The Saturday after the first commercial started to air, I met Trey’s dad, Franklin. I haven’t mentioned the commercial to Trey. I want him to see it and be surprised. We are out on the Jenny Sue with Trey’s whole family. Petra brought a picnic basket, and she and I work together making sandwiches in the narrow galley. It is close quarters in the small kitchen, and I feel the small beads of perspiration pricking my hairline. I am so nervous being around her, even though she has given me no reason to think she is judging me. We make small talk, and I let her guide our conversation, barely keeping up with the sandwich making. We talk about Southern California and if I like it. She wants to ask about my family, about my background. She wants to dig in and find out who I am, the girl her son brought home. I know she wants to; I see it in her eyes. She doesn’t ask those kind of questions, though—she has better manners than that—so she asks about my job at the hospital, she asks what my next modeling project is, she asks if I always wanted to be a model.
“No.” I laugh out loud. “I never even thought about that. I just found the right photographer who was looking for someone like me. It’s not a real job; you know what I mean.” She seems to like this, and a small smile plays on her lips. I don’t want her to think I’m vain. I want her to think I’m steadfast, a good match for her perfect son. I wish Trey hadn’t told them about the modeling
“So what do you want to do, when you aren’t modeling anymore?”
“I want to be a nurse.”
“Was your mom a nurse?”
I chuckle. “No. She wasn’t.”
“What does she do?” she asks, and I glance at her quickly, looking for judgement.
“She passed away.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head. “I remember now; Trey mentioned that.” She smiles, compresses her lips, and shifts the conversation back into more comfortable territory. “Have you always been interested in medicine?”
“No. I don’t think I was really interested in anything, growing up.” It is an admission, and I know she hears the honesty in my voice. “After my mom died I felt like . . .” I struggle for the right way to say it. “I had to find a path.” A small breath pauses in my throat. “Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely.”
“I just think there will always be work in medicine. I think I’ll be good at it.”
“You’ll do great.” Her confidence surprises me, and I hear an echo of my younger self: what would it have been like to grow up with a mother like her?
“I hope so.” I tell her the classes I’m taking—psychology, nursing fundamentals, and pharmacology. Even though I quit the job at the hospital, I’m taking the classes, because I’ve paid for them, and when this modeling thing falls through I want to have something solid to go to.
“I took all of those. If you have any problems, I’m happy to help.” She repositions a sandwich on the tray and lifts it.
“I really appreciate that.”
She turns to me as we move toward the stairs. “Trey told us that both of your parents are gone. I’m sorry I forgot. I’m sure that’s very difficult.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” I swallow and hold her eyes.
“May I ask how they passed?”
“My father wasn’t really a part of my life. They divorced when I really young.” It is strange to talk about “father,” as if he is someone I once knew. For a split second I imagine holding nothing back. I hear myself telling her the truth—that my mom tried to commit suicide by pumping a big bubble of air into her heart but had overdosed instead. I imagine saying it like I would say she had a heart attack, or like I would say there is a mosquito flying around my ear.
Would her expression change? Would her gentle concern change, as she came to understand that I am not of the right gene pool, to something less inviting? Less kind?
“My mom . . . she just wasted away. You know? She wasn’t well.”
“How tragic. How old was she?”
“She was in her thirties, really young.” Telling her that my mother was thirty-two felt like telling her too much, and I am cautious.
“Had she been seeing a doctor?”
“No. She hadn’t.” I bite my tongue to not tell her how my mother hated doctors and hospitals. I screw the lid onto the mustard jar and put it back in the cooler. She doesn’t know if she likes me, or if she can trust me. I see her trying to decide in her cool, assessing gaze.
We make our way up the narrow stairs to join Jenny and the men on deck. “What a shame,” she says. “Do you think it was a genetic malady?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so.” What was I thinking? Telling her my mother wasted away with some vague illness was not smart, not in a family of doctors. She is a clinician. Her husband is a surgeon. They are trained to fix people.
“What are you ladies talking about?” Trey’s father asks as he leans forward and puts his hand on Petra’s elbow. Petra sets the tray down on the table they’ve set up, and I turn to find Trey’s warm, kind eyes on me.
“Oh, Alison was just telling me about her poor mother. Weren’t you dear?” I nod, giving Trey a small, pinched smile before turning to meet his father’s eyes.
“Yes, Trey mentioned she had passed,” Franklin says, and I feel like Petra has passed the baton, and now it is his turn, with his medical background, to start asking and trying to understand. I let out a big breath and force my shoulders to relax, forcing the tension from my frame the way John has taught me during our photo shoots. I look up, and over the rail of the boat I see the rise of Coronado Island. What would my chances be of swimming from here to there?
“We are so sorry for your loss,” he says and drops the baton, not interested in making me tell my darkest secrets. Trey is very like his dad—laid back and easy going. “Those sandwiches look delicious. Shall we?” He smiles, and I let my eyes find his, the same dark brown of his son’s.
“They do look good,” I say, but what I mean is thank you.
“Jenny made punch for us all,” Petra says, moving back down the narrow stairs and returning with a thermos full of a red liquid. Jenny leaps up and comes to gather the cups, holding them while her mother pours.
“It’s my favorite. Ginger ale and cranberry juice. It is so good.” She hands me the first cup, and I tip it to my lips.
“And lime,” Petra adds, and as she says it, I catch the slight hint of citrus. Jenny is anxious for my reaction.
“That’s wonderful,” I say, and Jenny beams with pride. Trey settles next to me and hands me a sandwich. His hand rests easily on my knee, and I feel Petra and Franklin seeing it, seeing the familiarity it suggests, the intimacy. The small creep of a blush rises up my neck, but I don’t move away. They can see that Trey likes me; they can see that I like him. It’s a little awkward for me, how comfortable he is with his parents seeing him touching me. It feels intimate and private, but I force myself to settle closer to him. He knows his parents better than I do; he can lead. My leg rides alongside his.
We dock after lunch on Coronado, and we spend a happy hour on the beach, tossing a frisbee while Petra and Franklin stroll off, hand in hand, over the pristine sand. I watch them go, and when Trey stops beside me to pick up the frisbee, which I hadn’t seen because I was watching his parents, I say, “I’m not sure your mom likes me.”
“She likes you fine. She’s just like that.”
“She has a lot of questions,” I say, not looking at him.
“That’s just her; it’s not about you. She does it with everybody. You know, psychiatrist and all. She likes to dig around in people’s closets.” He drops a kiss on my lips. “It’s her hobby. My dad thinks you’re great.”
I chuckle. “You’re dad thinks I’m pretty,” I say, putting the right word to what his dad thinks.
“He thinks we look good together.”
“Well, we do, don’t we?” I tease.
“Oh yeah!” He turns and tosses the frisbee to Jenny, who catches it with a small jump and a squeal.
If his mom wants to dig around in my closets, she’ll find bones. “You know I don’t come from a good family, Trey.” I haven’t told him much, just that we didn’t have anything, that it was just me and Mom.
“I know,” he says, catching the frisbee, releasing it back to Jenny. “Your family isn’t who you are, though.”
I run my hand down his back. How would he react if I just told him everything? Would he still think I am beautiful, or would he see all of my scars and be horrified?
“I could love you,” I say in a joking way. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his eyes on me. I catch Jenny’s frisbee and before I can set it free, he has closed his arms around my waist and picked me up into a spin.
“Could?” he asks.
“Maybe, do.” His arms are so strong around me, his chest against my back, his breath washing along my neck.
“Does that mean we get to have sex?” he whispers in my ear.
“I don’t know. You didn’t say you love me.” I turn my face to look at him, and he closes his mouth over mine.
“I brought you into my family, Alison. I’ve loved you since the first time you surfed with me.” His dark eyes smolder. All the laughter has been burned out, and the intensity ignites my blood. Small bubbles pulse and explode within my cells, and I turn into him when he sets my feet on the ground. “I know I love you, Kansas. Just waiting for you to come around.” I rise onto my toes and kiss him solid on his lips.
He releases me, picking up the frisbee I’ve dropped and completely forgotten, and sends it soaring back to Jenny, who squeals and catches it yet again. He steps away from me, and I feel the loneliness of my skin now that he has gone. He fixes our triangle that he broke when he came to pick up the frisbee I had missed. His eyes are heavy on mine, dark and fringed.
I lick my lips, watching him walk away. Oh yes, I could love this man, and I’m going to love him as long as he will have me. I lick my lips again, drawing my lower lip into my mouth. He catches the motion as he glances back at me, and I hear a low groan escape his throat.
