by Wendy Wax
“What?” My eyes fly open. I drag a breath of air into my lungs, but with all the blood whooshing in my ears, I must not have heard him right. “What did you say?”
“I said, I can’t go through with the wedding. I’m not ready to get married.”
I rip my hands out of his. My head moves back and forth in denial.
“Think about it, Erin. We’ve been together for so long. Don’t you ever wonder what you’ve missed? What you might miss in the future?” His pleading look is an arrow through the heart. A slap across the face.
“No.” My head is still wagging back and forth. “No, I don’t. Not ever.”
“Well, you should. You’re only twenty-three, and you’ve already spent your entire life with one person.”
The anger is sharp and clean. It’s all that keeps me from collapsing in a heap on the floor. “Don’t you dare act like you’re only thinking of me. You said you loved me and wanted to marry me. You said you wanted to have children, build a family.”
“I do love you. But getting married? Having children right away? That was your dream, not mine. I didn’t want to lose you.”
“And now you can’t wait to be rid of me.”
“That’s not true. But if I’m going to live up to my potential, make the most of the incredible opportunity I’ve been given, I’ve got to focus on my pitching. On development.”
“And what about me? What about what I want?” My voice breaks.
“You should be focused on your own development, too, Erin. You’re smart and driven. You can do anything you set your mind to.” He swallows. “Up until now that’s mostly been me.”
“I know you don’t mean this. You can’t.” My heart is racing so fast I’m afraid it’s going to jump out of my chest. “It’s normal to have cold feet—especially for guys. It’s probably just nerves. I’m sure it’ll pass.”
He’s the one shaking his head now.
“I know. Maybe we just need to give each other some space this week.” I’m pleading now. “Let the anticipation build. We could go talk to Father Ryan.”
His hands retake mine. His eyes are filled with regret, but there’s not a trace of indecision in them. “No. I feel like we’ve been on this runaway train. I need to get off.”
Something warm and wet and salty lands on my tongue. I’m crying. “But a hundred and fifty people are coming to see us get married. You can’t do this.”
“I’m sorry. I know I should have said something sooner. But I didn’t want to ruin Christmas . . .”
The fact that he spent what I thought was such a beautiful holiday working up the courage to have this conversation is its own mushroom cloud of pain. “Are you frickin’ kidding me? You’ve ruined everything!”
I spring to my feet and race out of the kitchen and into the foyer, where I scoop up my purse and car keys and sprint out the front door.
“Erin! Come back! You can’t . . .”
The elevator door closes. I only notice that I’m not wearing shoes or anything but Josh’s shirt when I step out of the elevator into the unheated garage. Worse than the cold air swirling up my bare legs is the moment I press the key fob and Josh’s Maserati beeps in response. Crap. There’s no way I’m going back upstairs, so I slide my bare ass across the cold leather seat. Once I figure out how to move that seat forward far enough to reach the gas pedal, I fire up the engine and back out of the space.
I drive too fast and sob so hard that it’s a miracle I don’t get pulled over or cause a pileup. Somehow, I make it to my parents’ and am desperately grateful that their car isn’t there. I’m even more grateful that my brothers’ aren’t, either.
After turning off the engine with shaky fingers, I lay my forehead on the steering wheel while I try to stop crying, gather my thoughts, and un-hear the things Josh said. Only I can’t manage any of those things. I don’t know how long I sit there before I finally find the strength to get out of the car and make my wobbly way inside.
In my bedroom, I pull off Josh’s T-shirt, stomp on it with my dirty bare feet, and throw it in the trash. Then I pull on my ancient plaid flannel pajamas and crawl into my childhood bed wishing I’d never woken up this morning, that everything that’s happened today was nothing more than a bad dream.
But no matter how far I burrow under the covers, no matter how hard I shake and cry, no matter how much I try to pretend Josh never called off our wedding, every word he said is now seared into my brain. So is the fact that I never, ever imagined that I wouldn’t be enough for Josh when he’s been everything to me.
For such a long-term planner, I have certainly turned out to be exceptionally shortsighted.
Seven
Jazmine
My sister Thea’s personal mantra is “never give up, never surrender,” a line from the Star Trek spoof Galaxy Quest that we watched ad nauseam when we were kids. Normally, I admire her drive and determination. Except when it’s aimed at me.
When she calls, I’m at the Mercedes-Benz Stadium where the Chick-fil-A Peach Bowl is about to start. I have my eye on a running back who’ll be a senior next year.
“I’m working,” I say when I answer my phone.
“Girl, if I only reached out when you weren’t working, we’d never talk at all.”
I don’t argue, because there is some truth to this. Plus, if I argue, this call will last way longer than it needs to. Because as I believe I mentioned, my older sister is more Mack Truck than Machiavelli. She does not back down. Ever.
“I just wanted to let you know that Derrick Warren is coming to our New Year’s Eve party and he really wants to meet you.”
I wonder for about a second whether Derrick Warren really wants to meet me any more than I really want to meet him. But at least I have a legitimate excuse this time. (Yes, I’ve made some up in the past, mostly to avoid becoming roadkill beneath her wheels.)
“That’s nice to hear,” I say as sincerely as I can. “But I’ll be in Tampa. I’ve got a QB in the Outback Bowl that I’m about to sign.” This, happily, is true. There’ve been lots of bigger agents buzzing around him, including “he who must not be named,” but I have an inside track. That inside track is his mother, Beverly, who appreciates the fact that I have firsthand experience with the pressures of being a college athlete and that we are both single mothers.
“Can’t you come to our party and then fly down to Tampa on the first?”
“No. I can’t. Because I’m having dinner with the QB’s mother on New Year’s Eve, and I’m not about to take a chance on letting anyone else get close to her right now.”
“But Derrick might . . .”
“. . . meet somebody else? That’s a risk I’ll have to take. And if he’s as new to town as you say, he should meet as many people as possible. I’m not exactly the only single woman you know in Atlanta.”
“No, but you’re the only one who’s my sister.”
“I’m willing to meet him when things slow down,” I say more to get Thea off my back than anything else.
“I’m taking that as a promise, and I’m holding you to it.”
This is not an idle threat, but there’s no point in worrying about forces of nature like my sister. I have more immediate issues.
The Peach Bowl is a nail-biter that South Carolina, ultimately, loses. Which makes the running back slightly less cocky and a lot more eager to sign.
Three days later in Tampa, Beverly Sizemore and I spend a fairly quiet New Year’s Eve at Bern’s Steak House. With its red velvet and brocade decor, old-school waiters, homegrown beef, and deservedly famous wine cellar, it’s the perfect place to dine with clients and potential clients. And I’m not the only agent making the most of the ambience. I freeze for a moment when I spot who I think is Rich Hanson slithering out of the bar and toward a private dining room.
“Jazmine?” Beverly leans across the table. “Are you
all right?”
“Yes. Sorry.” I glance back toward the bar, but there’s no sign of the snake. Nonetheless, I don’t leave Beverly alone, not even to go to the ladies’ room. Just in case you-know-who wasn’t an unpleasant figment of my imagination.
“Has anyone else approached you lately about representing Kaden?” I ask as we finish up coffee and dessert and receive our individual bills. (I have never disobeyed NCAA guidelines, and I’m not about to start. There will be plenty of opportunities to treat Beverly to meals once Kade turns pro.)
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” She snorts. “I’ll be glad when tomorrow’s over. Once Kade officially signs with StarSports Advisors, I assume the sharks will finally stop circling?”
“Well, the most predatory sharks have to keep swimming or die. But I hope you know that I’ll protect and represent Kaden as if he were my own flesh and blood.”
“I do. In fact, I’m counting on it.” She reaches out and places her hand on mine. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. I’m not just here for the steak.”
Sara
Having Mitch home for the whole week of Christmas reminds me just how much I’ve missed him and our life before Dorothy’s surgery and his new position in Birmingham. I’ve spent the last several months telling myself I’m fine on my own. But the truth is, life is so much better and brighter when he’s here.
Even Dorothy seems happier. Or at least less unhappy than usual.
It’s almost midnight now. The new year is about to start. Dorothy went to her bedroom a couple hours ago, and I’m savoring this rare alone time every bit as much as the bottle of champagne that we’re in the process of finishing. The TV over the fireplace is muted so we can watch the ball drop in Times Square. Jazz plays softly in the background.
Mitch refills both our glasses and lifts his to mine. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”
“And you.”
We both take a long swallow. The champagne bubbles down my throat.
“I know these last months have been hard on you,” Mitch says softly. “But I really appreciate how great you’ve been to my mother. She isn’t always the easiest person to have around.”
I blush at the compliment and grow warm under his gaze. “I know it must be difficult to be alone and getting older. The surgery was hard on her.”
“You’re a saint. Knowing she has you looking out for her means a lot to me.” He places a kiss on the top of my head. “Having you here to come back to means even more.”
We drain our glasses and look into each other’s eyes. My husband has always acted as if he sees me as a “Titian-haired goddess,” not the carrot-haired woman with too many freckles that stares back from the mirror.
He leans in and presses his lips to mine.
“Ummm. You taste like champagne.”
“And you taste like heaven.” The way he looks into my eyes as he says this makes me feel as fizzy as the champagne.
“I miss you when you’re gone all week.”
“And I miss you.” He leans in and kisses me again, more slowly this time.
“But I . . . I do worry what spending so much time apart could do to our relationship.”
“And here I was thinking it adds a little extra spice to things.” His eyes darken. The look he gives me is so intimate it makes my pulse skitter beneath my skin. “You know what they say about absence and the heart . . .” He lowers his head and nuzzles my ear. “I feel myself growing fonder by the second.”
My arms loop around his neck. He pulls me into his lap.
“Are you happy with the new position?” I ask.
“Oh yeah.” He repositions me so that I feel every inch of his erection. “I absolutely love it.”
“Very funny.” I nibble at his lip and wriggle in his lap. Because how can I not when he makes me feel so sexy? So not my usual self? “But you are happy with the new job?”
“I am. But you know what would make me even happier?”
I wriggle further onto his lap and raise an eyebrow in question.
“Definitely that.” He unbuttons my blouse, palms a breast, then skims his thumb across my nipple. “And a little bit of this . . .”
I shiver as he carries me half-naked and fully aroused to our bedroom. Where he proceeds to make us both deliriously happy.
* * *
• • •
I wake the next morning with Mitch’s body wrapped around mine.
My eyes slit open. Morning light streams through the bedroom window and splashes across the wood floor.
This is the first and only house I’ve ever owned. Mitch and I bought it right after we got married and have spent the years since putting our personal stamp on it. For someone who moved from foster home to foster home and then apartment to apartment, owning this house, knowing that I couldn’t be removed from it or sent elsewhere, meant everything.
Mitch’s breath is warm on the back of my neck. His arm folds over my waist. His presence fills up the house and makes it “home” in a way I can’t manage on my own.
I smile and snuggle closer. I feel loved. Protected. Happy.
Agreeing to give up this home, my job, the friends I’ve made, so that Mitch could take the new position he was offered was one of the most difficult choices I’ve ever made. In appreciation of that sacrifice, he insisted I finish out the school year before we even put the house on the market or begin to look for a new one in Birmingham.
But this morning, the promise of the new year crooks its finger. I’m eager, even impatient, to get started.
I ease out of bed, pull on a bathrobe, and pick up the clothes strewn across the floor with a wicked sense of satisfaction.
There’s no sign of Dorothy as I pad into the laundry room to drop the dirty clothes in the basket. Soon I’m sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee, watching squirrels toboggan down the tree trunks while birds land and take off from the rim of the frozen birdbath.
I’ve been a busy elf. There are eggs to scramble, bread to toast, and bacon to fry. A bottle of syrup tucked in the corner of the refrigerator turns my thoughts to French toast, which used to be a favorite weekend treat. In that moment, I’m inspired to make the kind of breakfast I rarely bother with for myself and that Dorothy has never seemed interested in.
As if conjured by my thoughts, she comes into the kitchen fully dressed and made up, no doubt in honor of her son’s presence. “Oh.” She looks decidedly disappointed when she realizes it’s only me.
“I didn’t have the heart to wake him.”
She sniffs. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”
“True. But it’s a holiday.” And the surprisingly stellar start of what I hope will be an equally stellar year. “Happy New Year, Dorothy.”
“Thank you.” Another sniff. “The same to you.” She offers the pleasantry as if expecting a lightning bolt or clap of thunder. When neither of these things happen, I begin to crack eggs into a bowl. She pours herself a cup of coffee.
“I thought French toast might be more fun than the traditional black-eyed peas and collard greens.”
She nods and sips her coffee tentatively as I beat the eggs and open a loaf of bread. The pan is heating over the flame when the sound of our bedroom shower reaches us. I grin as I dunk slices of bread in the mixture, then lay them in the pan.
Mitch has almost always come home on the weekends, especially since his mother has been living here, but maybe I could go to Birmingham next weekend so that we can start looking at houses and I can see the schools I’m applying to in person.
The egg-coated pieces of bread sizzle merrily in the pan. I flush with memory of last night’s lovemaking and am careful not to look Dorothy in the eye when I ask her to please cut up some fruit. She hesitates just long enough to make me regret asking, then sighs in a beleaguered way when she pulls open the refrigerator door.
<
br /> When the first pieces of French toast come out of the pan and new ones are sizzling, I set the table thinking that maybe Mitch can have a talk with her after breakfast. If we buy a house in Birmingham and create a timeline for a move there, surely that will help Dorothy commit to her own move back to Greenville.
Dorothy sets the bowl of fruit on the center of the table with a huff that I ignore. I’m checking the last pieces of French toast when I hear a buzzing in the laundry room. When it doesn’t stop, I follow the sound to where I find a cell phone vibrating madly against the bottom of the laundry basket.
“All right already!” Impatient to get back to breakfast before it burns, I raise the phone to my ear. “Hello?!”
There’s no response. I’m about to hang up when a little boy’s voice pipes, “Is this Mitchhull Wayleb’s pone?”
I pull the phone away from my ear and am about to hang up when I realize that although the cell phone isn’t one of the pair we bought together, it can only belong to Mitch. The only person on the planet who scoffs at password protection.
“Who is this, and to whom do you wish to speak?” I ask in my teacher’s voice.
“This is Mitchhull, too,” the child replies. “An I wanna speak to my daddy!”
Eight
Sara
I’m in the bedroom with no idea how I got there, stalking into the bathroom where Mitch is standing in front of a steamy mirror, shaving cream covering his face, naked except for the towel around his hips.
I barely wait for him to turn around before I’m shoving the phone at him. “It’s for you!”
“Hey! What the hell?” Mitch glances at the phone, then up at me. “Where did you get that?” He grabs the phone. “What have you done?”
“I should be asking you those questions,” I hiss. “I am asking you those questions.”
He wipes the shaving cream off his face, but he doesn’t speak.
“There’s a little boy named Mitchhull on the line. He wants to speak to his daddy.”