Spencer looked at himself in the bedroom mirror as he rubbed moisturizer on his face, a little too aggressively for Ian’s liking. It was late and he had been quietly fuming all day.
“You could have stood up for me with NBC News this morning.”
Ian looked up from the bed. “What was I supposed to say?”
“You could have reminded them and my father and JJ that I wrote a book about the rise of terrorism in the West and am considered by some to be an expert, that I have spoken to every major news outlet on my tour for that book. You could have—nicely—implied that I know a shitload more about this issue than either of them.” Spencer frowned at his reflection in the mirror. “I should have been in that interview.”
Ian sat up on his elbows. He was dead tired. “I know that. But what does it matter now? The logistics are mostly resolved, as far as Cameron and Lucas go. What would you have been able to contribute to the process?”
Ian immediately regretted saying the last part. None of Spencer’s anger was about the concrete problem of getting their nephews home. It was about being recognized for his accomplishments before his father. It was about beating JJ at something. It was about the current fragility of Spencer’s ego.
But it was true that, at that moment, Cameron and Lucas were already on their way home. The FBI had confirmed that afternoon that the government would be sending a military plane to retrieve the whole team from Barcelona. JJ and Mary-Beth were on their way to DC to meet them when they arrived. It was the best possible outcome, but Spencer was pissy because he didn’t get to go on TV. Ian couldn’t muster much sympathy.
There was a knock on the door. “You guys need anything in there?” Patty turned the knob and peeked inside before they had a chance to answer.
Ian forced a smile. “We’re good, thanks, Patty. I think we just need to turn in early and catch up on some sleep.”
“Of course.”
Spencer, in only boxer briefs, moved on to his shoulders and arms with the moisturizer. “Are JJ and Mary-Beth gone?”
“Yes, they left about an hour ago. They’ll get there late and stay in a hotel so they are ready to meet the boys’ plane in the morning. After that, all the parents and kids have to do a debriefing of some kind with the FBI.”
Spencer nodded. “That makes sense. They’ll need to know if any of the boys on the team saw or heard anything useful. Is Farah with them?”
“No, she decided to stay here to keep the cameras on your father.” Patty lingered. “I just want everyone home safely again.”
“Me, too, Mom.” Spencer crawled into his side of the bed. “Okay, goodnight.”
“Goodnight, boys,” Patty said.
“Goodnight, Patty,” Ian said.
She frowned. “Ian. It’s ‘Mom’ to you, too.”
“Right, sorry.”
Spencer turned off the light, and Patty closed the door behind her.
The couple lay in silence for a few minutes, gauging the level of disharmony between them.
Patty had been reminding Ian to call her “Mom” for almost a decade now, and still Ian could manage to do so only about 30 percent of the time. It felt strange and a little disloyal to Ian to call someone other than his own mother “Mom,” but it meant so damn much to her that he forced himself now and then.
Ian knew he had things easier with Patty than Mary-Beth did. Because he was male, he folded into this pack of boy cubs that Patty wanted to play den mother to forever. She seemed relieved never to have to relinquish her role as the primary woman in Spencer’s life, which infuriated Ian when he allowed himself to think about it. Ian had to remind himself that Patty’s intentions were mostly good, and that at least some of the blame fell to his husband, and the rest of the Bright men, who were content to be mothered forever.
But all the wonderful things about Patty were also the things that made Ian feel as if he were being slowly smothered by a down pillow. While they were at the lake house, Patty tended to their every need, determining when they ate and where they slept, how they spent their time and with whom they interacted. They were liberated from the rushing hose of adult life when they were there. It always felt wonderfully weightless for a while, until it didn’t.
“I don’t know why you can’t just call her ‘Mom.’”
“I don’t know why we have to talk about this right now.” Ian turned over and closed his eyes. Exhaustion had him feeling almost feverish.
Spencer sighed. His bare chest was pressed up against the back of Ian’s T-shirt. “You know I’m not really mad at you. I’m just mad.”
Ian rolled back over. “I know. I’m sorry things didn’t go the way they should have today. I should have said something on your behalf. You’d do it for me.”
He could feel Spencer softening before him, melting into the mattress and coming back to his side. They needed to be on the same side when they were at the lake house. It was awful to lose Spencer to the Bright family dynamic on those summer visits, leaving Ian alone on the island of extras.
Spencer inched closer until their foreheads were touching. He pressed his soft lips and minty toothpaste breath into Ian’s. They still kissed well. After so many years together, they still kissed, on the lips, well. There may be no greater defiance of time and familiarity than a commitment to real kissing, with hungry, open mouths.
Ian pulled him in closer and felt his body come alive.
Spencer reached into the warmth of Ian’s boxers, but Ian pushed him gently away. He went to the bedroom door and dropped the small eyelet hook into the little loop—not a foolproof lock, but a deterrent, anyway.
Ian pulled off his T-shirt and underwear and bounded back into bed.
They had the sort of sex that starts as a hurricane and ends as a mist. All the anxiety and desperation of the preceding two days were purged in a few ferocious minutes, and then they were free to just be there with each other, warm bodies and wet mouths and bare skin. Skin! Parched, browned summer skin. The distinctly delicious taste of vacation sex.
When it was over, they were relaxed and on the same team. But they were also back in reality.
Ian unlocked the door and went into the bathroom.
Spencer went next.
When he came back into the bedroom, he sat down on the bed and looked out the window for a long while. “Sometimes I just hate JJ.”
“You don’t hate him,” Ian said, nearly asleep. “But I know.”
“He’s such a self-righteous prick. And why? He’s a lobbyist, for Christ’s sake. Let’s not pretend like that’s on par with being a US senator, or an expert on anything. He’s a peddler of bullshit.”
“Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”
“Did you see them on TV? All that God-bless-America shit? What a couple of phonies. This has nothing to do with them, but they’re eating it up!”
“I know.”
“Sometimes... This fucking family, you know? This family...”
This was something new to Ian: Spencer expressing genuine doubt about his people, seeing them with clearer eyes.
Years before, when they were a new couple, Ian had asked Spencer, “Where are the wounds?”
They were at the lake house for Christmas with the whole family. Everyone had a fine, festive time. But Ian found the Brights to be unknowable still.
“So where are the wounds?” he had said to Spencer when they were back in their bedroom, the same one they were in now.
“What wounds?” Spencer had been baffled.
“The wounds, Spencer. The ones we all incur from the large and small acts of cruelty we inflict upon each other over a lifetime in a family. The marks from arguments that went too far, birthdays forgotten, quiet judgments and passive-aggressive gestures. Where are they?” Ian hadn’t meant to be pushy about it, but the more he said, the more the Brights confused him.
Spencer had thought about it before attempting an answer. “I don’t think we hold on to those aggressions the way other families do.”
“But you commit them?”
“I don’t know...probably. I mean, surely we do.”
Ian had the feeling that Spencer was trying to answer in a way that sounded sane and honest, but he didn’t believe that Spencer believed it. It seemed possible at that moment that Spencer secretly thought his family simply didn’t have any wounds. There was a willful ignorance to it that Ian envied, as if the secret to a happy family may be as easy as believing you’re happy, truth be damned. But Ian still saw the wounds. Even before Spencer allowed himself to see them, Ian knew they existed.
And now, as Ian fell asleep, it seemed possible that a fog was lifting and Spencer was seeing things more clearly.