by Julia Kent
“I want to be alone,” she rasps. “With Declan.”
“But—”
Jason slides his arm around Marie’s waist and turns her, like a square dancer. Allemande left and out the door....
“Let’s go, Marie.”
“He can’t just—”
“Yes, he can. He just did.”
She turns around and gives us both a red-rimmed look with pleading eyes. “Don’t really run off to Vegas. Can you imagine if you pooped that ring out in a public toilet in a casino? You would—”
I cross the room and yank the curtain closed. It’s not nearly as satisfying as slamming a door. Too bad there’s no lock.
Shannon sags against the bed, her entire body relaxing.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t talk. No need to thank me. It’s my job now.”
“But you were kind of an asshole.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
She motions for my phone and types:
Remember how you’re supposed to think about other people’s feelings before you pound your chest and call yourself silverback?
My jaw could shovel sidewalks.
“You’re making me the bad guy here? They were being jerks to you.”
That’s just how they are, she types. They joke because they love me. They’re family.
“Then I don’t know how to family!”
“What?” she gasps.
“You heard me. I have no idea how to do this family thing.”
“No, no,” she rasps. “I heard you. I understand. I just can’t believe you turned the word ‘family’ into a verb.”
I stare at her. That’s what she got out of what I said? That I broke a grammar rule?
“I don’t know if I can be with a man who turns nouns into verbs. I just can’t even!” She starts to laugh, then gags a little. I pour her a cup of water and add some crushed ice, then sit on the bed next to her, urging her to drink. The cold water should reduce the swelling.
She sips slowly through the straw, then says, “I am the worst person for you to pick as your wife.”
“Stop talking! And I’ll be the judge of that.”
“You can withdraw your offer.”
“My offer? This isn’t a merger, Shannon. It’s a proposal. Or, at least, it will be once we get the ring back. For marriage. And love.” I frown. “Unless you want me to withdraw...”
The world as I know it becomes a frozen void. Time is meaningless. Space is optional. Molecules don’t have purpose.
She shakes her head no, and life resumes. “Don’t withdraw. But don’t be so mean.”
I sit down and hold her hands, capturing her eyes. “I love you, Shannon. More than I think even I realize. And when people—even your parents—make you suffer, it makes me crazy. They push your bounds and my buttons and I’m not putting up with it. I’m just not. You have to understand that.” We’re in dangerous territory now.
“And,” she rasps, pausing to take a sip, “you’re the kind of man who needs a woman who doesn’t flush her phone or swallow heirlooms.” Sip. “Or nearly die from a bee sting.”
“That was entirely my fault.”
“You can’t claim responsibility for all of those. But I’ll blame you for the spiked tiramisu.”
I close my eyes and groan, squeezing her hand.
“I mean, really.” Sip. “Who’s stupid enough to have a symbol of your undying love tucked away in a piece of food that is the female equivalent of—” She starts coughing and can’t stop, the rest of her sentence lost to the ravages of metal and diamond making its way through her organs.
A guy in scrubs appears at the door. “Shannon Jacoby? I’m here to take you to X-ray.”
For the next hour I sit in an uncomfortable chair and text with Grace nonstop, trying to figure out where this all went wrong. At some point I nod off.
When I wake up with a neck cramp and a phone out of battery Shannon’s back, dozing in the bed, propped up.
“Dec?” she whispers. I jump up, disoriented. I fell asleep? I don’t take naps unless I’m naked and Shannon’s with me, and those naps don’t involve any actual sleep. Unreal.
“You need something?” I ask.
“I just need to know—” She coughs, the sound a weird rattle in her bones.
Dr. Derjian walks in, frowning. Our discussion has to be tabled, and Shannon’s eyes are troubled. I imagine mine don’t look too happy, either. He grabs his stethoscope and holds it up to her chest, listening intently as her coughs recede.
“We got the X-rays,” he declares, unsheathing them from a large manila envelope. He holds one up to the fluorescent light. Shannon and I look up, as if we’re stargazing.
The ring is an obvious object, right smack in the middle of her chest, embedded under her ribs.
“Ouch,” she says.
“Ouch,” Dr. Derjian and I agree.
“Do I need surgery?” she asks. Her face is hopeful. She really would rather have her chest sawed open than the alternative.
The doctor points to the stack of French fry trays he and Dr. Porter gave her earlier. “Not yet. Those should be the best medical tools, in the end.”
My inner twelve year old wants to snicker. He said In the end.
Shannon gives me a sharp look, as if she read my mind. “So I just have to wait it out?”
He nods. “Prune juice, apricot nectar, lots of high-fiber foods. Leafy greens. Felicia has a list of suggested foods.”
Mom’s ring stares at us, a white object in stark relief against Shannon’s inner workings.
“It won’t rip her as it goes through?” I ask.
Steady, dark brown eyes meet mine. He’s sharp and calm. “It shouldn’t, but any sharp abdominal pain needs to be met with an immediate trip to the ER.”
“Do you know Dr. Porter’s schedule?” Shannon asks.
He cocks one eyebrow. “Any attending physician will be very competent in treating you.”
She waves her hand. “No. I want to know when she’s working so I can avoid her. If I want to be judged with snooty haughtiness I’ll go find my ex’s mom and ask her opinion on my fashion choices.”
“Stop talking,” Dr. Derjian and I say together.
He gives me a look and I ask, “They can’t help themselves, can they? Your fiancée’s a talker?’
A flash of three or four different emotions pass through his face before he replies, “You could say that.”
The look we give each other seems to say, I share your pain, bro.
He finishes some notes on Shannon’s chart and looks up at her. “The discharge nurse will be in shortly with instructions.”
“That’s it?” I ask, adrenaline seeping out of my pores, exhaustion filling me.
“For now.” He pats Shannon’s knee. “Just come in for any pains you encounter.”
She points to me. “Does that include him?” Dr. Derjian laughs and leaves the room.
Amanda comes rushing back. “I can take Shannon home.” She cocks an eyebrow and seems to watch the doctor walk down the hall. “Take him home, too, if he’s single...”
Andrew better make his move. Fast.
“I want her to come back to my place.”
Shannon shakes her head “no” with such violence I think she’s make the ring come flying out of her.
“What?” Alarm and confusion fill me. “Why not?” There’s no better place for her to recover than with me.
She and Amanda look at me like I’m the stupidest person on earth. Shannon points to the French fry trays.
“Declan, do you seriously think there is any person alive who wants to hang out with their beloved while they wait to shit out their engagement ring?” Amanda asks. Shannon just buries her face in a spare pillow.
“When you put it that way...”
“Think of it like a colonoscopy.”
“What?”
“You ever take your dad to the hospital for his routine colonoscopy?”
“No. My father
barely has time for a handshake. We don’t take each other to places where we have someone shove things in our asses.”
She gives me a hairy look. “You’re just like your brother.”
I’m not sure whether to be offended or pleased.
“My point,” she continues, “is that no one wants to be watched while they have things coming out of their butt that might be embarrassing.”
Which is every object that was ever up there, right?
“I see.” And I do. I guess if Shannon has to go through the unbearable humiliation of shitting out her own engagement ring, the only thing that could make it worse is to have me there.
“I am never, ever eating French fries again,” Shannon mumbles from behind her pillow.
A quick kiss on her cheek and a look of assurance from Amanda and I head out, wondering how I went from the perfect proposal to the perfect disaster.
And I still haven’t even popped the question.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Poopwatch, Day 1...
Andrew’s phone call comes out of nowhere the next morning. Shannon’s at her apartment, refusing to see me until the ring comes out, busy eating bran cereal and prunes. That tiny little place is going to smell like a frat house soon.
“You see Jessica’s tweet?” Andrew’s voice has a triumphant tone that sets my competitive streak to Engage.
“I unfollowed her a long time ago, bro.” Grace hasn’t given me a report today. What’s this about?
“You might want to check it out, because Shannon’s going to lose it when she sees what Jessica’s up to.”
Remember back in the good old days, in 2010 when Twitter wasn’t a topic of conversation? Yeah. Me too. I liked it better when My Space was the in thing and we didn’t check in on Facebook to notify people which bathroom we were using in which restaurant.
My phone buzzes with a text.
“That’s Shannon,” I say. “Thanks for the heads’ up.”
“Welcome. And let me know how Poopwatch is going.”
“What?”
“Poopwatch. That’s what Jessica’s calling it. Hashtag and all.”
“Wait!” Poopwatch? My proposal has a hashtag? At least it’s not Poopgate. Why does everything have to end in -gate?
Bzzzzz.
“How in the hell did she find out?” I know Shannon’s texting me like mad, and I steel myself for the inevitable screeching.
He snorts. “No idea, but it’s all over the Twitterverse.”
The fact that we have something called “the Twitterverse” is an abomination against nature.
Shannon’s text is a screenshot of a tweet from Jessica @jesscoffN. It is a picture of Shannon’s x-ray with the ring in sharp contrast to her ribs and soft organs, with the following tweet:
Shitty proposal #poopwatch @anterdec2
Next text from Shannon:
Can you marry me in jail? Because I’m going to kill her. Just get me a good lawyer if you want conjugal visits.
I have no doubt about Shannon’s homicidal tendencies right now. I have to confess to a touch of Schadenfreude, though, because it’s nice to be the one watching her anger instead of being the object of it.
I miss you, I text back.
See you in a few days, she replies.
Days? I have to wait days?
No. No wait. I’m coming over today.
You come over today and I let my mother plan your bachelor party, Shannon texts back.
Well, she’s got me there. I’m marrying a negotiation shark.
How about you call me when you’re ready to see me, I text.
How about I call you to help me bury Jessica’s body?
She’s only half joking. That’s the scary part.
How in the hell did Jessica get her hands on those X-rays? I’m puzzling through that one, madly texting Grace to get her on the job. Ten minutes later someone’s at my door. It’s Andrew, carrying a bag of bagels and wearing a scowl. The bagel bag slams against my wood counter and he heads straight for my coffeemaker.
“Got any scotch?” He pours himself half a cup of coffee, finds the alcohol before I can answer, and fills the rest of the mug with spirits.
“Help yourself.”
“Fucking Amanda.”
“You are?”
“No,” he says, so upset he’s shaking. Either that, or he’s such an alcoholic that delirium tremens have kicked in. Given his youth and overall vitality, I think it’s the former.
“What was going on between you two at the hospital?”
His ears turn pink and he chugs the entire mug of abominable coffee in one big gulp.
“That bad?”
“That good.”
“That’s worth pursuing.”
“That needs to be forgotten.”
“Why?”
He looks at me like I have two heads. “Why? When did you start asking all these touchy-feely questions? Because. That’s why. Because.”
“You sound like Dad.”
“I take that as a compliment. Dad’s good at compartmentalizing. Great at business. Has a healthy relationship with the ladies.”
“He dates zygotes.”
“At least zygotes can’t talk.”
“Jesus, Andrew, why all the anger? Why don’t you just sit down with Amanda and have a mature conversation about whatever conflicts you have?”
He frowns and looks me up and down. “You grow a new X chromosome I don’t know about? Where’s this coming from?”
I cross my arms and lean against the counter, drinking my non-alcoholic coffee. “Nothing wrong with talking about feelings. Real men can do it, too.”
“Real men don’t have feelings. We have penises with needs. That’s our version of emotions.”
“Oh, you must really win over the ladies with lines like that.”
“My bed’s warm enough.”
“Could be warmer with Amanda in it.”
Pink ears. “Shut up.”
“Fine. I’ll shut up. Let’s talk about making me CEO, then.”
He makes a nasty sound in the back of his throat. “Dad would never, ever consider it. Besides, I’d fight you for it. And win.”
I look at him. Really look at him.
He’s terrified.
And he’s right. He would fight me for it and win. Not because I wouldn’t be the natural successor to Anterdec after Dad retires (which is his euphemism for dies).
But because I want something more than what Dad and Andrew have in their life. Being a CEO isn’t part of that more.
Terror is what happens to people who start to let their inner selves shine through. Who let themselves hope. Who open themselves to the possibility that real, raw, dirty, messy love is out there and that it’s worth it.
Andrew’s scared shitless, and he should be.
The day Shannon walked into that meeting eighteen months ago and Toilet Girl turned out to be real I was scared shitless, too.
And that’s exactly why I pursued her.
Business challenges involve the thrill of the chase. The brute negotiations where power in the form of money changes hands. The merger of two businesses, the acquisition of a smaller company by a larger entity, and the give and take of oneupmanship that defines the capitalist system.
I’m good at those power struggles. Andrew is great at them. Dad’s the king of it all.
Not my kingdom, though.
Toilet Girl shocked me to the core that day in the bathroom, self-effacing and visceral. Stunningly self-deprecating and yet defiant. Shannon went toe to toe with me verbally and was so...something. If I knew the words I’d use them.
“You’re right,” I say, acquiescing. I know when to stop the tug of war and just let go. “I don’t want it.”
“Bullshit.”
“I have something better.”
“Shannon is better than being the CEO of a Fortune 500 company?” he asks, earnest and genuine. No snark. He’s trying to understand.
I pause, blinking a few
times. But I don’t wait too long.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Now who’s getting all touchy-feely?
A carefully-constructed case with facts and judgments, analyses and explanations, builds in my mind like a tower. Like scaffolding. Like a court case designed to defend my premise.
But you can’t do that with love.
And I don’t have to validate my own feelings.
“Why?” I echo him. “Why?”
He nods.
“Because.”
He gives me a grimace and a glare. Mom shines through in him just then. It’s surreal.
“You’d give up fame and fortune and power for love? How cute.”
“No. The great part is that I don’t have to give up love for anything.”
And with that I go back to texting Grace, ignoring my little brother as he makes himself his second cup of whatever it takes to get him through the day.
Poopwatch, Day 2...
Shannon takes the day off and refuses to text with me. She says it’s bad luck to see the groom before you poop out the engagement ring. An old tradition carefully noted in the Emily Post Guide to Modern Weddings.
I work out with Andrew. A lot.
Poopwatch, Day 3...
The closest thing to intimacy with another person I achieve today is the moment Grace’s fingers brush against mine while she hands me my morning coffee. Shannon won’t talk to me, won’t text with me, won’t acknowledge my existence. She’s taken another day off work and I’m burying myself in projects that don’t matter.
Meanwhile, Grace works hard at arranging The Proposal 2.0. The day passes in a blur of meetings and the tedium of waiting for something I have no control over.
Jason appears at my office long after all the staff have gone home for the night. The cleaning crew has taken over the floor, men wearing jetpack vacuums and women carefully sanitizing phones as I hear and knock on my door, the kind of rap rap rap that comes after a person has tried repeatedly to get your attention.
I open the door to find Shannon’s father standing there, a neutrally friendly look on his face.
“May I come in? I realize I should have called, but this wasn’t a planned visit.”