by Penny Reid
“What was it?” He asked this question gently, like nothing about me was ridiculous.
“I’m only going to tell you because I need some time to think about what you’ve just shared with me, and this other topic—it is ridiculous. But it will provide a distraction.” I paused, took a quick survey of my thoughts on the subject, then added, “I think I’m going to need a lot of time to think about what you’ve just shared.”
“Take all the time you need.” Quinn brushed the hair from my shoulder.
“I’ll have more questions.”
“I expected you would.”
“But you trusted that I wouldn’t overreact?”
He nodded. “Yes. After our conversation in London, and what happened on the plane after…and when you let go of the idea of a prenup, I trusted that you wouldn’t overreact.”
“Hmm….” I gave him a little smile, just a little one, then gathered a deep breath to tell him how I felt about his inappropriate gentlemanliness.
“Quinn, I don’t want you to open doors for me anymore.”
He looked at me, his expression blank, and I didn’t know if that meant he was angry, annoyed, or confused. So I continued.
“I feel like it’s inappropriate for you to order my meal. I am fully capable of speaking to waiters and waitresses. Also, I can pull out my own chair.”
“You’re upset because I have good manners?”
“It’s that, you don’t do these things for other people. I’ve never seen you pull out a chair for anyone else. You do these things for me because I’m a woman.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled as though he were smiling. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either. “I was not expecting this.”
“Well…it’s how I feel.”
He leaned against the arm of the chair behind him, folded his arms over his chest, and looked at me like I was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.
Then he said, “Kitten, have you ever considered it’s my way of telling both you and the world that you matter to me? It’s not about you being a woman. In fact, it’s more about me than you. Doing these things, even though they’re small, give me an outlet to show how I…what I think about you.”
“But it also makes me feel like I’m showing the world that I’m weak. By your logic, I should be holding doors for you. We can’t both be holding doors all the time. We’d never make it into a building.”
“You’re not going to start holding doors for me; that’s not going to happen.”
“Quinn, it makes me feel like a hypocrite. I want equal treatment. If I want the same salary as a man in a similar position, then that means I can open my own door and put on my own coat. Accepting these gestures, simply because I’m a woman, is not equal treatment.”
“It’s not because you’re a woman. It’s because you’re my woman.”
“Quinn….”
“Okay.” He lifted his hands to stop me, then said, “Think of yourself as a 1964 mint condition Ford Mustang with all original parts.”
I squinted at him and huffed through my nose. I thought I knew where he was going with this, but I wasn’t sure I should feel good about being compared to a car, even if it was a 1964 Ford Mustang, the coolest car ever of all time.
“Okay….”
“Now, if I had that car, I’d take really good care of it, right? In fact, I’d be careful taking it out. I might avoid certain parts of town that had potholes. I’d make sure it was treated well, and I’d make sure it was safe when I wasn’t driving it, right?”
“But I’m not the coolest car of all time. I’m a person.”
“Yes you are. You are my person. And I’m yours.”
I squinted at him, felt like I was missing something obvious. “What are you trying to say that I’m not understanding?”
He reached for and held my hands with his, his smile soft and cherishing. “You do so many things for me because you love me, just to show me how much you care.”
I could see where he was going now, and it was an excellent point.
I nodded, biting my lip, and conceded. “Yes.”
“I would never ask you to stop doing those things.”
I countered, “You would if the things I did made you feel like a weak hypocrite.”
Quinn paused at that, considered me, then said, “You told me once that intentions matter.”
“That’s right. They do.” Gah! Another good point.
“It’s not my intention to make you feel weak. I would never want to do that.”
He was winning this argument. Rather, it wasn’t really an argument. It was a debate. He was winning this debate. I was now on the fence. He was an excellent persuader.
I opened my mouth to challenge him again, just because I wasn’t ready to admit defeat without trying once more, but then he said, “I wish it didn’t bother you. I wish you would let me continue to show you how much I respect you by giving you deference. I know you can pull out your own chair, but I like doing it. I like showing the world you matter to me, that you matter most.”
Part 5: Vegas, baby. Vegas.
CHAPTER 21
As it turned out, Nico Manganiello was right. He and Elizabeth were in love, and they did become engaged. But that’s a different story for a different day.
Lots of things happened over the month and a half that followed our week in Boston with Quinn’s parents. Many were noteworthy—for example, I learned to crochet.
Also, after several rounds of intense negotiations bordering on fights, Quinn and I came to a compromise about his antiquated manners. We made a list of gentlemanly behaviors, and I chose the top three things that I found irksome; these included speaking for me in any capacity—like ordering food—opening doors for me, and pulling out my chair.
In the end, once we resorted to arguing while naked, we agreed that he would stop ordering for me; as well, he would sometimes open my door, and sometimes I would open my own door. But he won the pulling-out-the-chair debate when we reached a stalemate and a coin had to be flipped.
But none of these noteworthy things involved artificial stress brought on by wedding planning.
However, one event in particular did involve actual stress brought on by wedding planning.
Shelly did not take Quinn’s news of reconciliation with his parents very well. We told her the Saturday after getting back from Boston. She walked out of Giavanni’s Pancake House, abandoning her pancakes, and hadn’t returned any of my or Quinn’s phone calls since.
She also wouldn’t take any of my calls, and her absence in our lives bothered me. I didn’t understand why the reconciliation had upset her so deeply. Then again, her behavior was erratic at the best of times.
We decided to give her some time, then corner her at her house in a few weeks. Actually, I decided we would corner her at her house in a few weeks. I hadn’t told Quinn about my plan yet, but I was sure he would be one hundred percent on board when the time came.
I also decided to ignore Jem’s request for contact. Quinn got her a good lawyer—which was somewhat awkward since she’d broken into his parents’ house—and I washed my hands of the situation. I was in a good place, I was happy, and I just wanted to stay in the happy zone for as long as possible.
Katherine, Quinn’s mom, had taken over the planning like a champion. I didn’t know if there were such a thing as a wedding planning championship; but given the fact that Bucharest had a yearly feline beauty contest, I thought the chance of a competition for best wedding planner was highly possible.
She actually seemed to enjoy it. Marie also helped. Basically, she served as the style consultant. I got the impression that Marie’s happy abandon and dedication to the wedding had everything to do with the fact that she was determined to never get married.
Marie informed me of this one knit night while the two of us were in the kitchen mixing lemon drops.
Between the two of them, I’m not sure who was enjoying themselves more.
Probably
Marie. She seemed to take a certain glee in spending Quinn’s money, whereas Katherine was always trying to stick to a smaller budget.
Regardless, I was happy to hand it over and forget about it. To be honest, once I was done picking out a wedding dress, I did kind of forget about it.
That’s why, when the girls showed up at my office on a Thursday afternoon during the last week of May, I was confused.
I glanced up from my computer expecting to see Steven or Quinn. They were the only two people in the office who never knocked. Instead, I was greeted by Sandra, Ashley, Kat, Fiona, and Marie.
I looked at Sandra; Sandra winked at me. I looked at Ashley; Ashley grinned at me. I looked at Fiona; Fiona lifted her chin in greeting. I looked at Kat; Kat smiled shyly at me. I looked at Marie; Marie gave me two thumbs up.
I frowned at them.
“Um….” I said, glancing at the clock. “It’s Thursday.”
“Yep!” Sandra stepped forward and sat on the edge of my desk.
“Did we move knit night?”
“Nope.” She started swinging her legs back and forth, and her wide green eyes were distressingly excited. At least, I found the excitement in them distressing. It was never a good sign when Sandra was this excited.
“Then…what’s going on?”
“We need to get a move on if we’re going to make our flight.”
My eyebrows jumped. “Our flight?”
“That’s right, Sexy-Brains. Bachelorette party—it’s a tradition! It’s two o’clock Thursday, May twenty-ninth, and we have permission to kidnap you for the next three days. So, turn that computer off, get your ass up, and prepare thyself for Vegas.”
***
Elizabeth met us at the airport. Apparently, she’d packed my bag for me. This was worrisome as she was always trying to force me to dress like a harlot.
It should be noted that no judgment is implied by the term harlot. Harlots dress to sell their body. Therefore, the clothes they wear accentuate the areas of their body that are most desirable to customers.
I did not want to sell my body. Therefore, I did not enjoy it when people looked at me like I was for sale.
I was both pleased and alarmed to find that we were not taking Quinn’s private jet. Instead, he’d purchased all the tickets in first class on a commercial carrier and, per Sandra’s request, lemon drops were waiting for us as soon as we stepped aboard.
I had four during the flight only because I was trying to keep pace with everyone else.
A limo—of course—was waiting for us when we arrived. This was actually a good thing, because we were all drunk. I thought I recognized the driver as one of the guards who took me dress shopping with Quinn’s mother in Boston, but I couldn’t be sure.
Because I was drunk at five in the afternoon.
Luckily, we were in Las Vegas. I contemplated the fact that being drunk in Las Vegas was like being sober everywhere else in the world. So…normal. As well, I briefly wondered what it would take to determine the percentage of people on the strip who were sober at any given hour.
I guessed the number would be as fascinating as it was shocking, but likely not surprising.
When we stumbled into our hotel room, everyone gasped, myself included.
It was enormous.
It must’ve been one of the largest hotel rooms in the world. I wouldn’t know for certain until I’d measured the square footage.
The entrance opened to a waterfall behind glass that was lit from the ceiling. To the right was a huge bar with every type of liquor imaginable. To the left was a hallway. Behind the waterfall was a giant living room with four couches, seven chairs, and a panoramic view of Las Vegas as seen from the forty-ninth floor.
The suite reminded me a 1970s lounge, if everything in that lounge had been brand-new, lacked wood paneling, was oversized, red, orange, and gold, and felt like heaven.
The red couches were soft. The orange shag carpet was softer. The bearskin rug in front of the fireplace was even softer.
We spread out, looked around, and found eight bedrooms. Each had its own bathroom, and each bathtub was worthy of tubinn time (tub + Quinn).
“At some point I’m getting naked on this rug,” Sandra said, rolling around on the bearskin. “I might even try to take it home with me in my suitcase.”
I sat in one of the large chairs, and Fiona handed me a bottle of water. “Keep hydrated,” she said, smiling.
“It won’t fit in your suitcase.” Ashley’s voice carried from where she was standing behind the bar, going through all the alcohol choices. “This place is off the chain. They have a bottle of Royal Salute up here.”
“Holy crap!” Marie walked over. “That’s like a thousand dollars.”
Elizabeth walked in, flopped into the chair across from mine. “What is Royal Salute?”
“It’s thirty-eight-year-old scotch,” Ashley responded, then whistled. “I’m not touching it. I don’t even have a thousand dollars in my savings account.”
“How many ounces is it?” I asked.
“It says seven hundred milliliters.”
I did the math in my head, converting milliliters to ounces and dividing the bottle cost by number of shots. “That’s sixty dollars a shot.”
“Well, hell. I can afford that.” Ashley grinned.
Elizabeth winked at me, and I smiled even though I was starting to feel a little unsettled. Maybe it was because the lemon drops were wearing off.
I glanced down at the huge antique ruby ring on my finger and, in my brain, I took a long look around me and thought about the last few hours—the room, the limo ride, the first class tickets—and realized that this was my life now.
I was marrying Quinn, but I was also marrying his bank account.
The thought didn’t fill me with excitement. It filled me with dread.
***
We caught a show that night. Then we gambled and drank and danced in the club on the top of the casino. Then we passed out. No one objected to sleeping late the next morning.
I crawled out of my room around 12:30 p.m. and was the third person up. Fiona and Ashley were also awake, and they’d already been to breakfast, the pool, shopping, and returned. Neither of them were typically big drinkers so it made sense that they didn’t have much of a hangover.
I didn’t have a hangover either, but sleeping in felt good. We’d gotten back to the hotel room after 3:00 a.m. and, without sleep, I was like a malfunctioning Internet search engine. You could ask me a question about moon phases, and I’d come back with information about how to make homemade marshmallows.
Everyone else joined the land of the living over the next half hour, at which point I was informed that we all had an afternoon and evening of bliss planned at the hotel spa. Again, the entire spa had been reserved. I felt a lot spoiled and a little irritated that I was the only one who seemed to be experiencing dissonance with the level of luxury.
I’d never been to a spa before. I’d never had a massage or a facial, and I’d certainly never been waxed anywhere. Sometimes I’d painted my own nails or given myself a pedicure. I usually thought of grooming as standard maintenance, like cleaning out and vacuuming your car. I supposed a day at the spa was like getting a tune-up or an oil change.
Regardless, this experience felt extreme and a little like being a piece of meat prepared for dinner. I was stripped, plucked, cleaned, tenderized, seasoned, boiled, and dressed.
When we arrived, we were told to take off everything but our underwear. The attendant gave us plush terry cloth bathrobes and slippers, lovely against the skin. Everyone was on a different schedule. I started with a ninety-minute massage. Next, I had a soak in a mud bath, a mineral bath, a body scrub, then eyebrow waxing and a facial.
I was disoriented and dizzy, a mixture of relaxed and overwhelmed, when I was shown into a large room and told to sit in a very official looking chair with a tub at my feet. I was glad to see that all the other girls were already there getting pedicures and wearing s
imilarly dazed expressions.
Except Sandra.
She was beaming and talking animatedly. I caught the tail end of the conversation, “…article where they placed jewels around it. Jewels! Can you imagine? It’s called vagazzled.”
“That’s crazy.” Ashley was knitting while her feet were being pampered. “And stupid. Who would want jewels glued to their skin around their vagina?”
“Maybe some women have ugly vaginas,” Sandra shrugged, sipped her water.
We’d all been drinking water since over consuming the night before.
“To a heterosexual man, there is no such thing as an ugly vagina,” Elizabeth interjected. “Although I personally find them very strange looking.”
“Okay, show of hands, who here gets their junk waxed?” Sandra asked and raised her hand.
I glanced around, saw that Kat, Marie, and Elizabeth had also raised their hands.
Sandra squinted at Fiona. “Really? Greg doesn’t complain? He doesn’t want you to skin the peach?”
“Skin the peach?” Fiona lifted an eyebrow at the phrase.
“Yeah, skin the peach, peal the kiwi, groom the cat, mow the lawn, trim the topiary, clip the hedge, scale the tuna?” Sandra’s recitation of waxing euphemisms impressed us all.
“I prefer to say shearing the sheep,” Ashley said.
“That’s because you’re from Tennessee and like farming references.” Sandra, I knew, was purposefully trying to heckle Ashley. Ashley, of course, knew it too. She ignored the attempted heckle.
“No, it’s because it’s a knitting reference. Get it? Shearing the sheep? Carding the wool?”
“Oh! That’s a good one.” Elizabeth smiled and lifted her water bottle like she was toasting Ashley.
“What about defuzzing the sweater?” Kat added, looking thoughtful. “You know, when sweaters get those balls of fuzz.”
“Wouldn’t that be de-pilling the sweater?” Sandra asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Doesn’t have the same ring to it. I like defuzzing the sweater better.”
“I feel like Zamboni has a place in this conversation….” I said, trying to think of a good waxing euphemism including a Zamboni. “But I just can’t think of how it could be used.”