BLISS: A Wedding Enemies to Lovers Alpha Bad-Boy Billionaire Romance

by Marr, Maggie

  “I . . .” I can’t find the right words. I don’t know what to say to her. This . . . this is our final time together. Instead of speaking, I press my lips to hers. Soft. Warm. Perfect. I remain in that kiss for as long as I can, and then I pull away.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  She nods. She pulls the blanket tighter around her body, up beneath her chin. I’ve already told her that I need to go on my own, and she’s respecting my words, even though my words, what I’ve said to her, are different than how I feel and what I want.

  Chapter 29

  There are two cop cars parked in front of Mom’s house. Judges get a response. I walk into the living room. Both cops stand across from my sister. They eye me, and she continues describing the layout of the house. Really, the only way Mom could’ve left is the front door. The back gate has a combination lock she doesn’t know the code for, and the windows are too high off the ground.

  “This is my brother, Jake.” Worry etches Rachel’s face. Both cops look at me the way cops do. Sizing me up.

  The older one, with silver hair and a lean build, rolls forward on his feet and turns his gaze back to my sister. “We’re going to start in the neighborhood and circle. Already contacted local fire departments and hospitals. We think she took off around four this morning.”

  “Why four?” I ask.

  “She made coffee,” Rachel says. “And that coffeemaker always shows when the pot brewed.”

  “What can we do?”

  “One of you needs to stay here,” says the red-headed younger cop, who barely looks older than twenty.

  “Sylvia is already walking the neighborhood,” Rachel says. “She feels awful.”

  Well, of course she does. She lost our mother.

  “Anyplace she might want to go? Anything today she might want to see?”

  “You told them about the Alzheimer’s?”

  Rachel nods and rubs her hands together.

  “We’ll check back. If you find her, let us know.” The older cop hands my sister a card. They leave. Rachel’s mood has shifted. She turns her back to me and walks into the kitchen. I know better than to follow, but I follow anyway.

  “Where’s Lily?”

  “Asleep upstairs.” Rachel doesn’t look at me. She dumps out the old coffee and starts to make fresh. Her actions are fast and concise, and I know just by how her gaze won’t meet mine what she’s thinking.

  “This could’ve happened anywhere,” I say.

  “But it didn’t,” she says, “this happened here and it happened on our watch.”

  “Our watch?”

  “What the hell, Jake? Who do you think is in charge of keeping Mom alive? It’s not Sylvia.”

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Oh wait, do you think it’s me?” She taps her hand on her chest. “Alone? Do you think Mom is all my responsibility?” She slams the lid on the coffee tin and puts it on the shelf. “Because you sure as hell act like it is.” She pushes the button on the coffeepot. “You get a pass on nearly everything, but I’m not giving you a pass on this one. She’s your mom too.”

  Heat fires in my chest and unkind, unpleasant words form in my brain. “You’re so used to making decisions about everyone’s life you can’t stand that I won’t let you throw Mom in a home.”

  “Throw Mom in a home? What the fuck? Jake, she’s missing. Mom is out there, on the streets, and she doesn’t even know her first name. This is Los Angeles. She could die.”

  I have nothing to say. If I’m really honest, the anger isn’t just because Rachel is right. Fuck, I hate it when she’s right. The anger is because I don’t want Mom in a place like that. I can’t stand the idea of Mom rotting away in some room. I turn and storm out of the kitchen. Rachel follows me, hot on my heels.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find Mom.” I slam the front door. On the front step, I pause and look at the neighborhood I grew up in. Birds chirp at the early daylight, flowers line driveways, green lawns stretch from home to street. This place wasn’t perfect, but damn, it was close. And whatever shit my parents went through they mostly hid, because even when they were separated because Dad was fucking around, it mostly felt like he was only away on business.

  I walk down the front steps to the street. Damn, Mom loved Dad. Loved him even when she must have hated him. I close my eyes for an instant and let the pain of what happened between me and Susie wash through me. To my right, three houses down, is where Susie grew up. I glance toward the house. Her parents are still there. Her mother blames me for Susie’s death—she’s laid that tragedy squarely at my feet. Does she take any pleasure in what’s happening to me now?

  * * *

  I turn onto Veterans and cruise along slowly, scanning the sidewalk for a woman, mid-sixties, who may or may not be wearing a jacket. Mom left her pajamas on her bed, neatly folded per her usual, but none of us are certain what she’s wearing.

  Would it be possible that Mom’s neurons are firing on a level that she might remember . . . or somehow think . . . what the hell. I cut across Sunset and onto Stone Canyon. A few minutes later I pull to a stop and hand the valet my keys. I walk across the grounds of The Bel Air Hotel to the spot where Dad and Mom got married, the same place where Susie and I, this day six years ago, were meant to take our vows. Nothing. Not one person. I turn back to head across the grounds toward the front entrance and that’s when I see Mom. She’s wearing a dress and pants. An odd combination, but one that definitely kept her warm early this morning. No jacket, but a navy fleece-lined sweater that used to be Dad’s.

  My heart sinks with the knowledge that Rachel is right. Mom may need more care than she can get at home.

  “Richard!” Her eyes light up. A smile curves over her face, and I love that even if I’m not Richard, the idea of seeing Dad gives Mom this much pleasure.

  “Hi Mom.” I walk to her and put my arm through hers. “Where are you off to? You know I like it best when we go together.”

  “But I didn’t want to be late. The wedding is today, isn’t it?”

  I sink to the bench by her side. Some foggy misty place in her brain thinks I’m Dad, but also remembers that I was meant to get married, here and on this date, six years ago.

  This fucking disease.

  “It . . . it doesn’t start until much later today,” I say. My throat tightens, and it feels like an elephant sits on my chest.

  That weight is the recognition that Mom will never be okay and that I can’t avoid this place, or this day that I pretend is a non-day, because Mom, who is losing her mind, believes that we’re sitting here waiting for me to get married. The day that was supposed to be the beginning of my life, but it’s really a terrifically sad day that only recalls the end of Susie’s life.

  “I’ve seen Susie’s dress.” Mom leans over and smiles. “She’s such a beautiful girl.”

  My heart cracks. I swallow and nod. I start to stand, but Mom grasps my arm and pulls me back down beside her. “I’m worried about her. She seems . . .”Mom sighs and weighs her words. “So fragile. So . . . so unable to cope with the world.”

  Mom’s words freeze me to the spot.

  “Betty says Susie is seeing a therapist”—Mom whispers the word—“about her problem and that Jake knows, but”—concern, perhaps even fear wander through Mom’s eyes—“I don’t know, Richard, life is so hard without layering an addiction on top of a marriage. Can you even call it that? I mean that’s what Betty calls it, and Jake? What does Jake think? Have you spoken to him about it?”

  I clear my throat. Dad never spoke to me, and I wonder if this conversation, the one that Mom is now having with me, ever did take place between her and Dad. She waits for my response. Her whole world right now hinges on what I, as my dead father, will say.

  “Jake loves Susie very much.” I squeeze Mom’s arm. “Love goes a long way.”

  The fear slides from Mom’s eyes and a peaceful smile lights her face. While my heart is breaking, I feel a bi
t of happiness at the idea that in my Mom’s mind, all will be well. That later today, I will marry Susie, because I love her so deeply and together, because my dead father has said so, Susie and I will live happily ever after.

  I love that this reality exists for someone, if only for an instant, in a misfiring mind.

  * * *

  “Oh my God, Mom!” Rachel meets us at the door with Sylvia and the two cops. The officers listen to what I tell them, mumble a few things to my sis, Judge Reynolds, and then both leave. Mom sits on the sofa near the sliders.

  “Mom, you scared me to death.” Rachel stands above our mother with her arms folded across her chest.

  Mom looks past Rachel and leans toward me. “Who is this woman that keeps calling me Mom?”

  “She doesn’t know who I am, right?” Rachel, who is usually so diplomatic and all about doing exactly what the doctors tell us to do for Mom, is at the end of her patience. This moment doesn’t come often for big sis, but when it does, it comes for her hard.

  Sylvia helps Mom to her feet and leads her toward the staircase. It seems we’ve both agreed to pretend we aren’t irritated with each other and didn’t argue before I left. Fine. She’s my sister. I’ve played this game before.

  “She was at The Bel Air Hotel? Where you and Susie were supposed to get married?”

  “The entire thing is creepily weird, especially when you throw in today’s date.”

  “Oh my God”—Rachel covers her mouth with her hand—“that’s right. Do you think some part of her brain remembers?”

  “Who knows? When I got there, she said she was afraid she’d be late for the wedding.”

  I walk through the house to the kitchen, hoping there’s still coffee. Fatigue permeates my body. I haven’t slept much. Last night was filled with things I prefer over sleep. I reach up into the cabinet and pull out a coffee mug. This one has a picture of my face from second grade on the side.

  “You were such a cute kid,” Rachel says. I’m uncertain if her comment is an attempt at an apology or if she’s trying to soften me up for the conversation I know is coming. I pour coffee into my mug.

  “This isn’t working for me,” Rachel begins. “And more importantly, it isn’t working for Mom.”

  “This hasn’t happened before.” I face my sister who sits at the table. Dark rings beneath her eyes.

  “But it could happen again.”

  “We’ll childproof the front door. Put a different alarm on it.”

  “It’s not just about her getting out, it’s about her safety and her—”

  “We’ll hire another person.”

  “Jake, she’s not getting the necessary mental stimulation.”

  “She can have two people here.”

  “You’re not hearing me.”

  “Oh, I’m hearing you, I’m just surprised at what I’m hearing. You want to dump Mom in a nursing home so life is easier for you.”

  Rachel sits back in her chair and stares at the placemat on the table in front of her. She takes a deep breath, clasps her hands, and looks up at me. She’s trying to remain calm, collect her thoughts, and lay out her evidence as to why Mom should be locked up in a facility.

  But I’m the younger brother.

  I know how to dig.

  I let her start talking.

  “No, Jake”—her voice sounds as though she’s speaking to Lily’s peer group—“what I want is a place that meets the specialized needs of Alzheimer’s patients. A place that can give Mom the stimulation and protection that is necessary to enhance her life to the greatest degree while she remains alive. I want her to have a full life, on her terms, and I don’t believe that’s happening here.”

  I smirk. I cross my arms. I’m suddenly fifteen. “That’s bullshit, Rachel, you’re just tired of coming over here every damn day and you don’t want to feel guilty anymore about the days you miss.”

  She swallows. I’ve struck a nerve and I know it. I’m her little brother, and I’m an asshole. Rachel couldn’t be more dedicated to family if she were fucking Lassie. And I know how thin she’s stretched and how hard she tries and how her biggest fear is she isn’t doing enough for her family.

  And what did I just do?

  Told her she wasn’t doing enough for Mom, that she was putting her own needs above Mom’s. And I made her feel guilty for it.

  “I . . .” She sighs, not an exasperated sigh, but the kind that comes before tears. “Jake,” she nearly whispers, “I can’t do any more than I’m doing now.”

  “Right? Like you believe that. Like I believe that.”

  Fuck or fight. Fuck or fight. These are the only ways I cope. My face is sullen. I direct my dead-eyed gaze toward Rachel, knowing that in this moment I’m killing her. Tearing her up on the inside. Knowing that I am a complete and utter asshole. Knowing that I’m the guy she turns to because there is no one else left, and now, I am being a bigger asshole to my big sis than any other guy has ever been.

  “You’re being a dick.”

  I have to give big sis credit, because when we were kids, she’d be up on her feet and screaming in my face by now. Instead she sits at the table, her face ashen, her hands clasped, and while she may want to scream, she may even want to beat the shit out of me, she’s not. She’s calm. She’s cool. She’s collected. And she’s everything I don’t want to be right now.

  “And you’re a selfish bitch.”

  “Mama?”

  My heart drops to my toes. What the fuck did I just do? I turn to the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room.

  Lily stands just inside the door, wearing her fuzzy unicorn pajamas, carrying Mr. Wooby Bear in one hand. Her round sleepy-eyed face stares at me.

  Did she . . . oh my God . . . did she . . .?

  “What is it doll-baby?” Rachel says with a pretend-lilt in her voice, as only mothers can do. I’ve just said the most unkind things to my sister, possibly in front of my niece, and there she is, my big sis, putting aside her own pain, her own fear, her own anger, anything that is her own feelings, so that she can help Lily. And she does it like every other woman, effortlessly, without thought. She does it for her daughter, even for me, and always for Mom.

  She isn’t a selfish bitch, I’m a selfish asshole. But that isn’t a newsflash.

  Rachel lifts Lily into her arms and cuddles her. Swings her gently from side to side in a way that comes encoded on that extra X chromosome. Lily’s big blue eyes regard me almost as though I’m a stranger. Leery of who I am. She may not understand exactly what I said, but she can feel the charge in the air, the energy, the anger, the contempt, all the things I’ve directed at Rachel.

  I start to reach out to place my fingers on Lily’s cheek, but I pause. She turns her head away from me. Doesn’t face me. Doesn’t look at me.

  A knife slams through my heart.

  Fuck.

  I turn, and without another word to Rachel or to Lily, through the house and out the door I go.

  Chapter 30

  I pull into my parking space, turn off the car, and look across the garage. The parking spot that usually houses Tara’s blue convertible is empty. I don’t want to see her now. I don’t want to answer questions about Mom. Discuss the imminent upheaval. I can resist and rage now, but finding Mom today makes this real for me. She’ll need a safe place. I don’t want the pain of moving Mom, the pain of sifting through my childhood, nor do I want the pain of thinking about or seeing Tara. I just don’t want the pain. I don’t want the inevitable pain that will course through my body and lodge in my chest the next time I see Tara. The ache because I’ll want to touch her, and kiss her, and fuck her, but won’t be able to.

  Our time together is finished. Done.

  I exit my car and climb onto the elevator. My Wonderfuck phone vibrates and I pull it from my pocket.

  How’s your mom?

  I start to respond and then pause, second guessing myself. But I then realize that with the emergency I just faced, I would’ve left no matter which
woman I was with. Any woman might’ve texted me this question.

  Better.

  I respond as Wonderfuck, not Jake. Concise. To the point. Because Wonderfuck is who I was when I was with Tara . . . wasn’t it?

  Actually no, but if I keep saying it to myself, maybe I’ll start believing it. I take the elevator up, avoid looking toward Tara’s door, and open the door to my condo. I look through the house to the balcony, the view, and like every time I enter, I see Susie. I see Susie as I did that night, that night six years and six weeks ago.

  She stood on the balcony, but she wasn’t facing the view. She faced the front door. She was waiting for me. Expecting me.

  I smiled at her, like I always did when I saw her face, and she smiled back. It was the final time I saw her smile.

  She stepped onto a table that used to be on the balcony, before I got rid of everything on the balcony, before I locked the door and never went out there again.

  The moment lasted a lifetime. Slowly, so slowly, she stood on the table and looked at me. Our eyes locked and then . . . and then she leaned backward, her eyes, her blue eyes, still focused on me, and she was gone.

  My throat tightens. My heartbeat is unbearably fast. Why am I reliving this memory now?

  I . . . I was . . . unable to move, I . . . didn’t know what had happened, was I awake? The thought, the idea, my mind couldn’t process what my eyes had seen. Was I asleep? Was I trapped in some nightmare? A jolt of adrenaline and I was out onto the balcony, looking over the edge, hearing car alarms and, in the distance, sirens. I dropped to my knees. My breath stalled in my chest. I still don’t know what prevented me from following her over the edge and onto the pavement below. I turn away from the view, the balcony, the past. I turn away, walk out of my front door, and leave my condo behind.