"Oh. April. Um…I don't know." I was happy he didn't know because that meant he never took her for a ride. "I'll find out tomorrow though," he said and my moment in Michael-cloud-number-nine deflated like a balloon. But why hadn't he remembered her name?
"So, you two are hanging out then?"
"Yeah, I guess she has Sunday off and said she'd stopped by. I'll ask her then."
I breathed in slow, trying to regain the oxygen that left my lungs as my balloon cloud fluttered away. "Well, make sure you remember her name," I said and faked a small laugh.
Amy returned with our Coney dogs, and I thought maybe I would casually mention that she was April's younger sister. Before she turned to go back inside, I said, "Hey, Michael, Amy is April's other sister." I was hoping there would be a look of panic on his face. Afraid that April would find out we were together. But it didn't seem to matter.
"Is that right? Now I see the resemblance in those gorgeous eyes of yours. I love April's eyes," he said, and I was sure it was because of the blow-job-look. "Tell April I have a surprise for her tomorrow."
Mentioning Amy was April's sister had only backfired, and I was now angry with myself. I was being delusional again that maybe Michael was romantically interested in me. I grabbed my hotdog when Amy asked if I was still going to homecoming tonight.
"Yes, Tammy and I are still going."
"Oh, that's right. You two were shopping for the dance last week when I saw you at the mall. Well, we better eat up so I can get you back in time to pretty yourself up for your date."
"Who you going with?" Amy asked, and I wished now that I did have a date. So that I could throw it in Michael's face. Though I don't think he cared.
"Um, Tammy and I are just going alone."
"What?" Michael said with a mouthful of Coney dog. "I can't believe you don't have a date."
It hit me wrong, and I was going to defend my dateless ass. "You think I couldn't get a date," I said sarcastically. "Tammy and I chose to go stag."
"Oh, I see. That's cool. I respect that—don't need a date or boyfriend to define you. I find that honorable in you upcoming girls."
He was respecting my wishes which were only a lie. The truth was, I wanted a date. I wanted a date with him. I wanted him to be my boyfriend, and now he would think I would never be interested. No matter what I said or did, I was losing.
"It was just if you wanted I date; I'd be happy to take you to the dance. I have nothing going on tonight."
Was he asking? I stopped chewing and forgot how to swallow. What should I do? If I said yes, he would know I was lying. Because I didn't think I could compose the excitement that was running through me. Also, Tammy would be mad and think I was ditching her and our plans. I so did want him to take me. No matter his reason was—a favor for brother's little sister, or maybe because he was interested in me. And…he was asking in front of Amy, which meant April would find out.
"But that's cool. I understand," he said and went back to his Coney dogs. The opportunity was over, and I had lost my chance. If only I could go back in time—the last five minutes. I'd be going with Michael on a date. I slowly swallowed my food and gave the worst thank you ever.
"Well, thanks for asking." I hoped he would ask again, and I would accept his offer with some hesitation. But not too much.
He looked at his watch and then crammed the rest of his Coney dogs in his mouth. Now, on anyone else, it would seem appalling. But not Michael. He wiped his face with the napkin and then stood and reached for my hand. "I better get you home."
I took the last bite and then took his hand. "Yes," I said, but wanted to stay with him and do…whatever. The dance was no longer a priority to me, and I even thought of telling him I would skip it and hang out if he wanted. Then, I thought of Tammy.
He started the bike, and I climbed on, wrapping my arms again around his waist and loved the warmth between us. The motorcycle was loud, and everyone watched as we pulled out and took off down the street. Maybe when we got home, I would change my mind and say he could take me.
He pulled into our drive, and I climbed off. "Thanks for the ride and the Coney dogs."
"Hey, no problem. Have a great time with your friend at the dance," he said and winked as he pushed the bike backwards out of the drive and took off down the street. I listened as the sound of his bike became faint and felt the ache in my heart. I missed him already and couldn't fathom why he already processed my soul.
Mom was in the kitchen when I walked in and hollered. "Is that you, Jill?"
"Yes, Mom."
She came walking out with a towel in her hands. "Where'd you go? Tammy called about an hour ago. She sounded urgent and wanted you to call her back right away."
"Did she say why?"
"No. I just said you weren't around, and I would have you call when you get back. Where'd you go? Your car was in the drive?"
"Michael stopped by. He was looking for Scott and gave me a ride on his new bike." She eyed me suspiciously, and I knew what that meant. "We just went to the drive-in." Her look didn't change, and she was already reading the look on my face. "He wanted to get Coney dogs. That's all. It' not like we ran away to get married." And soon as I said it, she knew how I felt. I could never hide my denial with her. "Whatever," I said and went to call Tammy back.
"Hey, Tammy. Mom said you called?"
"Yeah," she said, and I could tell there was something behind it. "Okay, here's the thing." I knew it. “I know we said we go stag, but Ryan Foster called and asked if I would go with him." Ryan Foster was the guy she had a crush on since the third grade. I knew she wanted to go with him, but feared I'd be upset. And here I was thinking the same when Michael asked if he could take me. How ironic. "So…do you mind?"
"Um, actually, I was asked too…by Michael." Although I was stupid and turned him down. Maybe I could call him?
"NO!"
"Well, he did ask. If…I would have known Ryan called you, I would have accepted. But no, that's great. Go with Ryan. Maybe I'll call Michael." But, I didn't have his number, and Scott wasn't home.
"Are you sure?" I could tell she felt bad for asking, but this would give me an opportunity, or more of an excuse to accept Michael's offer.
"I'm positive. We will throw this party down tonight the minute you walk in with Ryan and me with Michael. Let's do it." And that was all it took. She squealed and hung up the phone. Now…how to get hold of Michael.
Now
My head pounds as I attempt to crack open one eye. Oh, God. I think I'm going to puke. I'm in my bed and haven't the slightest clue how or who put me here. What did I do last night? Monica! Did I ruin the wedding? What the hell happened?
I try and sit up and immediately regret it. The room spins and my mouth fills with saliva, and I fall back onto the bed. When I slowly open my eyes again, I spot my dress and bra neatly folded and lain across the chair in the corner. Surely, if I were that incapacitated, wouldn’t my clothes be strewn across the floor? Picking up the covers, I see I'm in a T-shirt. One I remember, but never sleep in. Why would I put this on?
I breathe out a massive sigh and bring one arm across my face, shutting out any light and focus on last night. Monica walking down the aisle with Michael. Check. The reception and Michael's toast. Check. The dance with Jerry: Don't stop until Get Enough—check. The dance with Michael—"You're Still the One.” (Ha). Check. Fight with Michael. Check. Michael grabbing the mic and announcing to the entire wedding party that he is to blame for our failed marriage. Big…check. After that…three…maybe four bourbons? I’m not sure. Oh God. I don't even remember Monica and Jordan leaving. We were going to light lanterns and throw rice as they drove away to the airport. Was I there? I need to call Monica and see if she's okay. Did they make it to the airport? To Paris? Shit! This is what I get for allowing Michael to come to his daughter's wedding. Why didn't I listen?
Taking in a deep breath, I then notice the smell coming from the kitchen. "What is that?” My voice cracks and my mouth i
s dry as cotton. Yep, at least four bourbons.
Rolling cautiously out of bed, it's time to piece the last…What time is it? I search for my phone, which is always next to the bed on the nightstand and find it's not there. However, a glass of water and a packet of Alka-Seltzer is. Shit! I don't even know where my purse is, let alone my phone. God! Please. Please let it be on the table, and let my phone be inside. But, what about my car? Did I drive home last night? Focus, Jill.
I set two feet on the floor and challenge myself to stand. I'm weak and shaky, but I need to find my purse and phone. Okay, I'm up. Now, walk across the room and open the door. Easier said than done. But, at a snail's pace, I make it and, with caution, open the door. I'm instantly hit with a smell. Pancakes? Is someone making pancakes in my kitchen? Mom. Yes, mom is here and before she lectures me about…whatever I did last night, she is first preparing me breakfast.
Stepping out of the room, I mentally prepare my defense but come up with nothing. I'll just accept my punishment, and hopefully, life will go on as usual. As normal for me.
"Look, Mom. I'm really sorry about…" I stop when I find Michael standing over the stove holding a spatula; shirtless. This has got to be a bad dream. Maybe I should go back to bed. He's not here, is he?
"Hey, good morning, Jill. I've got you some greasy food prepared. How are you feeling?"
I'm speechless and try to form words. "Michael…what are you doing here?"
"I'm here to help you recover this morning. Lord knows you've helped my sorry drunk ass many times. I left a glass of water and a packet of Alka-Seltzer on your nightstand. Have you taken it?”
"Ahh…no. I…why are you here?" I ask again and then remember I'm only in a T-shirt. Standing in front of Michael. Michael making pancakes and…shirtless.
"Here, let me go it for you," he says and moves past me to the bedroom. When he returns, I watch as he opens the packet and drops both pills in the water. "Here you go. Drink up."
Taking the glass from his hand, I bring it to my mouth and feel the cold bubbles burst up my nostrils. Oh, God. This is real. This is happening. I get about six swallows down and set it to the counter.
"Nope. The whole glass, Jill," he says.
"I…" Before I can protest, he presses the glass to my mouth and forces me to finish the Alka-Seltzer.
"That's a good girl," he says and rinses the glass in the sink. "You feel good enough to eat in here, or do you want me to bring you breakfast in bed?"
Now I know I am dreaming. Michael would never make me breakfast in bed. Not in a million years. Let alone take care of me if I were sick. So, I walk out of the kitchen and back to my bedroom. "So, in bed then," I hear him say. He's not here. It's all a dream.
I pull back the comforter, crawl back into bed and cover my head. Closing my eyes, the seltzer begins its job, and I burp a few times, allowing my stomach a little reprieve. But, it wasn't Michael who made it for me. Right? And, that wasn't Michael standing in my kitchen, shirtless. Right? And why would he be shirtless? Why am I in this T-shirt and who folded my clothes neatly? Mom did. I was just having illusions of Michael.
"Here you go, Princess." And Michael would never call me princess. Who the hell is here? I throw off the comforter and see Michael standing over me with a tray of food. I press my eyes tightly shut. Open. Nope, he's still there and close them again. "You feel good enough to sit up?" Opening and closing my eyes does not make the image of Michael disappear.
"Michael, why are you here?" I ask, pushing myself up. As he leans over, setting the tray of pancakes and sausage links down on the nightstand, a necklace dangling from his neck catches my eye. It looks like the necklace I bought him in high school.
"Here, lean forward," he says grabbing the other pillow, and I have no choice to let him place the pillows behind my back. "How's that?"
"Ah…okay, I guess." He then sets the tray of food over my lap and smiles at me.
"Alka-Seltzer working?"
"Somewhat. Michael, what happened?"
"Jill, just eat first and then we can talk," he says and heads to my master bath. He returns with a washcloth and presses it to my face.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because, I want to take care of you, Jill."
"Now, stop it," I force out, having enough of this nonsense.
"Jill, whatever you're thinking, everything that happened in the past. Please, just put on hold for a few minutes and eat, so you'll feel better. Then…we'll talk." That sincereness is once again in his eyes—the look I didn't recognize from the wedding. So, I look away from his pleading face and slowly pick up the fork. "You want orange juice or milk?" he says, walking toward the door.
Now with a mouth full of pancake, I answer, "Milk, please." He walks out, and I begin to wrap around my head what happened. My purse and phone! He returns with a glass of milk, and I ask. "Where's my purse?"
"You need it? It's on the kitchen table."
"No, just making sure I had it." I take a few more bites of the food and drink down the milk. It's cold when it hits my stomach, and I immediately start to feel better. I can only handle one bite of the sausage.
Michael sits in a chair in the corner of the room and watches me. I study his physic and think about him twenty years younger. He is a little thinner, his chest hairs glisten with silver, and his middle is a little softer than I remember. Gravity does not discriminate as I think about my own body and then remember the T-shirt I'm wearing.
"Who took my clothes?" I matter-a-factly state.
"I did, Jill."
"What?"
"Jill, it's not like I've never seen you naked. I’m impressed."
"Michael…" He was in impressed? I roll my eyes and attempt the sausage, now that the milk has helped my stomach and avoid his stare. Why is he staring at me? “Where's your shirt? We didn't…"
"No, Jill, we didn't. I'll tell you about my shirt when you're finished eating."
Wanting to know the truth, I pick up the tray and hand it toward him. "I'm finished. Talk."
He gets up from his chair and takes the tray. "You're sure?”
"Yes. Talk."
"Let me take this to the kitchen, and then we'll talk." He walks out with the tray, and I mad dash out of bed and into the bathroom. I pee, flush, and then look at myself in the mirror. Oh, good Lord. Definitely five bourbons. Grabbing the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door, I throw it on, fluff my hair—stupid. I rush out to find Michael, smacking into him at the doorway.
"Let's talk out here," I say, looking up to him.
"Okay," he says and makes no attempt to move. So, I have no choice to brush against his chest walking out of my bedroom and into the living room, where I take a seat on the couch. Tucking my legs and cover my knees, I tighten the robe around me. He then walks over to the fireplace and runs his hands lightly over the portrait hung above. Monica's senior picture in high school—one with her and I hugging in a field, sunbeams in the background. One of my favorites.
"That was one of her senior pictures," I say and wonder if the portrait that hung there twenty years ago comes to his mind. And even though I have forced myself not to think about that night, I do.
"I love this one. I have a copy of it," he says.
"What? How?"
He pulls out his phone and shows me his screen saver. It's the same picture. "I saved it from her Facebook. I have many more too," he says and begins to scroll through some of his photographs. I watch his gestures mentally tell me what he's thinking with a warm smile, nodding his head, as he periodically shows me the picture. It's not like he's traveling down memory lane, because none of those are his memories. They're ours—Monica and me.
"Why would you save pictures of Monica and me when we are not part of your life, Michael?" It's more of a reprimand than a question.
"Because, that's why. I missed out on a life with you and her."
As much as I want to gloat, I bite the inside of my lip. "That was your choice, Michael. Don't accuse me as one of t
hose ex's who never sent you school pictures or other life events. And this is not what I want to talk about. How did you and I end up here in my house?"
He places the phone back into his back pocket and takes a deep breath. Next, he comes and sits next to me on the couch. I pull myself in and wrap the robe tighter under my legs. "You were drinking…a lot."
"Because of you," I defend.
"Yes. Like I said, it's all my fault."
"Michael cut the shit. What did I do and how did we end up here together?"
"After my speech, I stopped counting the number of times you went to the bar. I tried to talk to you. But after you began yelling, I backed off—not wanting to cause another scene for you." I close my eyes and cover my face. "You didn't…you just...disappeared."
"Where did I go?"
"Out. I followed you outside. You went and sat on a bench next to the creek, and I stood next to a tree so you couldn't see me."
"So, I didn’t dance naked or throw stuff at you?"
He chuckles. "No, you didn't."
"Oh, thank God. Then what?"
"You began crying, hysterically. That's when I came and sat next to you. But you yelled at me and started to walk away. I pulled you back, afraid you might hurt yourself and sat you back down. I told you that I would leave you in peace. But I only stayed near, watching out for you. Later, I followed you to your car where you fell asleep. You never noticed me climbing into the passenger side. When I saw Monica and Jordan come running out, I woke you and helped you out of the car."
"I kind of remember that part."
"Yeah, I wiped your face with my handkerchief and said, ‘Come on. You don't want to miss this.' I grabbed us a lantern, lit it, and we both held it until it floated away. I helped you walk over to the wedding car, where you kissed Monica and Jordan goodbye. I held you around the waist as we waved our goodbyes. She called this morning. They arrived safely in Paris around nine this morning."
"Oh, good."
"I helped you back to your car where you thought you were going to drive home. But, after you punched me a few times, you passed out, and I put in the back seat, found your keys and drove you home." Of course, he knows where I live. This is where we used to live together—before he walked out. "Your cell was ringing this morning. It was your mother. I answered and let her know you were sleeping it off."
Love, Michael: A second chance romance Page 6