Down with Love

by Kate Meader

  “Hey, Frank.” I call him that when I’m mad at him.

  “I’m back home but Donna’s not cooperating.”

  The joy I feel that he’s come to his senses is in no way dimmed by the fact his wife of thirty-six years is not having it. I wonder how much of this is Max’s doing.

  “Did you expect you could just waltz back in, no questions asked, and it would be all okay? You really hurt her.”

  “I know. I know.” He sniffs, annoyed I don’t see it from his point of view. Is this what Max has to endure every day? Trying to reconcile opposing viewpoints while not losing his shit?

  I’m not Max. I don’t have his control.

  “It’s not like returning a gift you don’t like, Frank. This is your wife and you basically told her she had no value to you anymore.”

  “I never said that!”

  “You didn’t have to. Your actions said it all.” I inhale a deep breath, searching for calm. “Reacting with pure emotion is not productive. You should have talked to her, laid out why you were unhappy. I can’t believe you’ve gone your whole marriage without learning good conflict resolution!”

  “That’s just how it’s always been. Talking is…”

  “Painful?” I finish for him.

  “Yes.”

  That simple word makes my heart clench. I’m so like him, so unwilling to put myself out there, for fear of getting knocked back.

  “I know, Sully. I know it’s hard.”

  “I went a little mad for a while, Charlie. Donna is such a saint. She’s my—my fucking everything and I just thought that maybe this would be easier on her. Give her time to get used to me being gone.”

  Oh, Sully. “You’re not going anywhere, do you hear me? If I have to put every cigar in the garbage disposal, if I have to force-feed you salads forever, I will do what it takes to make sure you outlive us all.” I’m practically shouting, causing one of the catering staff to look at me askance. I lower my voice to a heartfelt whisper. “And whenever you feel low or not—not worthy, you have to talk to us. Donna. Me. Don’t think you always know best because you clearly don’t.”

  He sniffs. “I’ve been feeling useless, and it just came crashing down on me all at once.”

  “I know what that’s like. And I also know I’m not the best role model.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m supposed to be your role model.”

  “Whoever said that? Who said we can’t all learn from each other?”

  Sully’s silence says he’s not buying it. But if he can relearn to talk to the woman he fell in love with all those years ago, then surely I can do the same with the man I fell for hard a few weeks ago.

  After all, love takes work.

  My father coughs significantly. “Will you talk to Donna for me?”

  “No. That’s your job, and it might help if you went in with a plan. Not just a general ‘let’s talk this out’ plan, but one that involves professional help. A therapist to talk about post-illness depression or a marriage counselor.”

  “We don’t need all that nonsense.” At my throat-clearing interruption, he amends. “I’ll ask Donna if that’s something she wants. If she’ll ever talk to me again.”

  It’s a start and all I can ask for. I say my goodbye and hang up before he can ruin it with some asinine male statement.

  I turn, only to crash into Max. This time, my heel makes contact with his foot.

  “Ouch!” (Max)

  “Oompf!” (Me)

  His smile makes my heart squish. Strong hands are steadying me beyond the requisite steadying time, but I find I don’t mind. I’ve missed this closeness.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were on the phone as I approached and then I couldn’t sneak off without it looking weird. It’s kind of a trek from the tent.”

  Incidentally, no man has ever looked better in a tux. “Another ambush, Max?”

  “It’s how I roll.”

  Yes, it is. Max Henderson has a habit of sneaking up and taking me unawares. Just like now, he surprises me again.

  “Dance with me, Charlie.”

  I worry I can’t resist him, and as he takes my silence as affirmation, I know I can’t. The strains of Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” drift over the lawn as he envelops me in his strong arms.

  “It was a good wedding,” he murmurs against my ear.

  “It was,” I say. “I think they’ll be happy, as long as they take care of the little things.”

  Drawing back, he holds my gaze with that usual Max Henderson intensity. I don’t try to hide. I plead with my eyes for him to make this easy on me.

  “You’re pretty good at this, Charles.”

  “This?”

  “Charlie Love’s her name. Crafting love’s her game.”

  “I’m not doing that. People are already in love when they come to me, I’m just helping them craft memories.”

  We sway in each other’s arms. “I don’t mean what you do for other people, though I acknowledge you’re amazing at that. What I mean is how you took this lump of flesh inside me and molded it into a heart.”

  That’s just…oh.

  “It was always there, Max.” I touch my fingertips to his chest, absorb the beat that’s all for me. “It just needed a little jump start.”

  “It needed you.” Max’s heart kicks against his chest harder, as if I control it with invisible magnets in my fingers. “I’m going to make mistakes, Charlie. So many mistakes. I have good role models but I also see stuff on a regular basis that could make the average man lose faith.”

  “You’re not the average man. You’re Max Henderson, the guy who can talk his way into anything, who fixes problems, who has only—only ever tried to help. It took me a while to recognize that. All those little things you’ve taken care of, they’re like notes that when bound together create a book of connections. With my parents. With me. With James and Gina. I’m sorry about how I reacted. It was easier to take a step back instead of making a leap of faith.”

  “Back is always easier than forward. Besides, you were right. Love takes work and work requires communication.”

  This is so true. “Sully’s back with Donna. Did you have something to do with that?”

  He shrugs. “I think he just lost his mind for a little while. We all go through that on occasion. And it helped us—we needed this blowup to see what we’re made of.”

  Perhaps, but what did it show him about me? I’m twitchy, emotional, ready to see the worst in him.

  “I don’t know if I’m right for you, Max. For anyone—”

  “Charlie…”

  I stop the dance and clutch his shoulders. “I tend to act impulsively, foolishly, even. When I’m mad, I scream. When I’m upset, I show it. You’ve seen some of it, but since—since my last relationship I’ve been trying to hide that part of me because it scares people off.”

  “Not me. It’s what I love about you. Your passion, your fire. Don’t hide it. Just know that there’s nothing we can’t do together. I’ve never been afraid of hard work, but the idea of applying that to a relationship terrified me. I wanted to get it right from the get-go. I didn’t want to fail, like my clients. I know now that there’s a push-pull to everything we do, and especially to love. It’s not black and white; it’s not winning in a sprint right out of the gate. We have desire. We have respect. We have love. We will figure this out as we go, stumbling along, but always talking. Never suppressing our emotions or trying to put on a good face when we don’t feel like it. Love is recognizing that this one person who’s perfect for you will probably piss you off sometimes and that’s okay. It’s not grounds for separation—”

  “Except maybe to the roof for a little Max time.”

  He grins. “Honey, that roof is going to save our marr
iage.”

  My heart somersaults in my chest. “Marriage?”

  “Eventually. Soon. I want to go into this—into us—not assuming we’re going to fail. I want to jump heart first.”

  I close my eyes, thankful he’s still holding on to me. When I open them again, amazingly he’s still there, my fantasy made flesh.

  “And what about me? How will I let off steam when you make me crazy?”

  His smirk is classic Max.

  “In a way that’s not immediately beneficial to your dick, Henderson?”

  “Well, my lovely, foul-mouthed angel, there’s this place called the Punch Palace, and it’s the perfect spot for channeling all that Charlie Love aggression. If ever you feel a need to knee me in the balls, count to ten, lace up those gloves, and punch the hell out of the Mask of Max.”

  I sigh into his body, swaying to what sounds like Neil Diamond’s “I Am…I Said” drifting on the air.

  “Did you choose this music?”

  “No seduction is complete without a little Neil, Charles. And I’m sure I can find a couple of brandy snifters. As for the hearth rug…”

  I laugh. “Maybe you can go one better. Don’t you have some debate trophies to show me?”

  He pulls me close, so I feel every muscle in his body—and I mean every one. “Got the grand prize right here. But if you’re angling for an invitation to my boyhood bedroom so I can make sweet, sweet love to you on my single bed, then hell, yeah, you’re invited.”

  I let him lead, knowing that adventure lies ahead—and a lifetime of love.

  So much love.

  Epilogue

  “My most brilliant achievement was my ability to persuade my wife to marry me.”

  —Winston Churchill

  Max

  Were you expecting a wedding? We’re not quite there yet, romance lovers. I know I said I was going in with an open heart but Ms. Love is playing it cool. I suspect my history, my job, and our whirlwind courtship give her pause. She doesn’t want me to have a single regret, which means our conversations in the last few weeks have gone something like this:

  “Maldives.” (Me)

  “What about it?” (Her)

  “Great place to honeymoon. Perfect weather in November.”

  Nose twitch of cuteness. “That’s less than three months away. Unless you mean next year.”

  I pause to give her hope that I’m talking about a fifteen-month lead time to a wedding (these protracted planning processes provide her job security, after all), then dash that hope to shreds.

  “No, this year.”

  She bends down to pick up Cujo to occupy her hands. “That’s not a lot of time.”

  I agree it’s not, but I’ve already had a chat with Nathan to put a plan into action. He’s making sure her schedule is cleared around that time and that we could launch at a moment’s notice. I’ll cater the thing with Hello Fresh if I have to.

  They say lawyers are tricksy, manipulative, and downright devious. I will wear these badges with honor if it gets Charlie Love to wear my ring.

  Tonight we’re at the Cubs game in our usual seats. It’s late August, about six weeks after James and Gina’s wedding. Muller’s not officiating, which is good because as much as the sight of my lady riled turns me on, I’d prefer calm Charlie this time around. I also waver on whether my unborn niece or nephew should be surrounded by so much negativity.

  Then don’t take him to a ball game, I hear you say.

  To which I respond: The kid needs to know early that she’s in for a life of pain and disappointment.

  Sure the Cubbies won the World Series a few years back, but no Chicagoan is comfortable being a fan of a winning team. We worked hard to earn our underdog status and it suits us. The Cubs are down by two to the Giants and we’re standing for the seventh inning stretch singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” led by star of stage and screen, Chicago’s own Bill Murray. Gina and James have left to go to the bathroom because my sister-in-law’s bladder is the size of a ballpark peanut.

  The song is winding down.

  My heart is winding up.

  I’m so fucking nervous.

  I’m also trying not to look at the scoreboard because something is happening there that’s about to change my life. I hope.

  Behind us, Casper leans over and taps Charlie on the shoulder. “Your name’s Charlie, right?” Casper definitely knows this because I’ve brought her to games at least four times in the last month, and she always chats with him like they’re old friends.

  She grins, which makes his pasty skin blush lobster-red. Guy has a crush, and who could blame him? “Sure is, George.”

  His name is George, apparently. Charlie knows this because she’s good with people, much better than me.

  Casper-George touches the earbud in his ear. He likes to listen to the sports commentary from the booth. “The boys upstairs are talking about the scores for the other games.” He points at the scoreboard, which is perfect because it means I don’t have to.

  One thing you might not know about the manual scoreboard at Wrigley is that, not only does it show the scores for the Cubs home game, it also catches everyone up with what’s happening in the rest of the baseball world at this moment in time. For the first seven innings, the two lines above the Cubs showed the Dodgers–Reds score. (Cincinnati is getting crushed.) But during the stretch, it was replaced with the following literary masterpiece:

  MAX CHARLIE

  Am I Mr. Romance or what?

  She turns to me, cheeks aflame, her beautiful pink-bud mouth open in amazement.

  “But—but—how?”

  “Wave to Sully, Charles,” I say with a nudge of my chin back at the scoreboard. Frank’s leaning out one of the openings, Cubs ball cap on, his hand raised in our general direction. Dazed, she waves back.

  “You got those plates specially made?”

  “I did. And I’m going to hang them in my apartment tomorrow so you’re left in no doubt about what I think and feel and know.” I clasp her hand in mine, interlocking our fingers, and raise them to my lips. “I know you’re worried it’s too soon. You want me to be sure. Maybe you want to be more certain of your feelings for me—”

  “That’s not it. I am certain. I know you’re what I want.” Her voice is quiet and deliberate and sure. “I know there’s no one else who can raise me up or calm me down the way you do.”

  “And I know no other woman will ever understand me like you. I’m not the best when thrown a curveball, and, Charlie, I’ve never met a more wicked pitch than you. There’s no one else for me. You’re the Grace to my Jimmy, the Deborah to my Cary, the—”

  “Demi to your Patrick?”

  “Let’s not get carried away.” I grin, but I feel it crumble around the edges. Humorous deflection can’t help me now. “Live with me, Charlie. Cook with me, fuck with me, fight with me, forgive with me. Let’s make Cujo’s dream of being a ring-bearer come true. Let’s not waste another second starting our life together.”

  The Cubs score a run and everyone around us shoots to their feet. We remain seated, locked in the first of what I imagine will be many negotiations to make our marriage stronger.

  I can’t wait to start this journey with her.

  “We’ll need a pre-nup,” she says.

  “We’ll see.”

  “It’s common sense, not an indictment of our trust in one another.”

  I cup her sweet jaw and feather a kiss over her cheekbone, my lips brushing her ear. “Here’s your pre-nup. If we divorce, you’ll get one measly dollar.”

  She laughs, low and husky. “You’re incentivizing me to stay married to you?”

  “If you ever leave me, you’ll also take my heart.”

  Tears spring into h
er eyes, and I rub my nose against hers. All in, my love. Trust your heart to steer you true. I promise to take care of it.

  “Yes,” she whispers. “I’ll marry you, Max.”

  I close my eyes in relief and realize that my hands are shaking. To stop it, I anchor my palm to the nape of her neck and kiss her until my pulse slows to normal.

  It’s a long kiss.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Sully: We do good?

  Not two seconds later I get another message, this one from Lucas: Maxie, mate! Tell me I just won my bet with Sadie!! Did she say yes?

  Then, also from Lucas: I can’t believe I’m watching fucking baseball!

  I hold the screen up to her.

  She smiles. “Can it just be us for a few more minutes?”

  James and Gina will be back any second, and I won’t be able to hold off Sully and Lucas for too much longer. When you’re deliriously happy, everyone wants a piece of it.

  Vampires.

  With a nod because words have failed me again—this girl—I put my phone away, hold my fiancée’s hand, and refocus on the game.

  The Cubbies lose, but for once I don’t care.

  The End…well, not quite…

  Charlie

  Did you think I’d let Max Henderson get the last word?

  Not. A. Chance.

  I couldn’t plan the day myself—far too nervous—but Nathan was on the case with an assist from Max. I had to veto the Alfred Hitchcock theme (just a few birds lining the aisle, Charles!), but apart from that, my man has taken the job of making our wedding a fairy tale, the stuff of movies, and run with it to picture-perfection.

  It’s early November and I’m standing in the bridal preparation suite outside Saint James Chapel in downtown Chicago. Sully looks very smart in his suit. He also looks like he’s about to burst into tears.

  “Charlie”—sniff—“you look so”—sniff—“beautiful.” Sniff.

  I can only nod my thanks. Linking my arm in his, I take a step, then another, toward my future.

  The smiling faces of the people I love and who love me without hesitation shine back at me, glinting brightly against the heavenly setting of stained glass windows depicting angels and saints. Love drops by the spoonful into my heart with each person I see on my journey to joy. By the time I make it to the end of the aisle my heart is full to the brim, especially at the sight of Donna in the front row, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sully steps in beside her and rubs her back, muttering, “You’re makin’ it worse, woman.”