"Jill, the wedding was just beautiful." It's Mom's nosiest neighbor, Barb, who has purposely run into me to ask about Michael. And to tell you the truth, I don't even know why she's here. Barb gave Monica piano lessons, like forever ago, but insisted to my mother for an invite.
"Now, that man. Is he…?"
"Yes, he's Monica's father. Excuse me," I say and continue on to the bar. The line has only grown, so I cut to the front when I see Chelsea's dad ordering a bourbon. "Hey, can you make it two for the mother of the bride?" I toss my hair and throw a begging smile.
"Hey, Jill. Make it two," he says to the bartender.
"Thanks, Jerry."
"You got it. Now, you're mine on the dance floor."
My insides cringe, but not as much as they do when I rehash what occurred a few minutes ago. I will dance with Jerry till the cows come home if it means avoiding my family. And…Michael.
"You got it, Jerry," I say and reach for the bourbon the bartender sets in front of me. Taking my first sip, I invite the burn down to my empty stomach and say a prayer I don't fall while walking over to Monica. "Thanks," I say and attempt the journey across the room.
"Don't forget about that dance," I hear him holler. Without looking back, I hold up my drink as my sure won't gesture.
I only make it half way when I'm stopped by…Michael. Quick. Game on, Jill.
"Jill, are you okay? I wanted to talk to you before the toast, but you walked away in a hurry."
How dare he ask if I'm okay! Of course I'm not okay. I want to scream and say, What the hell was all of that? I want to take this glass of bourbon and throw it in his face. But, I'm going to need every drop to get through this reception.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just mother-of-the-bride jitters. Nothing you would understand." Yes. First jab. Now, walk away, Jill.
"Jill…
"I'm needed at the bridal table, Michael. So, if you don't mind."
His eyes search my face and then softly relent. "Sure. Okay. Talk later?"
"Ah," I breathe, sounding more annoyed and exhausted. "Maybe."
I walk away, trembling more than ever, and it's a struggle to keep the bourbon from splashing out. Once I reach my destination, which seems to have been a journey, I take a hefty swallow. I need to calm down.
Monica looks up and recognizes the apprehension on my face. The bourbon has yet to kick in. She tells Chelsea to excuse her and walks around the table.
"Mom, are you okay?" she asks, and I watch her eyes move to the glass in my hand. "Did…did Dad upset you?” For her see me with hard liquor is probably alarming.
"Ah…well, I wanted to make sure you're okay…after Michael's speech." I still struggle with, your father.
"Wasn't it moving? I mean, to think after all these years, he's regretful."
And that's Monica. The ever-forgiving daughter that I raised. I think all the forgiving I wanted to believe I was capable of, I bestowed onto her. Yet, my inner self was anything but. Internally, I was a hypocrite.
"Yes, it was moving all right. I just wanted to make sure you weren't upset."
"Of course not, Mom. Unless it upsets you." Her eyes alter from pleased to anxiety.
What can I say? It did upset me. But I don't want her to feel bad. "No. Although, it was a shock. Wasn't quite expecting that." She relaxes with a sigh, and I rub her cheek. "Okay then, I won't take up any more of your day. Enjoy yourself, Baby," I say and hope my smile is genuine and then kiss her on the cheek.
She takes both my hands in hers. "Thanks, Mom. You've made my day perfect." Her words assure me that I have done my best to keep the past suppressed, almost non-existent to her. I will always be the wall that protects her for the hell Michael put us through all those years ago. And, which is probably why she has no problem with him being here. Another one Michael of bullets.
She returns to her wedding party, and I take another cleansing breath before walking back to the family table. Scott and Jen have now returned with their drinks, and Mom is clearing Dad's plate. I know she will be getting up to go get Dad's after-dinner-coffee, so I head over to the coffee bar area and wait. Just like clockwork, she gets up and leads this way. I don't think Dad has poured himself a cup of coffee in fifty years.
"Mom, how's Dad?" I ask.
"He's okay. He just needs to say his peace, and then after that…" She swishes her hands, not finishing her sentence and reaches for a cup and saucer. "Don't worry about your father, Jill. I got him covered. Jen's doing her best with Scott. You just focus on Monica and yourself," she says. Like I haven't been doing that for the last twenty-four years.
"Thanks, Mom. Apologize to Dad for me, will you?"
"Jill, you have nothing to apologize for. Besides, he's probably forgotten the last twenty minutes. He just wants his coffee now." She lays her hand over mine and smiles before taking Dad his coffee. I know it had to be hard for her as well back then. Dealing with Dad and all. Sometimes, I don't know what would have been worse. Her marriage to Dad and keeping him content and anchored while working and raising Scott and me? Or, my horrible marriage to Michael.
Feeling it's safe to return, I begin to walk back when, Jerry, Chelsea's dad stops me.
"The DJ is playing one of my favorites." Don't Stop till You Get Enough? "Time to return the favor."
"Ah, what the hell," I say and down the last of my bourbon. Setting the glass on the nearest table, I bust for the dance floor. Apparently, the song must be a favorite for all the forty and over as the crowd closes in.
By the end of the song, the bourbon has kicked in and is doing its job. No more am I on pins and needles and dance away with Jerry. Or, it could be that induced false sense of security from the alcohol. For safe measure, I thank him for the dance and beeline for the table.
As I sit, the lights dim, and the DJ begins announcing. "At this time, I would like all married couples on the dance floor." That leaves me out.
Jen pulls Scott out to the floor and Dad argues when Mom tugs on his arm. "Oh, come on, Arthur. You need to work off some of that bread you should have stayed away from." He huffs and gives into Mom. Together, the two of them slowly make their way to the dance floor. I watch and then feel the smile press on my lips when I watch the two of them dance to Alan Jackson's, “Remember When.”
"If you were just married today, please take your seat," the DJ says. Of course, Monica and Jordan are the only couple to leave the dance floor, and the song continues for a few more choruses. "If you have been married five years or less, please take your seat." About two-thirds of the couples leave the floor. Alan Jackson sings on. "If you have been married ten or less, please take your seat." The only couples left are the late thirty and forty-years old's—and Mom and Dad. A few more reductions and Mom and Dad are the only ones left. The crowd applauses as my parents steal the dance floor, moving small circles in each other's arms and I wish now how it could have all worked out for us—Michael and me. Even through all their pesky, little fights, I watch the two of them look into each other's eyes and know it was all worth it. Something I will never have.
Across the room, I spot Michael looking over at me, and I turn away. What did he need to talk about? Feeling that uneasiness rounding itself back, I get up and walk to the bar for some wine. Ordering a glass of cabernet, I then attempt to mingle and vanish in the crowd.
"Jill," a husky, low voice says from behind. Turning around, Michael stands only inches from me.
"Yes, Michael? What is it?" I say and take a sip from my wine.
"I would love to dance with the mother of the bride."
What? Hasn't he done enough damage just by being here? My family will have a cow if they see us dancing. And that was one topic where they did draw the line. The father and daughter dance. Monica agreed to dance with her grandfather. Also, she couldn't think of a song that would represent her and Michael's relationship. "Really," I state. "You're here for Monica. Not me."
His eyes relentlessly take my verbal punch. "Please. And we could talk?"
He doesn't seem to have an answer, and so I decide to use this time to get in a few of my own words. “Sure, Michael; just let me finish my wine and then we can dance and talk."
"Thank you," he says and walks away. What the hell? I laugh, "Fucker," I say under my breath and tip back the wine. Typical Michael. Always disappearing.
The song ends, and the DJ announces that the next song has been requested. I start to walk away when Shania Twain's, “You're Still the One” begins.
Before I can convince my feet to move, Michael is back and holds out his hand. He requested this song? Setting my glass on the nearest table, I proceed to take his hand with caution. The wine hasn't done its job, and the minute our hand's touch, stimuli of the last twenty years invade every part of my being. It's good. It's bad. It's confusing. It's…back. Like cancer, you thought you had beat.
He moves us to the dance floor, and I hyperventilate when his arms wrap around me. I tell myself it's the thought of what everyone will think. What my family will remember, and not how I feel in his arms.
I feel him looking right at me as I try to look past him and into the crowd. "I thought this would be the perfect song for us," he says.
My eyes slowly find their way to his, and I let the last twenty years come out. "What! Have you ever listened to the words, Michael? ‘Looks like we've made it.' We didn't make shit. It was hell and the last thing you ever wanted; marriage and me and Monica. You couldn't do this anymore."
He listens to my chastisement and quietly says, "I know. I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?"
"I wanted to dance with you, and this was the first song we ever danced to. Remember, when you delivered my pizza?”
"Yes, Michael. I do. I remember everything. It was painful. It was exhausting. And I barely lived through it. I don't need to be reminded."
"I know. I cause you so much pain, Jill."
The dam breaks, and it all comes flowing out. "What the hell was that up there, Michael? All that talk about what a husband should do. You hated all those things. What? Did you compile a list of all the things I wanted to do? All the things you refused to do with me? All the things you did that broke my heart and make a speech out of it?"
"Yes."
"Yes? You're the last person to be giving husband advice. Oh my, God, Michael. You put me through hell, and after you left, the hell didn't stop for me. Oh no. You went on your merry way, while I got ridiculed, talked about, lectured on our failures. All everyone saw was how it was all my fault."
"Nothing was ever your fault, Jill. Nothing. It was all me."
"Well, it does no good now. Twenty years later, and I'm still considered the failure of the community."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry. That's all you have to say? Sorry? You know what? This dance is over." I push back and break from his arms. "I can't do this anymore."
The song fades as I walk away, and I dash to the bar. The sound of scratchiness and mic squeal feedback quiets the room. “Two bourbon, please." The bartender sets them down, and I throw one back and chase it down with the other. Then, the sound of Michael talking into the mic.
"Can I have everyone's attention please?" I turn around. Oh no. Michael has taken the DJ's mic. "For those of you who don't know me, my name is Michael Danforth, and I was married to Jill, mother of the bride. Together, we made a beautiful daughter, Monica." I hold my breath. Can this day get any worse? "And…and what happened in our marriage is one hundred percent my fault."
The room is dead silent, and I turn back to the bartender. "Make me another."
Then
It was the next Saturday, and luckily, I was not scheduled to work in the kitchen at Delanie’s because tonight was the homecoming dance. It was a warm day for September, and I was washing my car in the driveway, wearing cutoff shorts and a black tank top. “This Kiss” by Faith Hill was playing on my radio when I heard a motorcycle coming down the street.
I was squatted down, scrubbing the tires when, from under the car, I saw that the motorcycle had pulled into our driveway. When I stood, I saw it was…Michael. Oh, shit, I thought. I was a mess, and I hadn't even showered. Quickly, I looked at my face in the side mirror, only to confirm, that yes, I was a mess. My hair was loosely knotted on top and I had no makeup on. Why couldn't he show up four hours from now—when I'd be sexy-grunge?
"Hey, Jill," he said, swinging his leg off the bike. "Scott here?"
"No. I'm not sure where he's at."
"You got a new bike?"
"Yes, I was wanting to show it to Scott. But hey, since you’re here, I have something for you."
"Me?"
"Yes. Saw it the other day and it made me think of you. So, I had to get it."
Me? Something made him think of me? What on earth could it be?
He unbuckled the saddlebags and pulled out a plastic bag. "Here, for you," he said holding out the bag.
I dropped the sponge I had down into the bucket of water and walked around the car. God, why did I have to look a mess every time in his presence? His smile was how I remembered—reserved for me. At least that's would I liked to believe. I opened the bag and pulled out a T-shirt. "Read it," he said. Unfolding the shirt, I read the caption. Blondes Are the Prettiest.
I was dumbfounded, and looked at him in disbelief. "Ah…thank you, Michael."
"I was hoping that by the time I saw you again, you wouldn't have colored your hair."
He remembered our conversation at the mall—me wanting to dye it black and how he told me not to mess with perfection. And he thought of me.
"Well, since Scott isn't here, you want to go for a ride?"
"Ah…sure," I said and looked down at myself.
"It's not too cold. But, grab a jacket," he said and hopped back on the bike. I turn off the key to my car, silencing the radio and ran inside for a jacket. Throwing on a light denim, I stopped by the hall entry mirror and worked like crazy to fix my hair. But it was useless, and we were going for a motorcycle ride. My hair would only get worst—and I didn't care. I was going for a ride with Michael. I then ran back, changed into the T-shirt he bought me and ran out with the denim jacket in my hands.
"It fits," I said, completing a circle with my arms up.
"Looks great on you. Shorts are cute too," he said. But this time when he said cute, it sounded different, and I felt the word sexy behind it.
He leaned the bike, and I climbed on after putting on the denim jacket. "Ready," he said, and I had nowhere to put my hands but around his waist. He started the bike, and we took off.
I was in Heaven pressed up against Michael, my arms around his waist and the wind tossing my hair wildly around. Through the reflection of his side mirrors, I watch his rugged, handsome face staring straight ahead in pure perfection. There wasn't anything about Michael that wasn't all man and all gorgeous. His square jaw was peppered with dark shadow, his lips pressed in a straight line and his rugged faced was covered in dark glasses. I was in all my glory, and he was to me, all things man. The man I dreamed I would marry and have his children. Even at seventeen-years-old, I knew Michael would somehow be a significant part of my life. But, it would take years to figure out just how major his role would play havoc on my life.
The motorcycle slowed at the end of our street, and he leaned to turn the corner. I pressed into his back and tightly squeezed my arms around him as the bike sped up and drove through town. I wanted everyone to see me with him. I wanted this day, this moment to last forever. And…sadly it did. For each night I closed my eyes, his image in that mirror and us on this bike repeated in my heart. I was forced to watch, rewind and watch over and over. And each time, it became worse.
Michael circled the town a few times and then stopped at the drive-in. "Do they have great Coney dogs here?" he asked. Was he asking for future reference? Or were he and I going to eat together? Like a date?
"Yes, they're pretty good," I answered and made no attempt to dismoun
t the bike. Just in case he was just asking.
"Awesome. Would the prettiest blonde like to join me for Coney dogs?"
I wasn't in the least bit hungry and wasn't sure I could eat a Coney dog in front of Michael, but I wasn't going to miss the chance of being with him. So, I said, "Sure, sounds great."
He leaned the bike, and I slid off and tried to fix my now tangled hair. I also pulled my shorts from the crack of my ass. Michael kicked down the stand and parked the bike before dismounting. Even though I knew I looked a mess, I felt like Princess Diana walking beside Michael to the picnic table. I sat first, and my heart leaped when he sat down beside me and not across. His leg was touching mine and the thought of moving a little debated over and over. Did he want his leg touching mine? I left my leg where it was, making it Michael's decision to move. He didn't.
April's (blow-job-eyes) younger sister Amy worked at the drive-in and came out to take our order. I hoped she would tell April that I was here with Michael—sitting next to Michael and riding on the back of Michael's motorcycle.
"Oh, hey, Jill," Amy said, looking surprised to see me. And I knew it was because I was with Michael. "What can I get you guys?"
"This pretty blonde tells me you have great Coney dogs," Michael said and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him. I tried not to appear stiff and act natural. However, my body shook with excitement. For one, I was in Michael's arms. Two, Amy would tell April; and three, everyone one was looking at us.
I smiled into Michael's eyes when he looked down at me. I still couldn't tell what his true intentions were. Was I still just the cute, little sister of a friend? Or, was I becoming something more to him?
"Two Coney dogs," Michael said, and Amy took the order. Michael's arm was still around me with she walked back inside but turned around and looked at us again. Yes, she was going to tell April.
"Does April like to ride?" I asked, and he moved his arm.
"Who?"
Who? "April. The sister of Scott’s girlfriend Jen.”
Love, Michael: A second chance romance Page 5