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2 No One Knows
Amira
My sympathetic nervoussystem is on heightened alert. No matter how many mindful affirmations I repeat to myself, I cannot relax.
Everything is fine.
I love my husband.
My husband loves me.
These people are my friends, my adopted family.
This will go off without a hitch.
Seeming to sense my discontent, Evie smiles warmly at me from her position across the fire pit. “I’m the DP tonight, and the baby monitor is on. Have some more wine and enjoy yourself.”
The innuendo does not go without notice. Grateful for her suggestion, I top off my glass. Though I recognize it for the unhealthy coping mechanism it is, I require all the liquid courage possible for tonight’s theatrics.
Rob pats his wife’s knee. “You can relax with a glass of wine, too, you know. I can be the DP for our first night of vacation. I won’t be drinking anything.”
The snickers of the men around the fire lessen the gravity of Rob’s pledge to stay sober. His struggle with alcoholism is a constant source of worry for Alex. Though his best friend has been alcohol-free for years, it is a lifelong battle. I always insist that it is wholly unfair for the rest of us to partake in adult beverages in Rob’s presence, but he and Evie never seem to view the temptation as a threat to Rob’s sobriety.
I suppose that is another athletic form of masochism. They truly believe strength in the face of adversity trumps complete abstinence.
“Nope.” Tori wags a finger at Rob. “The DP schedule has already been arranged. No last-minute play changes.”
“I still think the parent of the youngest child should have to take first night’s DP duties,” Mike argues. “It’s only fair. We already came to you.”
Another round of barely stifled laughter mingles with the smoke from the fire.
“Coming here or there has nothing to do with it,” Rob insists, trying admirably to maintain a straight face. “Being the DP is a privilege, not a burden. With great power comes great responsibility. Only the worthiest candidate should have the honors of popping the DP cherry.”
The men lose all control and burst into a chorus of laughter loud enough to wake the sleeping children in the house.
So much for the brilliance of the Designated Parent idea.
Evie lifts her brows. Over the rim of her glass of iced tea, she mouths, “Too easy.”
As the men continue to howl, the women exchange knowing glances.
Too easy, indeed.
No matter where the night takes us, it promises to be entertaining at the very least.
“Speaking of popping the family vacation cherry.” My husband sobers. “Amira and I have another proposition to bring to the table.”
All mirth evaporates, the men leaning forward in their seats.
During my thesis in graduate school, I proved top-tier athletes have the tendency to institutionalize themselves to a life of strict rules. Which seems completely rational, given their ability to beat all odds by making it to the professional level of their sport. While the casual observer might disagree—given athletes’ predilection for immoral antics in their personal lives—the truth of the matter is even when indulging in what others view as illicit activities, these men hold themselves to a high standard. If that next record to break happens to be the number of orgasms achieved on any given night, then so be it. In fact, it’s their inability to do anything without the governance of order that leads to their questionable life choices off the field.
And to think, the man sitting next to me was my first test subject.
Alex casts a furtive glance my way, as if to reaffirm my compliance in whatever he’s about to say.
I smile in response, the go-to assurance he requires to move forward with his plans.
“So, we were thinking. We’re all family here, right? For one week out of the year, we share each other’s lives, child-rearing duties, and company.”
