases. He wanted to keep peace with Vicky (and ideally get some of the sex he seemed to need), but was done with niceties and eggshells.
 

“I’ve known her all my life!”
 

“So what?”
 

“We played on the beach as kids! We did all those stupid teen things together! She taught me how to kiss, Vicky!”
 

“She … what?”
 

Ebon was on a roll, now more broken and angry than tentative. “When you’ve known someone that long, you talk to them. Don’t you have childhood friends who you … ”
 

“I thought you were just renting her father’s cottage.”
 

“What? No. I’m staying there with her.”
 

“As lovers?”
 

“No, but … ”
 

“You said you have a past. She’s an old girlfriend.”

Ebon was tired of charades. He stood. “
Old
girlfriend! And even then, just barely! Look, what the fuck did you think was going on? You asked about checking in with her. I always mention that she’s there, and — ”
 

“Because you’re helping to fix up the cottage. I didn’t realize she was sleeping there too.”
 

“What fucking difference does it make?”
 

Vicky crossed her arms. When she spoke, her words were spiteful, bitter. “You’ll have to give me a minute to process. I just learned about two of your past intimate relationships in the span of sixty seconds. A wife and a girlfriend, both kept from me.”

“They weren’t
kept
from you.”
 

“And yet,” she said, “I had no idea.”
 

“Well, what does it matter?” Ebon spat back. “I’m not allowed to stay here and invade your ‘alone time.’ I guess that gives me some idea where I stand in
your
life.” Ebon felt his own arms cross. He probably looked
angry, but was actually hurt. Vicky was his anchor, and she’d just broken the chain before his eyes. How could someone be your port in the storm when it was clear she wanted no layabout ships bobbing idle in her docks?

“That’s not fair.”
 

“Like hell it isn’t! What have you told
me
, Vicky?”
 

“I tell you everything!”
 

“And yet,” he said, mimicking her from earlier, “I know nothing.”
 

“This is ridiculous! It’s not the same! How could you not tell me about your past with Aimee? How could you not tell me about your wife?”
 

“Because she’s fucking dead!”
 

Ebon’s shout surprised him as much as it surprised Vicky. The room was dead silent for a beat. Vicky waited, standing in place, disarmed. Then Ebon sat. Slowly, Vicky sat opposite him.
 

“I’m sorry,” he said.
 

“It’s okay.”
 

“It’s not. I guess I should have said something.” He wanted to clip “I guess” from the sentence, but it was the best he could do. Some other Ebon had forged the relationship with Vicky. Ebon couldn’t take responsibility for it, even though that responsibility paradoxically seemed to be his. He felt as if he had a doppelgänger — one who’d lived an idealized version of events while he, the real Ebon, was left behind to struggle through the muck. They were a pair of mirror personalities, each fighting to control the today that would become tomorrow’s official history.

Vicky kept her body language open. She looked almost maternal, no longer angry but still dead sexy. Ebon had to fight to keep his mind clean through the moment’s sobriety.
 

“Did you know she was unfaithful before she died?” Vicky said softly.
 

Ebon, looking at his shoes, shook his head.
 

“How did you find out?”
 

“They brought them in together. I guess she was still alive when the EMTs arrived, and they told me she said my name, and … ”
 

Ebon felt something hard settle into his gut. He blinked, and the room shimmered for a moment. Then the feeling was gone.
 

“ … And they thought he — Mark, that was the guy’s name; they had him on a stretcher nearby and … ” Ebon couldn’t tell Vicky what he’d seen, the way his fly had been open and too much had been visible. It seemed to sully a hard moment, though it had all been true. That was Holly, through and through. Sex in the fast lane right up until the moment the driver crossed the middle line, jarred by a spasm biology had intended for no man to control. “ … And they thought Mark, the driver, was me. It all unraveled from there.”
 

Vicky put her hand on his leg, urging him to continue.
 

“When I was cleaning out her stuff, I found a journal. I know I shouldn’t have opened it, but I did.” Ebon clearly remembered that journal. It had been massive, book-sized and meant for recording decades and earning its permanent spot on a shelf. The first hundred pages or so had been blank, and Holly had started writing fresh in the middle, giving no clue as to why she she’d ignored the beginning. “She … well, it was obvious, reading through it, that she hadn’t been faithful for long after we were married. And definitely not while we were dating.”