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Motorcycle wheels spin along asphalt so hot that heat haze rises in waves. Speed-borne wind is rough on Robby’s cheeks, trees whipping past, no traffic, and he can just ride and let his mind wander.
That last talk with Mohan before he left on sabbatical. What if Robby’s life had turned out the way he’d hoped? What if he did have the wife, the kids, the pond?
A small house, old but in decent shape, gutters sagging from freezes last winter but it’s spring and Robby will nail the gutters back up as soon as he has a chance. Right now, he’s curious, the front door opening wide, a living room sofa well-worn from family movie nights, and in the kitchen someone is bustling around.
Robby steps through the living room and into the kitchen. Aging appliances that look like they still work, handwritten reminders thumbtacked to a corkboard, and emerging from checking the fridge—most likely for a beer—is, of course, Jack.
“What the fuck, man?” Jack is mostly teasing but also genuinely annoyed, his hands wiping on one of those half aprons moms wear in old sitcoms. “You fantasize me as your loving spouse in your pond house or whatever, but use the word ‘wife’ to Mohan? What are you, homophobic?”
“No,” Robby says, an instinctive truth, lips curling in a smile to see Jack anytime, anywhere, even in a fantasy. “But I’m also not picky. Husband. Wife. Non-binary life partner. I went with the word I would have used when I was younger and first thought of all this. Or don’t you remember what gay couples called each other when we were kids?”
Jack’s head nods, and his lips seem to curdle for the old term: “‘Lover.’ Yeah, no. It was fine back then, but I’m not calling you that. You are an asshole, though, for calling me your wife.”
“It’s admittedly a close call, but I think I’d rather be called ‘lover’ than ‘asshole,’” Robby says, speaking quickly as Jack takes a breath to be able to keep talking.
“And you actually think you’re ‘not picky’? The guy they call ‘seven-week itch Robinavitch’ because you love ’em and leave ’em because you’re afraid of things getting too serious?“ Jack’s wedding ring catches the light the way it so often does—and why couldn’t Robby’s mind have been generous enough to change the ring to look different from Jack’s actual wedding ring?
“Maybe I’m not afraid of serious. Maybe I’ve done serious before and fucked it up. Maybe …” something like yearning catches in Robby’s throat and this is getting too real, even for a daydream as Robby motorcycles away from his real responsibilities, “… maybe ‘serious’ with you would make me happy.”
Jack’s arms fold, a pleased smile curving his cheeks. “I do believe that’s what my therapist might call a breakthrough.”
Maybe it is a breakthrough.
Maybe Robby has known for a long time but has been too scared to tell Jack the truth.
There’s rustling outside the kitchen and a voice precedes its owner: “Who’s making a breakthrough and is it the kind of broken that needs to be fixed?”
Santos. Santos is Robby’s daughter in this fantasy, Whitaker stepping in behind her. Two kids, both older than college age, but kids Robby loves and believes can have great futures ahead of them.
God, the human brain can be full of mystery and the human brain can be predictable as shit. Of course Robby’s subconscious chose Santos and Whitaker for his fantasy kids.
“Hey, Robby or Dad or whatever.” Santos seems amused, yet with that undercurrent of worry she can have that tightens her shoulders. “If I’m your daughter in this daydream you’re having, then what happens to my first name? I’m guessing ‘Trinity’ isn’t exactly a top ten Jewish girls’ name, what with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit all ‘no go’s for your people. So is my name, like, Chana or Shira or something?”
“Well, what you call ‘the Father’ is actually very much a ‘go’ for the Jewish people, but this is obviously an interfaith household so your name is your name. And even if all of us here were fully Jewish, your name is still your name and far be it for my brain to change it,” Robby says, and an instinct to hug her needs to be ignored, Trinity Santos who fears not fitting in, even in his fantasy life, but whose shoulders loosen with reassurance of belonging because she trusts him.
“Okay. Cool.” She looks away, out the kitchen window to the pond.
Maybe Robby should have hugged her. He would have been an affectionate father, that’s never been in doubt. But he’s not really her father. It’s just make-believe.
“Um, so if we’re your fantasy family, what about Amy and Theo and the farm?” Dennis asks, nervousness shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “If I grew up with you guys in Pittsburgh, how would I know how to help her out?”
“Maybe her husband didn’t die and she doesn’t need you, Fuckleberry,” Santos says, the tension returning to her shoulders.
Grief over losing time with Amy and Theo, guilt over lack of happiness at the idea of her husband surviving, confusion over his own talents if not for the farm skills he learned in Nebraska—everything tumbles across Whitaker’s face, but he doesn’t have a chance to say anything before Jack speaks up: “Hey, what about me? Robby called me a wife.”
Trinity chuckles. “You got mis-gendered in a fantasy that doesn’t exist.”
“Mis-gendering or homophobia?” Jack leans forward, always eager to learn new terminology.
Dennis seems thoughtful: “I’d say mis-gendering. Unless Robby wants to turn you into a fantasy woman?”
“No,” firm, resounding, and clear overlaps from Robby and Jack.
Jack’s chest rises in indignation. “What do you mean, ‘no’? I’d make a beautiful woman.”
Is Jack seriously starting another fight over this?
“Yes, of course you would, but you also said no to turning into a woman, so—” Robby tries to explain.
“Definitely not homophobia, then.” Santos’ lips curl in a smirk. “Robby wants to get on your gray-haired ass.”
Dennis glances from Robby to Jack and back again. “Can we not talk about our fantasy dads fucking?”
“Oh, but can we?” Santos’ smirk widens into a grin. “I want to know if we’re adopted or if there was a surrogate or first marriages or—”
Jack reaches back and unties his apron, the fabric falling to the floor. “What if I want to get on his gray-haired ass? What about that?”
Arguing. Too much arguing, and Robby’s voice rises the way it does at work, frustration breaking as he shouts to silence everyone else. “This is my fantasy. So here are the rules: We’re going to be nice to each other. We’re going to go with the world we’re in. We’re going to love each other, two dads and two kids, and we’re going to play hockey on the pond.”
“Um, what about …?” Dennis points nervously out the window, springtime in view.
“Easy fix.” In real life, Robby’s fingers are clenched tight on his motorcycle handlebars. Here, his hands motion wide to bring winter, leaves gone from trees and the pond frozen over. Four sets of ice skates appear, along with hockey pads, jackets, sticks, and a puck. “Any other questions?”
There aren’t, and soon enough it’s a scrimmage on the ice, Robby and Santos versus Jack and Whitaker, fast skating, sweat under pads, the clicking of sticks, and the puck gliding, spinning, almost flying in a game that ends with two goals to three, Robby and Santos winning.
“That was cool … Dad,” Santos says as she unlaces her skates, a sincerity meant kindly but hitting like a punch to Robby’s heart, and Jake was the closest he ever came to having a kid, yet is this what Robby never stopped wanting—a family that would endure, no one leaving because of a breakup or something bad, only growing with in-laws and grandchildren and who knows what else?
No. Robby won’t think about that. He’ll agree to Jack’s suggestion of movie time, and Robby will pop the popcorn while the film starts. The sofa sags as Robby sits next to Jack for what looks like a monster movie, so probably Santos’ suggestion, and he passes her the popcorn bowl first.
“Hey.” Jack’s arm slides around Robby’s shoulders, a hug so real and safe that Robby’s eyes sting as he leans into a turn on his motorcycle. “Two things. First, I want you to promise me that you’ll tell me about this fantasy when you get back from your trip. Don’t leave out any details. The house, the kids, hockey, me as your husband-not-wife … all of it. You promise?”
Robby nods, on the motorcycle and on the sofa with Jack, Santos watching the movie on Robby’s other side and sharing popcorn with Dennis sitting next to her.
“Good. Second thing. Your next fantasy?” Jack’s stare is the intense one, perfectly serious. “You. Me. Naked yoga at sunrise. Yes?”
A laugh of pure delight breaks the daydream, open road ahead full of possibility, and Robby answers Jack’s question—“You got it, man. Naked yoga with you, anytime.”—and guns the bike to go faster.