by Jillian Dodd
“Yes.”
“Oh, that kind, please. Juan, you are spoiling me,” I say with a moan as he slips one finger inside me. “It makes me feel guilty.”
“It shouldn’t,” he replies with a kiss.
“But there are so many people in the world who need help more than I need designer clothing.”
He stops what he’s doing and smiles at me, pulling me onto his lap. “I have a charity foundation. Would you help me decide on worthy causes?”
“Really? I’d love that. It is so sweet that you want to spoil me, but I don’t need it.” I mean, I do, but I have just learned that there is actually such a thing as having too much money. And I’m pretty sure Juan and his family fall into that category. When I met Riley, I just wanted a few pretty outfits and not to have my rent check bounce.
“Actually, you do need it. Being my wife, people will expect you to present yourself in a certain way.”
“A designer-clad way?” I push his shirt off and take one of his nipples into my mouth.
“Yes. Can you live with that?” he replies as he moves on top of me.
I look up at the centuries old, wood-beamed ceiling, feeling a little like I’ve slipped into some twilight zone.
“As long as we can balance it with giving, I will do my best to represent you. To not embarrass you.”
He holds my eyes as he slips inside me. “That you will never do. You will always bask in the luxury of my love and, tomorrow, you will become my wife.”
After a few hours of “rest”, I’m putting on the second of five dresses that I will be wearing over the course of the next few days.
“Hurry,” Juan says from the living room. “We shouldn’t be late for the feast.”
I step out into the room, my dress glittering. Really, all of me is glittering. I literally pinched myself when I was in the dressing room putting it on.
“Will you zip me, please?” I ask, turning my back to him.
“Mhm,” he says, lowering his lips to my exposed shoulder. “This dress is like a confection, making me long to taste you again.”
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” I say, twirling happily in a barely-there pale pink gown infused with golden glitter. Its strapless neckline manages to both cover and uplift my boobs which are further enhanced by a jewel-encrusted empire waistline. This dress is much softer and more comfortable for dinner, but still utterly beautiful. On my feet are gold glittered sandals that are by—damn, now I can’t remember the name, but anyone who’s anyone would recognize the distinctive red sole.
“It is quite lovely, but I think it needs something. Did the stylist not leave a suitable necklace to wear?”
I frown. “I don’t think so. I can go look again.”
Juan smiles at me and holds up a large velvet box. “I’m afraid it was planned that way.” He opens the box. “My mother thought you might like to borrow this.”
I teeter over, the narrow heels feeling dangerous on this old stone floor. Then my eyes widen at the jewels inside.
“Is that real?” I ask, then realize it was a dumb question. I shake my head and smile at Juan. “I suppose your family doesn’t wear costume jewelry?”
“Not often. Our company is known for its fine jewels and our family must set a good example. Many of the people invited to dinner are, in fact, business associates.”
“Well, then I guess you talked me into wearing it,” I tease.
He places a kiss on my matte pink lips then fastens it around my neck.
“Because I know someone will ask,” he says, “this is a seven carat pear-shaped yellow diamond.”
“Yellow? But it looks golden.”
“Because of its cut. This cut is called a fancy vivid, and along with the pear shape helps to intensify the natural color of the stone.”
“And it’s set in rose gold. It almost looks like it was made for the dress.”
“Knowing my mother, it probably was.” Juan laughs. “Rumor has it, she keeps a gem cutter and jeweler locked in her closet.”
Either is fine with me, I think, as I admire myself in the mirror.
Johnson Home — The Hamptons
RILEY
I’m at one of my favorite places in the world. The Hamptons. Most people love it because of its glitzy seaside mansions and quaint small-town feel. But, for me, the Hamptons is all about family.
This home belonged to my grandparents and has been enjoyed by my parents and then their children. With big families, the house started to seem too small, and we couldn’t all stay here at the same time. Over the last ten years, we were able to acquire the properties on either side of us, giving us more space to spread out when my father’s siblings, their children, and grandchildren get together—like we all will this weekend.
I’m currently sitting out on the deck in the dark by myself, enjoying a few peaceful moments of listening to the ocean waves. Once everyone arrives—either late tonight or early tomorrow—it will be completely chaotic.
After seeing Dawson’s girls in their Halloween costumes, I brought my parents out here by helicopter, and we had a quiet dinner together. I can’t remember the last time I got to dine with my parents all by myself. And our conversation about passion in life and love was exactly what I needed. I know I’m headed in the right direction. I know what I want to do with my life.
“You hiding out here because you’re in trouble with Mom and Dad?” Camden, my oldest brother, asks as he sets a bucket of beers down on the side table next to me.
I get up and give him a hug. I don’t see him nearly enough. He and his wife live in Connecticut, have three small boys, and each has their own career.
“Where are the boys and Annie?” I ask.
“The boys had parties at school today and trick-or-treated their little hearts out tonight. And they didn’t sleep at all on the way here. They were pretty pumped about their first helicopter ride. You spoil them.”
I shrug. “Actually, I was spoiling Annie. I can’t imagine the hell a three-hour car ride would have been with three exhausted kids.”
He hands me a beer and raises his toward me. “Here’s to not having to endure that. What are you doing out here by yourself?”
“Just listening to the ocean. Chilling.”
“Bullshit. You don’t know how to relax anymore.”
“What can I say? I’ve turned twenty-nine, and all of a sudden, I can.”
“Not to mention, you sold your company for a shit-ton of money. Congrats on that, and happy birthday, bro.”
“Thanks.”
He quickly downs two beers and then attempts to ease into a conversation about my love life. “I hear Annie is helping Ariela with her divorce.”
“I don’t know much about that side of things. Ariela and I haven’t really discussed it, but I know she retained Annie, and they have filed.”
He gives me a smirk. “Yeah, well, I suppose juggling two women has been keeping you busy.”
When I don’t reply to his chiding, he goes, “What the fuck happened? Is this waitress really pregnant? And have you told Mom and Dad?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting to make sure it’s mine first.”
“That’s not what Dallas said. He said you can’t make up your mind and that you’ve been fucking both Ariela and the baby mama. What is her name again? Shelly?”
“Shelby,” I correct.
“Is that really all you’re going to say about the matter?” he asks. It kills him, not knowing everything.
“Pretty much. There’s not much to talk about.”
“Other than she is trying to rope you into marrying her. Please, don’t put the family through what we went through with Dawson and Whitney.”
“I’m not going to abandon my child,” I say simply.
He goes on a tirade about Whitney, about how Shelby is probably just like her, and then starts praising Ariela—which I find humorous since she’s still married. But it’s quite clear whom my brother favors. But he’s never met Shelby.
“
It’s gotten colder than a witch’s tit out here,” I say finally. “Let’s go inside.”
“Well, it is Halloween!” Camden laughs. “I guess that’s fitting. Reminds me of when we were at school and used to freeze our asses off sneaking out to smoke at the Cave.” He continues reminiscing about his glory days at Eastbrooke. I try not to act bored.
Once I’m half-frozen to death, I herd him inside.
“Looking back, I might have been a bit of an ass in high school,” he says as we come into the family room through the sliding doors.
“College, too,” Annie yells out, coming down the stairs with a crying child in tow. “I’m raising the white flag. I need wine.”
“Coming right up,” Camden says, detouring into the kitchen.
“Uncle Riley!” Sutton, their middle child, yells out and miraculously stops crying.
“It’s late,” Annie says. “Don’t get him all wound—”
But it’s too late. Wound up is what Uncle Riley does best.
The crier, Sutton, jumps over the banister and leaps toward me, karate-chopping at my arm. I snatch him midair and then roll him onto the couch, pinning him down and tickling his sides as he laughs and kicks at me.
“Up,” Annie finishes.
“Uncle Riley!” I hear yelled out as a blur races down the stairs.
A little spider monkey of a child, their youngest son, Callan, pounces on my back. I grab him, so he won’t fall off. Then I twist around and lean over, dropping him on the other couch.
Sutton jumps up and launches himself over the large ottoman and onto my shoulder.
Pretty soon, each boy has one of my arms, and they are trying to break me in half by pulling me in opposite directions. Camden gets into the fray, holding me down.
“Boys,” Annie says calmly, wine glass in hand, “you’re going to rip Uncle Riley’s arms off, and then Grandma will not be happy, which will mean no ice cream for you this weekend.”
The boys defiantly look at her, eyes narrowed, trying to judge her seriousness.
“She’s right,” my mother says, coming out of the master bedroom in her robe. “You also need to get your butts to bed. It’s late. You’re being quite loud, and Grandma is tired. And, if Grandma is tired tomorrow, she won’t have the energy to make any of your favorite treats. Plus, Uncle Riley needs his arms to give his mother a good-night hug.”
The boys might not listen to Annie all the time, but they know better than to disobey Grandma, especially when treats are involved. They hop to attention, letting go of my arms, and sit next to each other on the couch, pretending to be angels.
“Can we have some ice cream before bed?” Parker, the oldest of the bunch, says from atop the stairs. “You always say milk helps us sleep better.”
“You’ve got me there,” Mom says. “Come on down, and we’ll have a quick bedtime snack.”
Annie rolls her eyes and takes a big gulp of wine. “You have no idea the amount of sugar these boys consumed today.”
“Of course I do.” Mom smiles, leading the boys into the kitchen. “I raised four of my own.”
Camden is still sitting on top of me. Apparently, he doesn’t want ice cream. I take the opportunity to reach up and grab him behind his neck. Using my body weight, I roll him over my shoulder and flat onto his back.
“Ugh,” he says, hitting the hardwood floor.
“Boys!” Mom screeches. “At least try to set a good example for the younger generation.”
But then our younger brother, Braxton, comes through the front door and launches himself on both of us, causing the little boys to ditch their ice cream and get back into the mix—all of us wrestling.
A few minutes later, Camden shoves Braxton, causing him to fall backward and hit his elbow hard on the floor.
“Fuck, that hurt,” Braxton says, cradling his arm, as Camden leaps on top of him, pinning him to the ground. “Mom,” he cries out, “tell them to stop!”
Camden gets up and looks at me, and we both start laughing.
“Just like always,” Camden says with a smirk, “little pussy ends up crying to Mommy.”
“Uncle Brax is a little pussy,” Sutton says, laughing.
There is a chorus of, “Little pussy,” from the boys.
“Do not say that word,” Annie sternly tells them.
“Does that mean we can say fuck?” Parker asks innocently.
Annie glares at Braxton, who is pacing and muttering.
“Hit my fucking funny bone. Stop laughing.” He points his finger at Camden and me.
“What is it about this place that turns them all into little kids?” Annie mutters to herself.
Callan jumps up and glares at his mother. “Ain’t nothing little about a Johnson.”
“That’s for fucking sure,” Braxton says, high-fiving the kid with his good arm.
“Language,” our mother says.
“Braxton,” my father’s voice booms, “you’ve been here all of five minutes, and the place looks like you had an all-night rager—or whatever those parties are called.”
I smile, thinking back to the parties we used to have. The girls, the Hamptons’ Kool-Aid. How I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to come here without my parents. It was a rite of passage. All of us, except for Braxton, lost our virginity on this beach. Our summers were filled with long days full of sun, surf, girls, and booze. But all of that changed after I started dating Ariela. The summer before my senior year was spent mostly in California, with her, making Captive Film’s first movie.
“Excuse me,” I say, getting up and going back outside.
I take a walk down the beach, and once I’m a comfortable distance from the house, I take my phone out and call her.
“Riley,” she says. “Happy birthday. It’s a little late, I know, but you didn’t call me back.”
“Sorry. Things have been a whirlwind. You sound happy though.”
“I am, Riley. Working here is so fun. The weather is gorgeous. The air smells so fresh.”
“Does that mean you’re definitely staying?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. I don’t know why, but I release a breath of air. One that I feel like I’ve been holding since she walked back into my life.
“That makes me happy, Ariela. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. There’s this house that I’m thinking about buying myself for my birthday.”
“Where is it?”
“Near the vineyard. I looked at it, and I thought it was great. It needs a little updating, but the grounds are beautiful. I just wondered if you, um, would give me a woman’s opinion—”
“If you wanted a woman’s opinion, you’d ask Keatyn,” she interrupts.
“Keatyn is biased. She wants me to buy it.”
“Why?” she asks. “You have a beautiful penthouse in a great location.”
“Did you really look at it—like when you were there?”
“No, Riley, I guess I didn’t.” She lets out a sigh. “All I cared about was you—until Shelby popped out of nowhere.”
I ignore her Shelby comment, not wanting it to derail the conversation just yet. “It’s got a beautiful view, but it feels a little cold sometimes.”
“Riley, a big house in wine country isn’t going to fix the fact that you’re alone.”
“Fine. I was thinking, on the off chance that we could end up living there together, it would be nice if you didn’t hate the place.”
“Is Shelby giving you her opinion, too?”
“No,” I say brusquely.
She’s quiet for a moment. A moment that’s almost too long. One that stretches like the sea. I hate when she pauses like this. It usually means I won’t like her answer.
“I’d love to see it with you, Riley. Thank you for asking.”
“Marry me,” I blurt out. Where the fuck did that come from?
“No,” she replies adamantly.
“Why not?” I feel like I’m back at graduation, my heart breaking into little pieces.
“Because you’re being impetuous, just like you were on the school lawn the first time you asked me. And we have a lot of things to work out before I could ever say yes.”
“Any chance you could come to New York? Like, now?”
“For what?”
“Me,” I say softly, barely able to get the words out.
“What are you saying, Riley?”
“I’m saying I’m sorry. Sorry about Shelby and about the way I’ve been acting. I’ve done a lot of thinking over the last few days.”
“And a lot of drinking from what I understand,” she counters.
She must have heard about the bachelor party from Maggie.
“Yes, some of that, too. And I miss you. Desperately.”
“I miss you, too, but I still—”
“I agree to your terms, Ariela. Well, sort of.”
“Sort of?” she asks.
“I’m not going to be monogamous. I’m going to be celibate.”
She lets out a laugh.
“I’m serious,” I tell her.
“Why?”
“Because sex has been clouding my judgment. Since you left, um…since we broke up, casual sex has been my drug of choice. It’s been my way of pretending not to give a fuck. I told myself that my forty-eight-hour rule was because of my career, but it was just a front for not being able to handle emotional intimacy.
“We agree that we both made poor decisions after we split up. You married an asshole you didn’t love, and I serial-dated to avoid love. I don’t want to avoid it anymore. We’re having a family celebration in the Hamptons this weekend, and I’d love for you to be here with me.”
“I wish I could, Riley, but I have meetings scheduled. I’ve been throwing myself into work.”
“It sounds like I need to get on your calendar then. How about this Tuesday, November the fourth?”
“That’s our anniversary,” she says, softening. But then her voice turns harsh again, and I know I deserve it. “Tell you what. I’ll pencil you in. If you still want to see me that day, let me know.”
“No, Ariela, you can write my name on your arm in glitter. It’s a definite date.”
She laughs, remembering how I did just that when we were making posters for Keatyn’s student council campaign at the beginning of our junior year. It was sort of our first date.