“Abe’ll drive while I’m relaxing and listening to his shit music choices. Anything not to be in a car for six hours with you after you’ve been eating egg salad,” Oliver said, which earned him a chuckle and a wave of complaints from everyone involved. Aberlour even managed to crack a smile.
“Right then,” Marcus said. “Off we go!”
Aberlour saw his men off with a few bro hugs and jokes about not dying of asphyxiation by keeping all the windows rolled down all the way home. Then it was just Oli and Aberlour, standing in Abe’s childhood home, the silence weighing heavily on him. It had been just Oli and Aberlour when the police had called to notify him of his parents’ death. A drunk driver,they’d said. His father had swerved to avoid hitting him, but the maneuver had sent them colliding head-on with a tree.
It had been just Oli and Aberlour when Aberlour had asked the name of the driver, intent on doing the only thing that would tame the anger in his gut, and then it had been just Oli who had witnessed Aberlour crumble as he’d been told the driver was already dead. Killed on impact as his car rolled over in a ditch. He wasn’t sure how to explain why the anger he felt over the failure to avenge their deaths burned even hotter than the overwhelming grief of losing them, but Oli had remained silently supportive. Just like now. He’d sat in silence and waited—waited for something Aberlour seemed incapable of giving him.
Aberlour wandered to the corner of the den where the old record player sat. He chose a record from the pile, the vinyl feeling familiar and heavy in his hands. Abe lifted the lid and needle of the player and quickly placed the record on the turntable. With a flip of the switch, the old record player came alive.
First came the trumpets and the strings, then a woman’s voice. Her accent heavy with vowels and syllables of old. Aberlour turned and walked back to the couch where Oliver was already sitting, Edith Piaf’s voice drowning out the sound of his footsteps.
Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien.
Ni le bien, qu'on m'a fait. Ni le mal, tout ça m'est bien égal.
“I don’t know this one,” Oliver said, softly. He was playing with the fraying couch cushion.
“No reason you should,” Abe said roughly, shrugging. “She was a French singer from the 40’s. Probably never graced the radio stations in old ‘Bama.”
Oliver chuckled in agreement.
“What is she saying?” he asked, as usual. It was no surprise to anyone that Aberlour listened to old French music, but Oliver was the only one who’d ever been interested in the translation. To Aberlour’s amazement, Oliver even knew a few French songs. Piaf even.La vie en rose, if Aberlour remembered correctly. He’d never asked where Oli had heard of it.
Avec mes souvenirs, j'ai allumé le feu. Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs, je n'ai plus besoin d'eux.
“She’s singing about regrets,” he said, shutting his eyes for a moment. There were no tears. He wouldn’t let there be tears.
“What about ‘em?”
“She has none.”
Oliver only hummed in reply.
It had been his mother’s favourite song. Aberlour had never asked why, content to just watch her smile as she’d hummed along to the melody.
Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien.
Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait. Ni le mal, tout ça m’est bien égal.
“Come here,” Oliver said, pulling on Aberlour’s shirt to encourage him to lie down with his head in Oliver’s lap.
It felt—intimate. It felt—wrongwasn’t the word, because there was nothing wrong with it, but there was a weird feeling deep in his bones. Aberlour shouldn’t have been lying down on his mother’s couch, his head in another man’s lap, letting his eyes fill slowly with tears as a French singer serenaded them both. Surely, this wasn’t in the manly man’s playbook, and yet, he couldn’t find it in him to care.
Her voice was too beautiful, Oli’s lap was too comfortable, and his hand in Abe’s hair felt like something he didn’t dare name.
“Do you have any?” Oli asked, barely whispering. Maybe he was afraid to ask. Maybe he didn’t want Abe to answer.
“No,” Aberlour answered honestly. He didn’t believe in regrets. Didn’t believe in looking back and changing his aim. Aberlour had perfect aim. He’d gotten exactly what he’d wanted, whether he’d known the price he’d have to pay or not seemed irrelevant in the scheme of things.
“She would have liked you,” Abe said, after a moment, his eyes focused on the empty crystal bowl. “My mother,” he added after a second.
“Then I regret not meeting her,” Oliver said, and Aberlour could hear the smile in his voice.
“You’re an idiot,” Abe said, with no heat behind it. Oliver’s low chuckle made his head buzz with something that eased his pain, and as the song came to an end, Abe felt Oliver’s lips on the top of his head.
“Nah, that’s you. Darling and Dumber, remember?” he whispered close to Abe’s ear, his voice husky, soft and full of light. There was one more kiss. Gentle and quick. A reassurance. A kind of hope. Then they both listened quietly as the song came to an end, Edith Piaf’s voice elegant and strong. As unwavering and breathtaking as his mother had been.
Non, rien de rien, non je ne regrette rien. Car ma vie, car mes joies, aujourd’hui, ça commence avec toi.
