OPEN & HONEST (SOMETIMES)
Copyright © 2018 Linda Cassidy Lewis
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. For more information, contact: [email protected]
Cover design by Studioelle
For Sarah, Sara, Kaitlyn, and Madison—the millennial women in my life.
CHAPTER 1
Here’s the Chelsea Cole Pearce Perfect Life Plan: get married, buy a house, have a baby—all major life changes. The problem is, I don’t handle unexpected change too well. I mean, if I’m in a restaurant and order a Coke and they only have Pepsi, I don’t freak out or anything, but if I’m faced with an unexpected big change … well, let’s just say my reaction can be less than stellar. So I prepare for the biggies.
Take our marriage for instance. I started planning that—well, actually, if I’m being honest, I’d have to say it popped into my mind the first time I saw Jeremy. But I definitely formed a marriage plan when I started working with him. So, finally, he proposed, and we got married and everything was cool. And marriage is a big change. Well, it should have been except that we kept on living with my mom for the first eleven months and sixteen days, which kind of made it seem like nothing had changed.
Anyway.
That brings me to my new big change. This morning we moved into our first home. Which, obviously, I had almost a year to plan for. And, if you think about it, it’s sort of two changes in one because now it finally feels like I’m really married.
Right now, we’ve collapsed on our sheetless bed, lying side by side on our backs as we take a break from unpacking.
“Mrs. and Mrs. Pearce of 3217 Los Altos Avenue,” Jeremy says. “I like the sound of that.”
“And you like the house?”
“Do you have misgivings?”
“Nope. Just checking. Oh. Cool.” I point to the skylight above the bed. “A bird just flew over.”
He rolls onto his side, facing me, and taps the tip of my nose. “With a mortgage payment added to our expenses, I’m relieved that you enjoy the small things, wife.”
I pull him in for a kiss, which he takes as an invitation for more, but I push him back. “I’m starving. Get on your phone to Pizza Plus and recite that address again.”
He lies back and pats the pocket of his board shorts. “I don’t remember where I left it.”
“Then go get mine. It’s on the breakfast bar.”
“Right.”
When he doesn’t move, I say, “Phone? Pizza?”
“In a few.” He takes my hand in his. “I’d like to pose a serious question first.”
“But I’m too hungry to think.”
He gives my hand a hard squeeze. “If you can stop whingeing about pizza for a minute, I’ll make my proposal, and then you may ponder it for as long as you need to.”
Whingeing. Will I ever get used to Jeremy’s Brit-speak? “Proposal? I thought it was a question.”
He sighs.
“Never mind. Go ahead.”
He takes a deep breath. “I think it’s time to think about starting a family. I know we’ve only—”
“Yes. Let’s do it.”
Jeremy rises on one elbow and frowns at me. “I know we’re young, and you’ve had some reservations about motherhood, though I believe they’re unwarranted, but—”
“It’s serendipity.”
“What?”
“Seriously. I was going to bring this up to you during dinner. Actually, I already made an appointment to get this taken out”—I point to where my birth control implant makes a faint ridge under the skin of my upper arm—“because I was pretty sure you’d say yes.” (I’m lying. I’ll call first thing in the morning.)
“Great. That’s great.” He’s grinning ear to ear.
“So, it’s settled. We’re going to have a baby.” I get off the bed and start toward the door. “I’ll order the pizza.”
“Hold on.” Jeremy catches up with me in the hallway, grabs me by the shoulders, and turns me to face him. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d already decided it was time?”
I shrug. “It’s the next logical step, isn’t it?”
He smiles. “Since when does logic enter into your thought process?”
“Ha. Ha. May I order the pizza now?”
“By all means.”
Later that night, I wake in a panic. For a moment, I can’t process why I’m seeing the night sky above my head, and then I remember where I am. I’m in the master bedroom of my new home, freaked out because I was dreaming that Jeremy was arriving home any minute and would be furious because I couldn’t remember where I left our baby.
Ohmygod. Why did I agree that I’m ready to be a mother? Hunger. That’s why. My brain doesn’t work right when my blood sugar is low. And Jeremy knows that. He should never have “proposed” such a serious thing when he knew I needed to eat.
He told you to think about it, Chelsea.
Yeah, but—
And you told him you’d already made an appointment to—
Okay. Okay. I screwed up. I glance over at Jeremy. He looks so peaceful lit by moonlight streaming in through the skylight, his long hair splayed on the pillow like a giant coffee stain. He was so frigging happy when I said yes this afternoon. I knew before we married that he wanted to be a father. Then his desire increased when our best friends had their baby. But watching Gabi deal with the pregnancy, birth, and Marco’s first year, only compounded my fears about my mothering ability. She’s more grounded than I am, more logical, more patient. A natural mother.
Yet Jeremy, Mom, and Gabi laugh at my doubts. (What do they see in me that I don’t see?) And it’s not like I didn’t plan to be a mother. I just didn’t plan when. So, okay, it’s now—well, not now—but probably within a year. And a year is plenty of time to prepare for the next big change. Right?
So, here we go.
♥ ♥ ♥
On the fourteenth of May, I wake excited because it’s our first wedding anniversary. Jeremy’s already awake, so I take a quick shower, fix my hair, and put on full makeup and the red skater dress that turns him on. My phone is blinking with text notifications, so I pause to thank our moms, Jeremy’s sister, his best friend, both my brothers, and several of my friends for their well wishes. Then I take Jeremy’s card and gift out of their hiding place and peek into the office to make sure it’s clear before I put them on his desk.
I breathe in deeply as I step back into the hall, anxious to see if he’s filled the living room with dozens of roses like he did that time he was trying to work up to telling me he loved me for the first time—well, not filled exactly and maybe not roses because our budget won’t allow that but dozens of something beautiful and fragrant. I can’t detect any flower perfume. I frown. Then I breathe deeply again. Nothing. Disappointed, I go in search of him.
He’s sitting at the breakfast bar, eating toast and drinking coffee. “Happy anniversary, wife.”
“Happy anniversary, husband.” As we kiss, I glance around, expecting to see some flowers or a gift or at least a card. Nothing.
“Are we going out for breakfast?” I say, hoping
that’s when he’ll surprise me with something.
He winces. “Sorry. I really need to get straight to work this morning. I have a lot of writing scheduled for today.”
“Oh.”
“But we can have dinner out … at the restaurant of your choice.”
My choice? He didn’t even plan ahead and make a reservation? “Okay … great.”
He pops the last bite of toast into his mouth and carries his plate to the dishwasher. Then he refills his cup and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he says and heads for the office.
What the hell? How could a man who used to write romance novels fail so miserably at celebrating his first anniversary?
I’ve lost my appetite, so I just pour a cup of coffee and take it to the office.
“Thanks for the card,” he says. “I love you too.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that, but it doesn’t matter because he’s already gone back to typing. Not a word about the first-year journal I gave him. Stunned and fighting back tears, I sit down at my desk and power up my laptop. There’s no way I’m going to work on my anniversary—especially since writing about love would be impossible at the moment. Immobile, I stare at the home screen so long it finally goes to sleep, and my coffee turns cold.
Finally, I snap out of it and pull up Google to search for nursery photos. I add dozens of things to my carts at various baby sites. I won’t be able to buy a tenth of them, of course, but the “window shopping” feels like some kind of revenge. The next thing I know, Jeremy’s asking what we’re having for lunch.
I grit my teeth to keep from shouting the snarky response that’s burning my tongue. I count to ten. Think, Chelsea. There must be a reason he’s not acting the way you expected. Okay. Maybe he woke up inspired to write something awesome, and he’s just delaying our celebration until he can give it his full attention. Yes. That must be it. I stand and face him with a smile.
“What would you like me to make for you?”
“Actually, I was hoping for one of Arturo’s special burritos. Do you mind driving over there?”
Seriously, dude? “No, that sounds great.”
He gives me a wink and turns back to his keyboard.
When I return with the carryout, thirty minutes later, I’m thrilled to see a vase with two dozen red and white roses on the dining table. Mentally apologizing to Jeremy, I set the food down and grab the card. My guilt at trash-thinking him vanishes when I see the message is signed: All our love, Mom and Albert.
Okay, okay, okay. The day’s not over.
“I thought I heard you come in,” Jeremy says as he walks past me to the refrigerator. “Beer or coke?”
“A beer.” Or maybe ten.
He sets the drinks and two plates on the table and takes a seat. “I guess it’s no surprise your mum would send you roses.”
“No. She misses her garden here.”
“Well, she and Uncle will be back from Japan soon.”
“But then they’ll be off on another trip. Or go back to England.”
“Uncle says she’s planning a rose garden at his cottage.”
I take a bite of my burrito. I’ve had some trouble adjusting to my mom marrying Jeremy’s uncle Bert. I totally love Uncle, but it’s hard to see him take my dad’s place, and I worry that he’ll convince Mom to live in England permanently. And, yes, as Jeremy frequently points out, they can afford to fly back to California whenever they want, but it’s not the same as being able to drop by her house whenever I need a chat. Phone conversations—or even Skype sessions—are not a substitute for hugs.
Jeremy reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I swear sometimes he can read my mind—but apparently just not when I’m thinking about how he’s disappointing me today.
As we’re cleaning up from lunch. The FedEx man delivers a package. My hopes skyrocket again. Then they plunge when Jeremy announces it’s from his parents. It’s a beautiful piece of art glass and metal, and similar to a sculpture on the mantel in his-slash-Laura’s Notting Hill condo.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“I love it. Classes up the place.”
His smile of satisfaction tells me that he was indeed the one who chose the sculpture sitting on that mantel in London. He carries it into the living room where he places it on our mantle. Then he heads back to the office without another word.
My mouth hangs open as he disappears down the hall. If not for the taste of cilantro and beer that I just burped, I could believe I’m still asleep and having a nightmare.
I wanted to splurge on an anniversary dinner at The Blue Room, but then we’d have to eat peanut butter for the rest of the week, so I chose the little restaurant we love that sits above the coast highway. I even managed to get a table with a view of the sunset. At least one of us knows an anniversary dinner should be romantic.
It’s fun to be dressed up. This is the first time in months I’ve seen Jeremy in nice clothes. The food is delicious, and he orders a nice, but not too pricey, wine. He holds my hand as we watch the sun sink below the horizon, and when he turns to me afterward, his gaze is soft. “You are my whole life,” he says.
And even though he’s still not produced a gift or card or even a damned dandelion, I forgive him … a little bit.
We order only coffee to end the meal, but the server brings it with a crème brûlée and two spoons. “Dessert’s on the house,” he says. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” I say.
When the server walks away, Jeremy cocks an eyebrow. “They’ve never given us free dessert before.”
“I mentioned it was our anniversary when I requested a table with a sunset view.”
“Aren’t you the clever girl.”
As we’re leaving the restaurant, I ask if we could walk along the beach for a few minutes before heading home. “It would be romantic,” I say, no longer caring if he knows he’s disappointed me.
“I’d rather go straight home … if you know what I mean.”
He’s giving me a leer that would make me want to punch him if he wasn’t such a frigging fantastic lover that I can never get enough of him. So, with my girly parts revving, I get in the car. If sex is all he’s giving me for this anniversary, that ain’t nothing, baby.
He sends a text from the parking lot and receives an instant reply.
“What’s that about?” I ask.
“Just checking with Matt about practice.”
Softball practice is important to plan for, but our anniversary is an afterthought? Nice. We drive home mostly not talking, just listening to music.
When we pull into the garage, I glance at Jeremy, whose face is stoic, but he can’t hide the gleam in his eyes. Geez. You’d think he only gets sex once a month or something.
The scent of candle wax hits me as soon as I open the door into the kitchen. I take two steps forward and freeze. Lit votives line the edges of the hallway floor, like runway lights, with rose petals scattered down the middle. My heart swells, forcing the air out of my lungs. I take back every evil thought I had about Jeremy today.
Holding me by the waist, he kisses the nape of my neck. And then he guides me down the petal path leading to our bedroom. It’s glowing from the light of more candles set around the room. White satin, covered with more red rose petals, drapes the bed. In the center, a serving tray holds a bottle of champagne chilling in ice, two crystal flutes, a china dish piled with chocolates, and a small box wrapped in gold paper and ribbons.
“Happy anniversary,” Jeremy whispers in my ear.
I will never, ever, ever doubt him again for the rest of my life.
Tearing up, I turn in his arms. “You are the most wonderful husband in the world.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
I laugh and smack his chest, and then I kiss him like my life depends on it. “How did you do all this?”
“I arranged it with Gabi. She was here while we were at dinner.”
“And the text—�
�
“Was to let her know to start lighting the candles.”
“She must be so jealous.”
He grins. “I expect Matt will have to step up his game.” He sobers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, take you somewhere special.”
“Anywhere with you is special.”
He narrows his eyes. “Are you writing dialogue?”
I smile because I used to accuse him of the same thing when he said mushy things to me. “Let’s pour the champagne.”
“I have something to say first.” He pauses, his eyes glimmering in the candlelight. Finally, he clears his throat. “Your gift to me was the most generous one I’ve ever received.”
I shake my head. “It didn’t cost—”
He taps the tip of my nose. “I don’t mean costly. For you to take the time to write a loving thought about me during each day of our first year—” He pauses again and then swallows hard. “Nothing I can do for you will ever equal that.” He hugs me for a long time. “I felt like a heel making you wait all day for my gift. Do you forgive me?”
“Always.”
A long time later, we’re lying together, exhausted from lovemaking, and a little high from finishing off the champagne. I’m wearing the necklace Jeremy gave me—a diamond heart suspended from an infinity symbol. Everlasting love. The perfect anniversary gift.
As Jeremy relaxes into sleep, I thank the stars twinkling above our heads for bringing me a man beyond my dreams.
♥ ♥ ♥
This June night is perfect, warm and fragrant with jasmine. Under the full moon, I’m sitting on the patio, sipping wine and watching Jeremy swim in our pool. Yep, we have a pool. This is his third time using it today. He swims laps every morning before we start work, and this afternoon he got in another thirty-minute session just for fun. He says that relaxes him. Seriously. He also plays tennis and works out at the club, which means he has a hot body and a face to match. I am one lucky woman.
And I do finally feel like a woman. I know that’s ridiculous to say when you’re almost twenty-six years old, but that’s part of what living with my husband in our very own house does for me.
Open & Honest (Sometimes) (A High Tea & Flip-Flops Novel Book 3) Page 1