I’m not talking about romantic love. A barista, a work colleague, that really cool Uber driver, your substitute mailman...we meet personalities so captivating that a sliver of time charges our batteries.
Lüq holds that radiance within.
And I see why the spa is a smashing success.
“I’m Shannon’s mother,” Mom says, breathless and flushed, obviously under Lüq’s spell like me.
“Hmm,” is all Lüq says, eyes on Pam. “Your daughter has the heart of a saint.”
“Thank you,” Mom and Pam say in unison.
“And what spa treatment can we get?” Mom asks, looking around the hot spring like it’s a Rainforest Cafe and she’s searching for the animals hidden in the trees. “We’d love a massage like the one Amanda’s receiving.”
“Hmm,” is all Lüq says, still not even looking once at Mom.
Mom looks at Pam. Then Lüq. Then Amanda.
By the time she gets to me, her eyes are hard. Determined.
Convicted.
I know that look. It’s the same expression she had when I came home from eighth grade one day and told her Mr. Humphries, my gym teacher, had announced to everyone that I was sitting out gym because of “female problems.” It’s the same look she had on her face when some bozo at Tyler’s day care tried to tell Carol he had oppositional defiant disorder—at the age of eighteen months—and that he was “disrespectful” for not sitting still for their forty-five minute circle time. Mom had that look on her face the night a very drunk Todd called and chewed Carol out for filing child support papers and threatened to counter-file for full custody of children he hadn’t seen in over a year.
It’s also the same look she had on her face at my wedding two days ago, when I screamed at her for inviting Jessica Coffin to my wedding.
You know. That topic we’ve avoided discussing until tonight, at dinner?
Lüq is so busted.
“Do you know who she is?” Mom points to me.
Oh, God.
“Shannon Jacoby,” Lüq says softly. “Mr. Declan McCormick’s betrothed.”
Betrothed. The word sounds like queen in his strangely mesmerizing accent.
Mom’s thrown off by his acknowledgement. “Yes, that’s who she is, but do you realize what that means?”
“It means she loves him.”
Mom frowns and digs her heels in. She’s trying to use power to bully Lüq into giving me attention she feels I “deserve” because of who I sleep with, and it’s clear Lüq doesn’t buy into those social rules.
“Of course, she loves him!” Mom snaps. “Mr. McCormick is your boss!”
“That seems to be very important to you,” Lüq whispers.
Mom’s eyes go round.
And Declan is, indeed, my betrothed, but I think I just fell in love with Lüq, too. I wonder if hu has dinner plans for tonight, because if not, I want hu right there as my guest of honor.
“It’s—well, it should be important to you!” Mom huffs.
“Is that important to you?”
“Is what important to me?”
“That I find the same issues important that you find important, dear.”
“Well—I—but—but these are universal! You should worry about your boss. He’s the reason you have a job! And if you want to keep your job, you’re nice to the boss’s wife.”
“What if I don’t worry about losing my job?”
“Everyone worries about losing their job!”
“You seem to have a strong need to assume that what applies to you applies to everyone else’s internal state.” Lüq nods as hu says this, leaning in with concern, touching Mom’s shoulder in an act of graceful solidarity, like Oprah comforting a crying refugee who is about to win a car or an elliptical machine and doesn’t know it yet.
“Maybe some ocean water infused with amniotic fluid will help,” I hiss.
“Ocean water?” Pam replies, Lüq still holding her hand. Lüq has Pam’s palm, stroking the thumb joint with hu’s index finger, and hu’s other hand is on my mother. “Is that why Amanda’s so buoyant? Must be the salt water.”
“You know,” Mom says, giving Pam the side-eye. She’s up to something. “The ocean is so salty because of whales.”
What?
Pam gives Mom an indulgent look. Lüq tilts hu’s head, while Amanda just floats.
“Really?” Pam prompts.
“Yes,” Mom gushes. “I read this in a science magazine.”
Translation: Mom clicked on someone’s Facebook link and read a half-baked mashup from a website devoted to getting as many views as possible to generate ad money for the owner.
“When whales ejaculate, they produce something like four hundred gallons of sperm!” Mom gushes.
“I’m guessing the female whales don’t have to deal with the age-old ‘spit or swallow’ problem,” I mutter.
“But,” Mom says pointedly, ignoring me, “most of it doesn’t make it into the woman whale.”
Okay, now. “Woman whale?”
“Really?” Pam says, obviously aware that my mom is full of utter crap, but playing along for fun. “You mean, women whales don’t have vaginas that hold four hundred gallons?”
Mom pauses and puts on her thinking face. “That’s a great question! I don’t know. How much volume can a whale’s vagina hold?”
“This is fascinating,” Lüq says.”Gagai! Evangi! Come here! We are in the temple of learning.”