Love, Michael: A second chance romance

by Gina A. Jones

  "I couldn't wait to get home." We kissed in-between sentence.

  "I couldn't wait either." I kissed him.

  "I thought about you all day." He kissed me.

  "Really? You're always on my mind," I said and gave him another kiss. Our playful banter would continue every night. But there was never the I love you spoken. I wanted to say it. Had tried to say it. And many times, it was on the tip of my tongue. But I was going to wait until after he said it first.

  "It smells great. What are we having?"

  "Lasagna, minus the garlic bread." He questioned me with a look. "I didn't want to have garlic breath." True, I knew that the sauce had garlic in it, but it wouldn't be as strong as what garlic bread would have been. "And Greek salad." I said.

  As he carried me across the room, he said, "You're going to make somebody a great wife someday." Why would he say somebody? I wanted to be his wife.

  "I don't want to be somebody's wife," I said and before I could get out ‘because I want to be your wife.' He said….

  "Smart girl. Marriage is overrated." How would he know? He wasn't married. I didn't respond anymore on the subject, and we finished dancing to Lonestar. I was still in his hold, my legs around his waist.

  "I'm going to shower first before we eat, okay?" he said as he began to unknot his tie.

  "Sure. Everything is ready." We kissed, and he left for the shower.

  Later, he returned in jeans and a T-shirt—the Ball State T-shirt I remembered him wearing that first day. I would always shower when I first arrived and sometimes, we would shower together after sex.

  I loved the way he looked in wet hair and would run my hands through it. I could touch him now, as much as I wanted. Because he was mine and I was his. I wonder if he ever got jealous of guys from school that I would talk about at times. If he did, he'd never showed it. But the minute April's name would come up—it took all my power not to blow our cover. Once after our lovemaking, I asked about the girls in his box. The pictures I found. He told me they were just friends from high school, and he hasn't seen or heard from them since. I asked him about Montauk, and when I did, he slowly turned around and asked how I knew. That's when I confessed to reading the back of the pictures.

  "Montauk," he said with a smile, and I could tell it was something special. I became jealous. But, I tried not to show it.

  "Well? Are you going to tell me?" I asked.

  We were still laying on the bed, naked and he said, "What do you think of when I say this apartment?" I thought of him and said Michael. "How about this bed?" My answer was still Michael. "Hmm," he said. "What about me and you and this bed?" When I thought of him and me in this bed, I thought of us—having sex. Then it hit me.

  "That's where you lost your virginity," I said.

  "And hers too."

  It now angered me that I didn't have someone in my past to make him jealous. But when he told me I was special, because he was his one and only, I was then glad I had never been with another.

  He poured the wine, and we sat at the table. Candles were lit with every meal and music always set the cadence of the room. Always romantic, whatever song was playing. Only a few times did we watch TV. Most of our time was spent having sex and holding each other afterward. I was in love. We were in love. And tonight, I was going to say it no matter what.

  After dinner, we set the dishes in the sink, and he chased me to the bedroom. "This is what I been waiting for all day," he said, picking me up and throwing me on the bed. I giggled and began to undress. He pulled off his shirt, and his naked chest was always more than I could take. I sat up from the bed, crawled to him, and looked up with my blow-job eyes. I had mastered it, and each time I did it, he said, "Oh, Baby."

  Unbuttoning his jeans, I had become less shy and felt secure in being the aggressor. He liked it when I would take him in my mouth, and I loved giving him that look when he watched me. His hands would squeeze in my hair, and he would moan and breathe heavy. I liked the way I affected him.

  "I want to be inside you, Jill," he said and pushed me down on the bed and took off his jeans. Before putting on the condom, he went down on me and his tongue lapped and circled around the area he called my clit. I never really heard that name for it before. But when he said it, it sounded raw and dirty, and I liked it. He could make me come several times, and he said that was rare. That I had been the only woman who had multiple orgasms with him. I tried not to think of the other women when he said that and focused on the compliment it was meant for. It was him I gave credit to because I never could make myself come twice by myself.

  I came hard, and he began to climb up me and said, "I want to fuck you." His voice was harsh, and I could smell my arousal on his face. His penis, now his cock or dick; he wanted me to call it, pushed inside me. Penis sounded too much like health class he once had said. I stopped him and told him to grab a condom.

  "Jill, aren't you on the pill now?"

  "No, I haven't got my period yet," I said. I had told him about when the nurse at Planned Parenthood said to start taking them. And even after that, use condoms for another month. And we had used condoms for a month. For once, I wished my damn period would come.

  He gave a disgruntled sigh and reached for the drawer, pulling out the condom. He wasn't happy having to stop and put it on, and I hated that it killed the excitement. But then seconds later, we continued as the hot lovers that we were. In a way, I like the fact he didn't want to use condoms and told me he wanted me like our first time—raw; spontaneous. He said it's like that first high you can never get back. But for me, it was better each time, because I was learning him and sex and myself.

  He didn't come until I came again. He would watch my face and tell me to come. And I think it was in the way he commanded to come is what excited me and then I was done for. And soon as I said, ‘I'm coming,' he would smile big and tell me, ‘Yes.'

  We both came, and he fell on top of me like he always did when he was on top. This gave me the time I wanted to pet his hair and caress his back. He kissed me down my neck and down my breast. Sometimes, he would fall asleep, and I would feel the beating of his heart as it slowed down from our passionate love. This is where I wanted to stay forever—here under Michael's embrace.

  We fell asleep for maybe twenty minutes, and when he woke, he picked me up and carried me to the shower. Though he showered before dinner, and I when I first came, it had become part of our lovemaking ritual. I wished he had a tub, so I cloud lay against his chest. But we would take turns washing each other. It was the most romantic thing one could do for another after love. I was thankful he wasn't one of those wham bam thank you ma'am kind of guys. He took pleasure in touching and washing me after our hard lovemaking. I loved the way the water would run down our bodies and into our mouths when we kissed. Everything with Michael was enhanced, and life was full of pleasure. Nothing would ever be mundane in our lives. And how true that would turn out to be.

  After our shower, I would wear one of his T-shirts or sometimes wear the shirt he had just taken off from work. It smelled like him and work, and I imagined how his office would smell. I asked him if he would take me to his work so I could see his office and what he did. "I'll take you tomorrow. No one will be around. Maybe we could have sex in my cubicle."

  "You don't have your own office?"

  "Nope. Not yet. Hopefully soon. But Whirlpool is just a stepping stone for me."

  I became worried he was going to leave. Would he take me with him? "What do you mean? Are you moving up in the company?"

  "I'll work up to as far as I can. Until then, I'll always be looking."

  "Where did you want to go? You just got here."

  "My sites are set on Boeing."

  "The airplane?"

  "Yes. Aviation or aerospace is my true interest." I couldn't blame him. Big jets and rockets would always be more impressive than washer machines or refrigerators.

  "Where's Boeing? Where's it located?"

  "The headquarters is in
Chicago." Chicago wouldn't be that far from here. I could take the train and see him…until we could be together forever. Depending on when he left. "But I want to work in aviation engineering, and that's in Seattle."

  Seattle? "When would you go?"

  "I need to get at least a year under my belt with Whirlpool first." I was then relieved. I would be out of high school and could attend college somewhere in Seattle. I would need to start looking at their nursing programs.

  "So, you're spending the night with me, huh?" he said teasingly wrapping me in a towel with him.

  "Want me to make you breakfast in the morning?"

  "I want to fuck you in the morning," he said. I didn't always like the term he used when addressing our lovemaking, but when we were in the middle of sex and he said it, it did turn me on. I kissed him on the lips and pulled on his dress shirt he took off before his first shower. "I like you in this," he said and kiss me tenderly. I almost told him I loved him then.

  "As he was pulling on briefs and night pajama pants, he asked, "Why haven't you started your birth control pills yet?"

  "I still haven't had my period yet," I said and even my periods were something I could discuss with him without embarrassment.

  "When are you due to start?"

  I tried to think because I never had a reason to keep track of them before. I was always regular, and when it was time, I just started. "Any day now. But if it doesn't start by Sunday, I'll start taking the pills."

  He walked over and dropped to his knees, sticking his head under the shirt of his I was wearing and kissed me on that area he called my clit. "And please don't make me wear a condom for another month. I love this pussy," he said.

  I wrapped my hands around his head, entrapping him under the shirt. "And I love you," I said it. If he loved my pussy, that meant he loved me. Right? He didn't move from under my shirt, and I was afraid of what this meant. Maybe he didn't hear me, or perhaps he was thinking about his answer. But that was one thing I learn at seventeen; to tell someone you love them and waiting to hear it back is like listening for an echo that never comes.

  Now

  After leaving the hospital, I make another run to the grocery store. I'm not sure if I have all the ingredients for the seven-layer salad to bring to Jordan and Monica's. I'm so excited to see her and can't wait to put my arms around her and Jordan. I hope she has lots of pictures of Paris. I'm shaking. I'm so excited.

  I park and sprint to the doors as heavy rain falls hard and splashes from below. Still, in my scrubs, I'm soaked and breaking my own rule—never wear scrubs in public. But I wasn't expecting the invitation to dinner, or I would have packed clothes. Oh, well. Anything for Monica.

  Grabbing a basket instead of a cart, I head to produce and slip on the wet floor. "Jill?" I look up, and there is Michael. Standing in the wine section holding a bottle of red. He sets the wine back on the shelf and runs over and helps me up. "Are you okay?"

  Dammit! "Yes. My shoes are wet from the rain. I'm fine." His arms are still around me, and I look around to see who else witnessed my moment of embarrassment. "I shouldn't have been running."

  Still in his arms, he reaches down and retrieves the basket from the floor. "Was anything in it?" he asked, looking around the floor.

  "No. I just got here. I was heading to produce to pick up some fresh lettuce to take to dinner."

  "To Monica and Jordan's?"

  What? Don't tell me he knows about it. "Yes, she called this morning—invited me over for spaghetti."

  "Me too. I'm bringing wine. Isn't it red that goes with pasta?"

  I stare at him incredulously. "Yes," I say, and my demeanor sounds broken.

  "We can go together. I'll pick you up."

  "No, Michael." I regain my composure from my silly slip and rip the basket from his hand. "Excuse me." I'm cautious of taking my first step and then gradually work up to a swift pace.

  "It's not a problem. I'd think it'd be great to go together…Jill," he hollers as I carefully fleet away. I need to find another grocery store. However, Martins is the only one in this town. And dammit. What's Monica trying to pull? I shouldn't go. But I want to see her. Well, shoot. Maybe he will be different with Monica and Jordan around. Michael will have to put his emotions on hold. It was never a problem when we were married. And besides, he'll have to feel like a complete outsider during the conversation—knowing nothing about our last twenty years.

  I squeak through the aisles—wet shoes and gather the rest of my items. I don't spot Michael at any checkout. So, hopefully, he's left, and I run through the U-scan and back out the door. The rain is still coming down in sheets, but I make a run for it, only to stop in my tracks as soon as I get to my car. Or what used to be my car.

  "I'm sorry ma'am. Is this your car?"

  "Ah…yes. Oh, my God!" My front end is completely smashed in. One headlight is crushed, the other is hanging out. But the jacked-up 4x4 that is now pulled apart from my car is just fine. "What the hell happened?"

  "I'm really sorry, Miss. I didn't see your car back there."

  "Well of course not. Why in the hell do you have to have such a big truck? It's Michigan for peat's sake. Not the Alaska Tundra."

  "Can we exchange insurance cards?" he asks.

  "Why would you need mine? Your truck is fine." He pulls a small paper from his wallet, now drenched from the rain. I reach for it, and my groceries spill out of my bag. "Dammit."

  "What's happened?" I'm covered with an umbrella and look to find Michael.

  "He's totaled my car. Oh, God!"

  "I'll take care of this, Jill. Go sit inside my car." His Toyota is pulled up beside us, and he picks up the fallen groceries and leads me around the other side. Opening the door, he helps me inside and places the groceries in the back. "Are you okay?"

  "I am. My car’s not." He gives an understanding smile and wipes the wetness from my face.

  "Stay here," he says and closes the door. Before walking back, he pulls out his cell. A police car is at the scene in less than five minutes and takes down the report. Michael returns to get my license and information needed for the report. And then, a tow truck shows up. Like he said…he took care of it.

  "Your car is being towed to Stafford's Body Shop. Not sure if they'll total it."

  I lay my head against the windshield and cover my face. "Oh, God. Now, what am I going to do?"

  "You can use my car." I give him a look of ‘Are you serious?' "Or, I can take you everywhere."

  "Oh. You would love that," I say, condescendingly.

  "I definitely would." His smile is genuine.

  "You caused this to happen."

  "What? I made that truck back into your car?"

  I eye him suspiciously. "I can't prove it. But somehow, you're involved."

  He laughs. "Jill, you're too cute. You know that?"

  I'm soaked to the bone; my hair is a wet mess, and I'm still in scrubs. And he says I'm cute? Now he sounds like high school Michael. "Just take me home," I sigh and lean my head against the window.

  We pull into my drive, and he says, "I can just stay here while you get ready to go to Monica's."

  "No. Why would you?"

  "Because you don't have a car."

  Great. I have no choice now other than to ride together. "Fine," I say and remember I forgot the garage door opener. "Shit."

  "What?"

  "My…" I'm about to say when my garage door begins to open.

  "Here. I grabbed in when getting your registration."

  "And when were you going to tell me? Never mind." I get out and reach for the groceries in the back and run into the garage. And when I do, he pulls his Toyota inside."

  "Why didn't you wait?" he says, getting out of the car. I don't answer and go inside, dropping my groceries on the counter.

  I take a quick shower, change into a blue tunic T-shirt dress and run some gel through my hair. It's going to be curly tonight. No time for a blow-dry and flat iron.

  Michael semi-prepared
the salad with a large bowl of lettuce, with the other ingredients neatly set on the counter. "I started it for you. Wasn't sure of the rest," he says with his head in the fridge.

  "Just make yourself at home in my kitchen, why don't you?"

  Shutting the refrigerator door, he glances up to say something but then stops. "Wow! I like that dress on you."

  I should thank him, but I don't and begin with the salad. While I'm chopping this and mixing that, he continually wraps me in his arms and whispers sweet sentiments in my ear. It's weird and uncomfortable. I turn around with the knife. "Watch it."

  He smiles and backs up with his hands in the air. "Can't help it," he says.

  He winks, and before he can catch me smile, I turn around and say, "Be useful and wash the dishes. No woman ever shot a man in the back for doing dishes."

  "Yes, Ma'am," he says in my ear and kisses my neck. It's all too weird.

  Monica's smile is all too diabolic as Michael and I walk through the door together. "My car was totaled," I say, walking straight to the kitchen with the salad.

  "Oh my God. Mom, were you hurt?"

  "No. I wasn't even in it. Come here," I say and take her in a big hug, kissing her cheeks repeatedly. "I don't want to talk about me. I want to know all about Paris."

  Michael walks in behind me, and Monica breaks our embrace and runs to hug…him. I feel a bit resentment. But wait until there's nothing he can join in with the conversation. "Hi, Dad. Paris was wonderful. Thank you for everything. Jordan and I loved it."

  What I'm feeling inside is torn. I've always wished Michael had a relationship with his daughter. But it's also hurtful how he come drop in after all these years and trump me. But like I said—just wait.

  We have our dinner and after take our wine out on the patio. Monica says she has something for each of us. She leaves and returns with two Shutterfly albums. "I had these made," she says with the most wishful smile. I open the book, and my heart melts when I see her wedding pictures. It stops short when I come to the pictures of Michael and me together. To anyone else, we look like a couple in love. Held in his arms, his lips resting on my head. I turn the page and there we are, holding each other on the dance floor. I look up and spot him looking at me with the warmest smile I've ever seen. I close the book and say, "Monica, these are…very thoughtful of you. You and Jordon look beautiful."