Twenty-Three. Tolerate It

TWENTY-THREE

Tolerate It

Maren

I'm not thinking when I head into town Thanksgiving morning, at least not about anything other than black olives. My family can't do a holiday without at least two cans of black olives on hand, but apparently, the Coles are indifferent. Indifferent, I tell you.

Thank goodness I checked with Donna before the local grocery stores closed for the day. My nieces and nephews would likely riot. They're practically feral.

So that is all that's on my brain as I stroll into the Safeway, with its 1960s music, glaring halogen lights, and nearly empty aisles. There is exactly one checkout in operation, and I give the cashier my friendliest, most bashful greeting as I hurry past her, immediately seeking out the olives. I definitely feel like everyone should have holidays paid for and off, and yet… olives. I'm the problem, it's me. My eyes are on the signage above the aisles, and I walk straight into a wall of human with a surprised oof .

"Ope! Sorry!" I blurt.

"Musky Maren!"

Dammit. My midwestern smile teeters, slips, and flops to the floor, swimming away.

"Heyyy, Bryce." My tone is irredeemably dull. "Good to see you."

"You're in town!"

"I am. With my family."

His face is sweaty and flushed pink, eyes widening. "At Cole's Landing, I bet!"

The way he thinks he knows, or, I suppose, the way he does know if his now-deleted message on my website was any indication, makes my skin crawl unpleasantly and I just want to get out of here. He's still beaming at me.

"How long're you around? I've been thinking! Maybe you could come to the hardware store and sign some gear. We could let the public know, set up a booth… You could even stay at my house. My wife wouldn't mind. Plus, she likes to visit her parents down in Green Bay every weekend…"

I interrupt that unpleasant train of hospitality, not at all interested in hearing where it was headed. "I don't really do that anymore, Bryce. Haven't in years."

"Oh, but for old times' sake." He presses in closer, lowering his voice to effect an intimacy we didn't share. Wouldn't share. "We used to have a chat room, ‘Musky Maren's Men,' back in the day. I bet I could call up the Maren signal and they'd all be on their way on a moment's notice. I told them I knew you…"

I'm already shaking my head, fisting my hands to keep the tremors from taking over. "I really need to get going. It was nice seeing you again," I lie, automatic politeness rearing its ugly head.

I make it back to the car and shake out my fingers, inhaling and exhaling, slow and steady, before turning over the ignition and reversing out of my space just in case Bryce was on his way out. I'm ten miles out of town before I realize I don't have the black olives.

I don't have to dress up for a family Thanksgiving, but I want to. I rarely have the occasion to take it up a notch in my daily life, and I want to look nice for Joe. Therefore, I tell my parents I'll meet them over at the Coles' and take my time blowing out my hair until it falls in soft layers down my forehead and midway down my back. I apply real makeup, brightening up my eyes and darkening my lips to a pretty coral. I didn't bring a whole lot of winter clothing with me since I hadn't planned on staying this long, but I'd found a sweet long-sleeved cranberry dress online that fit snugly around the waist, then flared and swung around my knees. I layered it over a pair of thick black tights and heeled black booties. To finish it all off, I slip a bunch of silver bangles up my arms and a few sterling rings on my fingers. By the time I'm all put together, I've mostly shaken off the encounter from this morning.

I have lots of experience in denial. I worked that angle for the entirety of Musky Maren. But time and age have given me lots of perspective. I realize now that if something feels instinctually bad, it's bad, and also, I don't owe anyone any part of me. Not even the public parts. Not even the ones I freely gave access to at one point.

It doesn't matter what happened in the past. It doesn't matter if they weren't actually threatening my safety. It doesn't fucking matter if they were/are nice guys (or girls, but let's be honest, my audience was primarily men).

I don't owe them anything. Even if I decided to go back to my channel tomorrow and started filming new content. I still don't.

Because that's the issue, isn't it? They think because I'm a public figure, or I was a public figure, I'm asking for the attention. And I am. In a way, anyway. I was asking for strangers to watch and enjoy my content. But that doesn't give them carte blanche to the rest of my life. That doesn't excuse them digging into my personal space and inviting themselves inside. There's a boundary, and for whatever reason, the men I knew who were and are public figures haven't had that boundary challenged the way the women I know have.

So I've moved past the encounter, but I'm also plenty angry and frustrated at the way it took me out. And I'm newly determined to not let that happen again.

I'm even more determined when I arrive at the Coles' sans black olives. Which, in all my righteous fury on the drive back, I'd completely forgotten about all over again.

"You had one job!" my brother teases, the moment I put down my purse and press a kiss to my mom and dad's cheeks and hug Donna and Simon.

I roll my eyes at him, plopping down on the couch between Anders and my nephew Caleb, who are absorbed in the original Home Alone movie.

"You smell good," Anders says, leaning in.

"Thanks, kid."

"Auntie Mare always smells good," my twelve-year-old nephew Caleb says, and I grin. Compliments from little boys are harder to earn and therefore worth at least twice as much as any others.

"Thanks, other kid," I tell my nephew, elbowing him gently.

"Seriously, how'd you forget?" Liam carries on. "Mom said you went to town this morning and everything."

I shrug a shoulder, pretending to watch Kevin McCallister's enormous family wreak havoc around his enormous house the day before they were supposed to leave on an enormous vacation in Paris.

"It's not that big of a deal, Lee," my sister-in-law Jessica says, exasperated. She shakes her head and gives me a friendly one-armed hug. "He's just grouchy because this means he can't put olives on all his fingers and pretend he's an olive monster like he's still ten," she tells me.

"Maybe," my brother agrees, tipping his beer toward his wife. "But still. She was there. I just don't understand how she could forget such an essential item. It's not Thanksgiving without the olives."

"I got sidetracked! It happens. It's a holiday! Yeesh."

Joe takes that moment to walk in, Lucy on his hip. He looks his usual laid-back handsome, wearing a robin's-egg-blue V-neck sweater over a white tee and sinfully tight-fitting jeans that hug his thick thighs and trim waist. His wavy golden hair falls across his forehead in a soft swoop and tucks behind his ears. "What'd I miss?"

"Maren, Maren, Maren," Lucy says, her small arms reaching for me. I stand and take her, then settle her in my lap and immediately fuss with her knit jumper to smooth it over her knees the way she prefers.

"Hey, baby," I whisper. "How're you today?" She doesn't answer but plays with my bangles the way I knew she would. I let her remove a few and then turn to my brother, filling Joe in on my latest indiscretion.

"Oh no," Joe says to me, grinning, his tone deadpan. "Not the olives."

I quirk my lips in response.

"I just want to know how she could possibly go all the way into town and not pick them up. Such a space cadet! This is what I'm talking about, Mare." My brother is ranting, and a tingle of unease starts at the nape of my neck. "You're so used to only taking care of yourself. You're like a college student."

My grip on Lucy tightens, but I don't say anything. This isn't the time or the place, and anyway, he's just blowing off steam. I know this. He's probably on his second beer and feeling loose. Not to mention, his buddy is here. So he's showing off. I know this, I know this, I know this.

It's not about me.

"Christ, Liam. It's just olives. Get a grip. Need another beer?" Joe asks, a bite to his suggestion, and I close my eyes, holding my tongue.

"Today it's olives, but what will it be tomorrow? Oh, I forgot to turn in that job application ?" Liam snorts against the mouth of his bottle.

"Fine. I didn't forget," I blurt, my heart racing far too quickly for the situation. "I was at the store, in the black olive aisle, when I ran into a guy that was a fan of my old YouTube videos and the encounter unsettled me. I ended it quickly, returned to my car, and was halfway home before I realized I hadn't grabbed the olives."

"Are you okay, Maren?" Anders asks softly next to me. Clever boy.

I smile at him. "I am. It was silly, really. Nothing to be worried about."

"Bryce Callahan?" Joe asks, appearing for all the world to be relaxed, ankle over knee, beer in his hand, settled back against the love seat, his tone even, but I know better. His eyes are something else entirely.

I nod.

"Unsettled you how?"

"He's just extra familiar," I answer my brother. "It's nothing."

"Obviously it was something if you left empty-handed," he points out.

"It was something," I concede. "Now it's nothing. I'm already over it. This is part of being a person in the public eye. Comes with the territory."

"But you stopped being in the public eye years ago," Jessica says, her expression concerned.

"I told you this stuff would follow you."

I meet my brother's eyes. "You did." Like fifteen years ago, but sure.

"That's not right," Joe insists.

"What do you know about it? It's not like you've ever seen the videos…"

I release a long, slow breath and pray to the gods of holiday dinners and Stove Top Stuffing for patience.

Joe takes a long sip from his beer, his eyes on my brother as if to answer. Which, based on the utter silence that blankets the room, I guess it is.

This. This is exactly what I was worried about.

I get to my feet and try to turn and place Lucy on the couch, but she doesn't relax her grip. So instead, I readjust her on my hip, and she lays her head in the crook of my shoulder, her breaths puffing against my neck. A warm feeling settles over me, calming me. I carry her toward the kitchen.

"You don't have to answer that," I say to Joe, low, as I pass near him. "In fact," I address the group, "I'm leaving the room and I'd appreciate it if you all could not talk behind my back about how disappointing I am."

When I aim my attention in Joe's direction, I nearly stutter at the intensity in his gaze. "I'm just gonna take her into the kitchen. I've got her."

I watch his Adam's apple bob before he nods. "I know you do."