Thirty-Six

St. Michaels is a small town on Maryland's eastern shore, located on the Miles River, which feeds into the Chesapeake Bay. Centuries ago, water built this town in more ways than one, but these days it keeps the place intimate. The shoreline breeds exclusivity and properties rarely hit the market. The homes are old, passed from generation to generation. Otium, the property where we stay, is no exception.

Otium is really three houses: a main house, a guest house, and an event house. They're a matching set of colonial shore elegance, red brick with white trim and columns out front. My hands are tingling with anticipation as I grip the wheel, and I look over at Valeria, whose eyebrows are high. I want to show her everything. After yesterday, nobody deserves an escape more than she does, and Otium is as escapist as they come.

Alyssa is waiting at the front door of the main house when Valeria and I pull up and she's practically bouncing with excitement. She pulls Valeria into the biggest hug I've ever seen her give, squeezing her and patting her back and complimenting the smell of her perfume, of all things. Frankly, I'm not hot on the idea of anyone else smelling my girlfriend, but if I had to, I'd choose Alyssa.

Our footsteps echo in the palatial entrance as Alyssa leads us in, her arm wrapped around Valeria while she revisits the topic of Valeria's favorite cookies. Before Valeria can answer, Frank emerges from a sitting room with glasses of bubbling, freshly popped champagne in his hands. "Welcome both," he greets. "Cheers."

Everett and Dalton enter from the cigar room, champagne in hands as well.

"Are we celebrating something?" I ask, setting down our suitcases and taking the champagne flutes from Frank.

"Toasting to Dalton and me surviving hitchhiking," Everett announces, smirking.

Immediately, Valeria furrows her brow. "Why were you hitchhiking?"

"Ask Lander," Everett answers before taking a sip from his flute and smiling that subtle instigator's smile.

"Don't worry about it, baby." I drink. "They lived. Unfortunately."

"We rode here in a 1983 Dodge Caravan, Lander," Everett continues, sighing drily. "Do you know what year Dodge started manufacturing Caravans? I'll give you hint: It was a year someone has already mentioned during this conversation."

"Was it 1983, asshole?" I venture.

"Yes, Lander Abraham Dawson. It was 1983. Dalton and I literally rode here in the world's first minivan. Do you have any idea the emissions—"

"Valeria, did you happen to have the week off from work or did you take vacation?" Alyssa asks, interrupting Everett seamlessly and waving him off when he gives her a pouty frown. "And remind me, you're a content creator?"

"She's a camgirl," I interject.

The words have barely left my lips before Everett starts choking on his champagne and Dalton releases a surprised whistle. Valeria squeezes my hand—and I squeeze back.

Alyssa tilts her head to the side. "And that's…"

"She performs online," I fill in.

"Naked, Mom," Dalton clarifies. "For money."

"Oh," Alyssa blurts out, eyebrows rising. "Oh. Is the ‘cam' part from ‘webcam?'"

"I'm genuinely shocked you know what a webcam is," Dalton mutters, chuckling at his mother.

Alyssa, on-brand with being the chillest WASP to walk the planet, only wears her expression of total astonishment for about four more seconds before she reaches out and squeezes Valeria's shoulder with her elegant, manicured hand. "Well, I'm sure you're fantastic at it. Look at you. You're stunning."

"Thank you," Valeria replies, smiling politely.

"I mean it," Alyssa continues, surveying her. "I see why men would pay to watch you. If I were a man—"

"Please stop," Dalton pleads, his face paling at the exact moment Everett beams and says, "Please go on."

A few feet away, uncharacteristically quiet, Frank is standing in the doorway, head tilted to the side. "Huh," he finally murmurs.

My stomach tightens. I know Frank so well, and I know when he's about to go full Frank—i.e. act like an asshole. Sure enough:

"So, what does porn pay these days, if I may ask?" he inquires, layering on his trademark condescending sneer, enticing like a Venus fly trap.

"She wouldn't know," I snap. "She doesn't do porn."

Frank chuckles, but it's on the obvious side of cruel. "If she's taking off her clothes and performing for men, it's—by definition—porn."

My hackles go up. "They didn't talk you through this one in law school?" I question. "Legal precedent for porn is nonexistent. 1964, Justice Stewart in the Supreme Court: ‘I know it when I see it.' It's subjective, and sans any formal definition, pornography is a fast and loose designation. So, no, Valeria doesn't do porn unless she says she does. And so fucking what if she did porn? There's nothing wrong with it."

When I stop talking, the entryway is silent. Everyone is watching me with varying expressions on their faces. Frank is stoic, borderline unreadable, but he gives a nod—the only way he ever admits he's beat. Dalton and Everett are suppressing laughs. Alyssa is still beaming at Valeria, motherly and admiring. And Valeria…she's looking at me like I hung the moon.

"Sorry, I got super lawyerly for a minute there," I admit, grimacing. "I know I'm annoying."

"No, Lander, you're brilliant. You are brilliant," Valeria squeals before pulling me into a hug.

Wow. If I knew she was going to get this riled up, I would have cited legal precedent months ago.

"That's our cue to head up to my room," I decide, taking Valeria's hand and tugging her towards the stairs.

After we unpack, I take Valeria on a tour of Otium. We stroll the lush green lawn in the back and weave through the grove of dogwood trees separating us from the neighbors' property. Down by the water, we run into Dalton and Everett skipping rocks into the shore.

"There you are," Dalton remarks, waving at us with Frank's champagne bottle in his hand. "My mom was looking for you. She said something about you staking a claim on chocolate—"

"Got it," I confirm, shaking my head at him. "But shut the hell up."

"What?" Dalton demands. "All I did was—"

"I have to go," I interrupt, refusing to let Dalton ruin the surprise. I face Valeria. "Baby, are you good here? I've got to handle something inside. Dalton and Everett are going to teach you how to play cornhole."

She scoffs. "Seriously? You think these two are going to teach me to play cornhole? I immigrated here when I was fourteen. Mastering this game was a matter of survival."

Perfect. "Make them bleed!" I shout, waving over my shoulder while I trudge up the hill back to the house. I've got a dinner to cook.

Four hours later, I'm arranging food on the island in the chef's kitchen when Valeria bursts in with Everett and Dalton in tow.

"Lander!" she exclaims, rushing to me for a hug. "Lander, you have to come outside. The stars look amazing, and Everett can point out any constellation you can think of."

Over by the swinging door, Everett is beaming. "I love her," he mouths at me.

"Later," I promise Valeria. "Dinner's almost done."

Valeria rotates in my arms and finally notices the spread of food I've laid out: homemade corn tortillas in a stack under a towel, salsa, rice, and a batch of mole—chicken for most of us and a roasted poblano for Everett.

"Wait, Lander," she murmurs, eyes moving over the island. "You made all this?"

"You're going to have to lower your bar for a night. I've never cooked any of this before, but I've been researching recipes for weeks, and I—"

Valeria's mouth collides with mine. "You're amazing," she says between kisses. "I can't get over it."

A pointed, forced cough travels the kitchen. "If this food didn't look so damn good, I would have lost my appetite by now," Everett drawls. "What's the deal, chef? Can we eat?"

We do. The meal is a success, even though I wish I'd had more time to simmer the mole. Valeria tells me it's perfect, but I'll nail it next time.

We drink margaritas, which feels on the nose, but Dalton is still on a tequila kick. We end up shooting it by eleven, and that's when the night devolves. Charades get competitive—as in bloody. Dalton literally tackles Everett to the ground, drunkenly bellowing, "How did you not know it was Single Ladies? I was doing the motherfucking Single Ladies dance!" while Everett shouts back, "You dance like a hippo! Everyone thought it was Fantasia!"

I laugh so hard that I pee a little.

As the evening winds down, Frank joins me to clean the kitchen. He's mostly there to watch; the man has never washed a plate in his damn life. I'm too drunk to care, rambling at the sink about the difference between tequila and mezcal to Frank, who watches with a stony expression until he reaches out and shuts off the water.

"So what is this?" he asks bobbing his chin. "Are you finally acting out?"

It takes me a beat to work through my drunken confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The girl. Is she some rebellion you never got out of your system? Can't say I'm surprised. Dalton did the same thing when he dropped out of law school."

My jaw clenches reflexively, but I keep my reaction in check—like he taught me. "Valeria's not a rebellion. We're happy."

"Happy? Fuck, Lander." Frank snorts, practically sneering. "I hope you know what you're doing. A prostitute is one thing, but she's…"

"She's what?" I snap, knowing what's coming next. The thing coming is so fucking vile, I don't bother addressing his use of the word "prostitute."

His head bobs side to side like he's looking for the right framing. Somehow, all that contemplation still ends with him asking, "Is this a Latina fetish or something?"

Even though I saw it coming, my pulse spikes. "What the fuck, Frank," I hiss.

"I'm just saying," he goes on, "your dad worked to give you a life people envy. For you to hook up with some gold-digging…I mean, Lan, is she even here legally?"

My composure breaks. I'm holding a ceramic dinner plate and I'm not a violent guy, but I bet there are at least three ways I could gravely injure him with it. I'm dying to try. Bet it'd be satisfying. He'd deserve it.

But I remember what Valeria told me: That's not who I am.

I'm a schemer, and Frank is saying these things for a reason. Until I know his angle and his endgame, I can't make a move. It would be sloppy. Right now, all he gets is my silence.

"Hey, Lander," he offers, chuckling. "God, look at your face. I'm sorry, kid." He places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "Don't be like that."

"Fine."

His eyebrow rises. "That's all you have to say? Fine? Talk to me, Lander. Tell me what's going on."

"Nothing's going on," I reply, shrugging—knowing it's killing him.

Then I clean. Frank watches, and it's the most bizarre standoff I've ever been a part of. I know he's waiting for me to reveal more, but I won't. Anything I say, he can use against me.

Eventually he leaves, slipping out without a word, with only the swinging of the kitchen door to signal his departure. It takes his disappearance for me to realize my hands are trembling.