This Is the Wonder

by Tracey Ward

  I can see Jax in my periphery walking through the room and packing up. We’re checking out in a few minutes. We’re behind because I took too long in the shower and I worry I’ll make us late for our flight, but I’m having a hard time focusing. And Jax can see it.

  When my hair is finally dry, I turn off the dryer and pull on the plug. It doesn’t budge.

  “Shit,” I mutter, gripping it harder. I pull and pull, but it refuses to come out. I wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts and try again. Still nothing. “Dammit!”

  Jax appears in the doorway, a crease between his brows. “What’s up?”

  “I can’t get the fucking plug to come out,” I tell him grumpily.

  “Go get the rest of your stuff packed. I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks, Jax.”

  I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek as we shuffle past each other in the doorway.

  I’m packing my clothes hastily into my suitcase when suddenly I hear a loud snap! followed by a shout from the bathroom. The lights in the room instantly go out.

  I run to the bathroom and skid to a stop in the doorway. Jax is standing, thank God, but his face is frozen in shock and his hand is outstretched toward the plug.

  “Are you okay?” I demand.

  He looks at me, blinking rapidly. “Yeah. I’m fine. I just got a little jolt.”

  “You got electrocuted?!”

  “A little bit.”

  I go to step inside but he puts up his hand to stop me. “The floor is wet. Don’t.”

  “The power is out, Jax.” I point to the bathroom light that had been on when I left the room. Dead. “It’s out in the bedroom too. Wait, you were standing in water when you were electrocuted?”

  “I wasn’t electrocuted,” he insists, handing me the adaptor and flexing his fingers. “Not much.”

  I don’t have a response to that. I don’t know how to argue about the degree of his electrocution so I just follow him back into the bedroom, watching him closely. He seems fine. No cartoonish smoke rising from his hair. No scorch marks along the veins inside his arms. He’s still alive, that’s a good sign. But he’s shaken, that’s for sure, and part of me is shaken too. It wakes me up and I stow my issues as I help him get the rest of our stuff together and we get out of the hotel room.

  It’s weird explaining to the hotel owner that we knocked out power upstairs. I’m pretty sure we killed it on the entire floor because even the hall light is out when we leave our room. I don’t know that he totally understands what I’m telling him as I explain it because he simply smiles and nods, thanking us for staying with them and asking if we want a complimentary croissant for the road.

  Yes. Yes, we do.

  The Italians are delightful people.

  I, however, am not. By the time we finish the long journey full of water taxis and busses to get to the airport, my funk is back. I’m in my head and it’s a bad place to be. Jax notices the shift again and I wish I could hide it better. I feel close to tears and I never cry, but something about the running rant in my head is destroying me. It’s destroying this day and the elation I should feel over being engaged to the man I want to marry—the only man I’ve ever really loved with everything I have.

  But that’s just it—am I getting married? Where’s the ring? Where’s the kneeling? He talked about it with his mom but did he tell her he was actually going to do it? How do I know that this is really happening and it’s not something we’re agreeing to because it feels good and we’ll never follow through with it in the long run?

  “Wren, I can’t keep asking,” he suddenly tells me, sounding impatient. I’ve never heard him be short with me before, and just because I deserve it doesn’t mean I have to like it. “What’s the matter?”

  I burst out crying. It’s so weird and embarrassing. Instantly I’m making a scene, hiccupping and making weird noises that are meant to be words of explanation and apology but they don’t make sense.

  To his credit, Jax sits and waits silently, letting me work through whatever the hell this is, and he doesn’t try to sooth me. I’m obviously beyond that, lost in some insane realm of emotion that I’ve bottled up for years and have hidden from, run from, and now here it is catching up with me and I can’t even contain it in my body anymore.

  “Did you ask me to marry you because you think I wanted you to?” I whimper, barely coherent. “Because I’m fine if you don’t want to yet, I don’t need you to want to marry me right now.”

  “No,” he says slowly, being cautious. He can sense the landmines here. “I want to marry you. I asked because I want to.”

  “You didn’t really ask,” I mumble pathetically, wiping at my face. Lord, I hate crying. I’m a blubbering, wet nightmare.

  “Is that what you need? For me to get down on one knee and ask? I thought you didn’t like big romantic gestures. I didn’t want to make it like a movie and have you think I was reciting some lines. And the way it came up, it was natural. I didn’t plan that. I didn’t even think about it, but doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”

  “No, I don’t want you on one knee, I just… I don’t know!”

  His face tenses and his eyes dart to the sides. “Wren, can you calm down a little?” he whispers. “I want to talk about this with you, but people are glaring at me. Italian men, specifically. I’m getting a little scared.”

  I grab his shoulders and drop my forehead against his. I take a deep breath and relax. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I’m screwing this up. This should be exciting and I’m ruining it.”

  “You’re not ruining anything. I just don’t understand.”

  I pull away and sit back, forcing myself to be calm. I wipe away the tears and look around. He’s not kidding. Men and women are watching us but the men are angry. They think he’s upsetting me and they do not like it one bit. I smile weakly at them, trying to let them know I’m okay.

  I turn back to Jax, to his patient face. “My sister married her high school sweetheart. They were together as Juniors and stayed together through college. I watched it and it was so beautiful because they made each other so happy. And then in high school I started dating a guy named Eric. He was great and we had fun together. He was my first love and I really believe I was his. We dated for two years, and when we turned eighteen he asked me to marry him. I was so excited. I thought it was the way it was supposed to go because it’s how Robin and Chris happened and my family seemed to like him and he was a good guy. There was nothing wrong with us, but there wasn’t anything great about us either.

  “I started planning a wedding and planning this future for us and things slowly started to get tense. He pushed the date back to over a year out and he stopped looking at anything I put in front of him about the wedding. He started hanging out with other people more often, leaving me behind and not introducing me to them. He was pulling away and I didn’t get it. Then one day he broke up with me. Just like that. He said he got caught up and he made a mistake asking me to marry him. Then he was gone. I never speak to him anymore. I don’t even know where he is and I almost married him. It’s so stupid.

  “After he broke up with me I started to panic about everything. That’s when my anxiety about the future set in. I had to choose a major and I was scared to do it because I didn’t trust my instincts anymore. I had almost made a massive mistake and married the wrong guy, so what if I picked the wrong major? What if I pick the wrong job to do for the rest of my life? It stalled me out and it’s messing with me now with you, and I fucking hate that.” I reach up and wipe away an errant tear that trickles down my cheek. “I want this. I really do, Jax. I know I want to marry you in a way I never did with him. I said yes because he asked me. I said yes to you because it’s what I want, but I’m still scared.”

  “You’re scared you’re making the wrong decision?”

  “No. I’m scared you’re going to realize that you are.”

  Jax watches me for a second, his face impass
ive. He searches my eyes and I’m sure they’re a mess—red-rimmed and leaking. Then he reaches into his bag and searches for a second, coming back with a small parcel of tissue paper. He unwraps it and holds up the bracelet I helped him pick out for his mom.

  “This is yours,” he tells me gently. “I didn’t buy it for my mom. I had you help me pick it out so I could buy it for you. I wanted to get you the perfect one and I knew you’d never tell me which one you wanted if you knew I was going to buy it for you.” He spreads his fingers inside of it, forcing it into a circle, the brilliant beads of blue and gold flickering in the sunlight. “It’s not a wedding ring, but it is a ring. It’s a promise. One I’m making to you today, tomorrow, and I will make it again every day so you always know that I never feel any different about you than I do right now in this moment.” He takes my hand and slides the bracelet over it, down onto my wrist where the elastic pulls it firmly into place. “Wren Porter, I want you to be my wife today and every day for the rest of our lives.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper brokenly, the tears flowing again for so many reasons, but none of them what they were before. I absorb his words and I spread them like a balm on my worried heart, and while it won’t heal immediately, it’s on its way. And I want to be whole for him. I want to enjoy this moment and let him enjoy it as well, and if I’m going to do that I have to let go. I have to ditch the doubt that’s clung to me like the smell of smoke long after the fire has gone out. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you so much.”

  “I’ll give you whatever you need. Always. All you have to do is tell me what it is and I’ll make it happen.”

  I sigh and smile, breathing out the ugly doubt that’s threatening the solid certainty in his eyes. In my heart. “I want to marry you, Jax.”

  He grins crookedly. “Then let’s get married, Wren.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Back in Germany, Jax and I stay in a hotel in a small town just outside the base. It’s a large brick building with ivy climbing the exterior and windows that open up out over the narrow main street. All of the alleys and smaller side streets are cobbled, a perfect tripping hazard for a young drunk, and up the road on the hill is a castle. It’s nothing extravagant, not like the ornate castles built by the mad prince down in Bavaria, but it’s still a castle of ancient dark stone on a hilltop overlooking the valley. It’s cool any day of the week.

  We crash the day we get back from Venice, both of us falling asleep immediately on the big plush bed. The windows are closed, the world is kept out, but there’s something that feels right about being here with Jax. It’s where we started, and when I slowly spin the bracelet around my wrist, it feels like we’re ending here. At least a part of us is. When I left last time I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. But now when I leave the day after tomorrow, I know I will. I’ll get to see him for the rest of my life. Not every day, but I’ll be grateful for each one I get.

  “You sure you want to see these idiots?” Jax asks from the bed.

  I smile, brushing my hair until it lies perfectly flat. In the bathroom mirror I can see the pink flush to my cheeks. It’s a dead giveaway as to what just happened in that bed Jax refuses to leave. I can’t smooth that away. It’ll have to fade naturally, along with the loose-limbed high still flowing through my body. “Yes, I want to see the idiots. Mostly Sanchez.”

  “Maybe you’ll get to hear Haskins speak.”

  “I won’t hold my breath.”

  I hear Jax moving and I glance through the bathroom doorway. His body is in profile sitting up in the bed. His head is tucked down as he scratches his fingers through his hair from his forehead back to his neck. Then he growls slightly and rubs his hands over his face, staring into the distance. I watch the muscles of his arms and sides work smoothly under his skin, still browned by the desert sun, and the looseness in my body begins to coil again. He’s beautiful. Powerful and gentle, and so damn adorable as he runs through his weird little ritual to wake himself up.

  He glances over at me about to speak, but stops when he sees me staring. He smiles. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I grin. “Just you.”

  “You like what you see?”

  “I love what I see.”

  “Remember that when all this muscle from downrange is gone in a few months. I can’t keep up that workout pace.”

  “You’ll still be incredible.”

  His smile changes and it reminds me a little of Cade the way it curves. The way it calls. “Come back to bed.”

  “No,” I laugh, ripping my eyes from his before he convinces me. “We need to get ready.”

  “You look perfect just like that.”

  “You want me to go to the club with your friends in my underwear?”

  “No. I want you to stay in this room with me without your underwear.”

  “And I want one more night out there in Germany with you.”

  He falls back on the bed, his eyes on the ceiling. “All right, yes. We’ll go.”

  “Can we go to a bar off base this time? I don’t know how I feel about the ghetto honky-tonk you guys drink at.”

  “You don’t like your Kanye with a side of Dirks.”

  “I don’t even—is that a band? Or a person?”

  “Which one?”

  “The second one. Are you making that name up?”

  “I am not. He is real. Realer than Kanye.”

  I snort, turning to the mirror to apply my mascara. “The tooth fairy is realer than Kanye.”

  An hour later, after I coax Jax out of bed with the promise of a ‘private reading’ later, we step into a small bar in the little town of Landstuhl where we’re staying. The guys are already there, looking ruddy-faced and wasted.

  “How are you already drunk?” I ask Sanchez in amazement.

  He smiles at me sloppily. “Pre-funk, Baby Bird! Gotta save dem ducats ’cause honeys like a guy wit da green.”

  “What?”

  “He means it’s cheaper to drink on base to start, then come out and drink on the economy,” Birchart explains. He’s not as drunk as Sanchez, but he’s a close second. He’s acting chill, but he’s swaying slightly in his seat.

  Tucked in the darkest corner of the booth we’re sitting at is Haskins.

  He is silent and somber as the grave.

  Jax brings me a beer, sitting down next to me with his arm around my shoulders, and I notice that he doesn’t get one for himself. He’s watching his friends with vague interest and I get that he’s playing DD. They wouldn’t have driven here. They must have taken a cab, but cabs can get expensive and they’re a pain in the ass to get on base in.

  “Baby Bird,” Sanchez tells me, his words slurring and his eyes finding it hard to focus on my face, “I want to sing you a song.”

  “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

  “But I wrote it for you.”

  “That’s sweet, buddy. Why don’t you sing it to me tomorrow?”

  “I won’t remember it tomorrow.”

  “You won’t remember anything tomorrow,” Jax mumbles.

  Sanchez takes off his baseball hat and spins it around so that the bill is angled over his left eye. He brings his hands to his mouth and starts beat boxing. It sounds sloppy and I’m worried he’s spitting straight into his hands.

  “Baby bird, baby bird, you got wings to fly. Baby bird, baby bird, give dem wings a try. Baby bir—oh wait, no. I forgot the beat.” He starts spitting into his hands again.

  I reach out to stop him. “It’s beautiful, thank you.”

  “Bass drop! Boom! Boom! Boom, baby! Boom! Boom! Boom!”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Birchart shouts. He reaches over and knocks Sanchez’s hands away from his mouth and shoves him hard. “You’re gonna get us kicked out of here, dumbass.”

  “Whatever, son,” he says unhappily, sitting back into his seat and pulling his hat over his eyes. “They love my rhymes.”

  “No one loves your rhymes.”

  I put up my
hand with a smile. “I do.”

  Sanchez sits forward and slaps my palm with his slightly damp one. “Birdsong!” he shouts triumphantly.

  We all watch him fall back into his seat again, his hat over his eyes. It only takes a couple of minutes before he’s snoring softly.

  Thank God.

  He suddenly snorts loudly and shifts positions, pressing his ass into Birchart. I watch the bigger guy’s eyes widen.

  “Oh God, I hope he doesn’t shit himself again,” Birchart complains.

  “He had the flu, he was on NyQuil, and he didn’t fully shit himself,” Jax corrects.

  “Does it really matter how much a person craps their pants? It still happened. I still had to clean it up.”

  Jax frowns at Sanchez. “Maybe it’s time to get him out of here.”

  “I’m not ready to leave yet, man,” Birchart says, standing up and taking his beer. He eyes the other side of the bar where a group of girls are sitting and laughing. “He can sleep there for another couple hours.”

  “Prick,” Jax grunts. He stands up and moves to where Birchart was sitting next to Sanchez. He pokes him roughly, then shakes him. Nothing. Dude is out cold. Jax looks at me with apologetic eyes. “You okay hanging here while I take him back on base? I can’t put him in a cab like this. He’ll get robbed or murdered or both.”

  “Yeah, sure, I’m fine. Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No, it’ll be easier if you don’t. I’d have to get you a visitor’s pass at the gate.”

  “Right.”

  “Stay here with Birc—” his eyes dart across the room, “with Haskins. I’ll be right back. Haskins, you mind helping me haul Sleeping Beauty out to the car real quick?”

  Without a word, Haskins slides toward Sanchez, pushing him out of the booth toward Jax. Together they hoist him up with an arm over each of their shoulders and drag him out of the bar. I catch the eye of the bartender as they go and he looks relieved. I’m sure he was worried he’d be cleaning piss out of his booth if Sanchez slept there much longer.