Once the dust settled from all of our drama, Jordan and I worked really hard to get to a point where our relationship was what we both wanted it to be. Our love is sometimes intense and we often fight like cats and dogs, but at the end of every day, it’s just me and her together, like we always promised each other.
Although marriage is something that I always thought I wanted in my life, I never pressure her into it. I know how she feels about it, and right now, the commitment that we’ve made to each other is enough.
I stack the last box in our bedroom and make my way downstairs, wondering how the hell I ended up doing most of the work myself today. “Jordan,” I call out, checking in her new office first.
“I’m in the dining room,” she says. I smile to myself. Jordan does not cook. She never has and I’m pretty confident that she never will, so what she’s doing in there is beyond me.
I walk into the dining room and see Jordan sitting on an old comforter she threw down on the floor with a box of pizza and a couple of beers. “What’s all this?” I ask, joining her on the floor.
“What does it look like? It’s our first official dinner in our new house.”
“How romantic,” I say, putting my hand over my heart and laughing.
“Alright, smartass,” she scolds as she shoves my arm. “At least I try.”
“Aww, baby.” I grab her by the nape of her neck and pull her in for a kiss. “You do. You’re the best.”
“Damn right I am.” She smiles and pulls herself onto her knees, looking nervous all of a sudden.
“What’s the matter?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing, I just … I have something for you.”
I tilt my head up and glare at her with suspicion. “You got me something?”
“Yes. Are you ready?”
“Yeeesssss, I’m ready.”
“Alright,” she says, pulling something out of the pocket of her jeans. She smirks at me and puts a ring box in my hand. “Open it.”
I look up at her questioningly then back to the box. I open it to reveal a simple platinum band embedded with a row of small diamonds. “Jordan …”
“Alex, I love you. I still can’t believe how far we’ve come.” She places her hands on my shoulders as if she was trying to gain strength from me. “I know I said that I never wanted to get married, that this was all I could give you, but things between us are different now. I’m not scared anymore. I believe that this is forever and I want to make that commitment to you. Will you marry me?”
I’m floored. She’s absolutely insane, but I want her more now than I ever have. I didn’t even think it was possible to love this girl any more. I don’t know whether to laugh or kiss her. “What. The. Hell … Yeah, I’ll marry you, princess, but I’m not wearing an engagement ring.”
“I don’t care if you wear the stupid thing. It’s a symbol. We’ll throw it on a chain and you can wear it around your neck until we get married, and then you can use it as a wedding band.” She smiles.
“Fine. Does this mean I have to get you a ring?”
“Hell yeah! Don’t think I don’t know about you and your little house flipping business. You’re loaded. You can afford it.”
“You really love to emasculate me, don’t you?” I say, pulling her hair.
She wraps her hands around my neck and straddles me. “If I left it up to you, you’d never ask.”
“I didn’t ask because you said you didn’t want to get married.”
“Whatever, Alex. You push me on everything else under the sun but this topic you’re respectful about?”
“Fine!” I say, wrapping my hands around her waist. “I want a baby, too.”
“That you’re not getting,” she says, shaking her head.
“Fuck yeah, I’m getting a baby. Now that I know how you roll, all bets are off.” I pull her down for a kiss, using it as a tactic to shut her up. She melts into me and I can tell how this is going to end. I break the kiss before we both lose control. “When do you want to get married?”
“Now.”
My eyes go wide. “Now?”
“Yeah. We can see if Elle and Victor can leave the baby with Joe or your mom and we can fly to Vegas.”
I can’t help but laugh. She really is insane, but that’s just how she is lately. She doesn’t do anything halfway. It’s all or nothing. “Let’s do it then.”
“Yeah?” she squeals, tackling me down to the floor.
“Yeah,” I reply, claiming her mouth again and pulling her against me. I hold her as tight as I can. Who would have thought that a chance meeting at a bookstore between two strangers could start a chain of events that would trickle down and eventually lead to me finding my future wife? She crashed into my life like a burst of energy and never quite let go, and even though I was too stupid to ask, marrying her is like coming full circle. Fulfilling our destiny and allowing me to keep a promise to the first man that she ever loved, to take care of her and protect her. I tug at the hem of her shirt and pull it over her head, tossing it onto the floor. I roll her onto her back and pull my shirt off too. “You are the best of me, you know that? Nothing in my life has ever quite measured up to what you’ve given me.”
She blinks away tears and smiles at me with nothing but adoration in her eyes. It’s the look that I live to see every single day. I would do just about anything to keep that look on her face. “You know, when Elle married your brother, I told her that she gave me hope for the future, that maybe I would find someone who would be to me what Victor is to her. I couldn’t have wished for anyone better, Alex. You’re the one I was supposed to meet all along. You’re the love of my life. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my whole life.”
Life is never easy. It’s filled with chaos, crazy families, secrets and lies, and unexpected surprises. One minute, you think you have your whole life figured out, and the next minute, your carefully made plans are blown sky high. With Jordan and I, none of it matters. All the pieces of our past fell away as if it was fated and when it was all gone, what was left was this. She and I together, connected on the other side, stronger for having survived it.
Alice Montalvo-Tribue lives with her husband and daughter in New Jersey. She has a bachelors degree in communications and is currently working on her masters degree. She spends most of her free time reading, writing, and when the weather permits sitting on the beach sipping a margarita.
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First and foremost I’d like to thank all of the readers. Your kind words and enthusiasm make this all worthwhile.
To all of the bloggers who have helped me promote and spread the word about my books there’s too many of you to name individually but you know who you are.
To my beta readers, Monica Martinez, Stephanie Locke, Anji Albis, Kristy Garbutt and Wendy Ferarro. I love experiencing my words through your eyes. Your advice, excitement and friendship mean more to me than you’ll ever know.
Stephanie, I’m so lucky to have you in my corner, I look forward to our daily conversations, getting your feedback on any and everything and more importantly discussing our KA addiction. I could not imagine getting through this writing process without you.
To Monica Martinez, where do I even start with you? You have worn so many hats on this project, beta reader, casting director, photographer, cover designer, beta reader, promoter and most importantly friend. It’s been quite a journey for us so far and I can’t wait to see what comes next. You have an amazing talent and an even more amazing heart.
Turn the page for a sneak peek of
by
Whitney G.
Dear Journal,
I just realized that the key to advertising can be summed up in one word: Bull
shit.
That’s right, the key behind every single strategic slogan, even the greatest ones—Nike’s “Just Do It,” McDonald’s “I’m Lovin’ It,” and L’Oreal’s “Because You’re Worth It”—is pure bullshit.
It’s all about making the customer think that those one hundred dollar tennis shoes work ten times better than the twenty dollar ones, even though they’re made of the exact same materials. It’s about making people believe that the Big Mac is the tastiest American sandwich—despite the fact that it’s over-processed, slightly dry, and full of pink slime. And last but not least, it’s about making each and every woman think that putting on L’Oreal’s latest nude lipstick and waterproof mascara will make her look like a million dollar celebrity.
As a marketing director at Statham Industries, the number one software company in the country, my team and I have the “privilege” of coming up with new bullshit every day. Everything our company produces—cell phones, laptops, advanced tablets, et cetera—needs a savvy slogan and a matching promotional campaign months before it can be officially released.
My job is to make sure that only the best campaign ideas get sent up to the approval committee, so in all actuality, nothing should be sent up. Ever.
All my associates are recent college graduates and future copyeditors. (God bless their poor, unfortunate souls …) Some of them have potential, but the majority of them don’t. Whenever I reject their proposals with pages of red-inked notes, they whine and say, “Can’t you just give it a try? Can’t you send it up anyway? I got an ‘A’ in Business Marketing in college!”—as if that means a goddamn thing in the real world …
These “grade-A” geniuses recently submitted the following taglines for Statham Industries’ sPhone, the iPhone’s biggest competitor: “sPhone. Because ‘s’ comes after ‘i’.” “The new sPhone. You so want it.” “sPhone. Because we can.”
See? This is the type of fuckery I have to listen to (with a straight face) for hours on end.
To make matters worse, the CEO of the company—who never makes an appearance, sends out incessant memos about policies that don’t make any sense. He recently implemented “hourly parking zones” in the parking lot to “better enable employees to get home quickly and safely,” but the real reason is to discourage overtime. (Cars left in the lot after five fifteen are immediately towed away)
How ridiculous is that?
He also paid some idiot two million dollars to speak to all company employees, an idiot who passed out bean bags and “energizing packets” to boost employee morale.
We now have to attend weekly “Zen sessions,” monthly “coming together” focus groups, and spend thirty minutes a day writing in our “Zen journal,” i.e. you.
Yes, believe it or not, you were almost tossed into the trash seconds ago, along with the rest of that useless “Zen” crap. However, something told me to reconsider that once I flipped through your empty pages … I guess I can use you as a therapeutic device instead.
I hate you and I hate my pathetic excuse for a career,
Claire.
PS—I promise I don’t normally curse that much … on purpose …
My reflection was lying to me.
She was showing me a happy woman in bright red lipstick and coral eye shadow, a woman who looked like she’d just won the lottery—not a brokenhearted woman who’d spent the past four years trying to put her life back together.
You don’t look your age … You don’t look your age …
I could practically pinpoint where my wrinkles would come in, where the creases near my eyes would multiply and spread out over time; where my lips would eventually thin out and dissolve into my mouth. So far I’d been lucky, but I was pretty sure the hundreds of anti-aging and wrinkle-prevention creams I’d been using were the real reason why.
I was turning forty in two weeks and I was suffering from all the symptoms of a mid-life crisis. I was questioning everything I’d ever done, comparing myself to all my friends, and wondering if I would ever find more fulfillments in life. I’d even started making a list of everything I needed to do once I hit the big 4-0:
1) Make a plan to quit my job in five years and pursue my dream career: Interior Design.
2) Pay off all my credit cards and start making larger mortgage payments on my house.
3) Stop reading so many romance books …
4) Save up enough to take my daughters on a week-long cruise in the summer.
5) Stop looking for potential wrinkle-lines and quit considering Botox.
6) Clean my house from top to bottom and KEEP it clean!
7) Stop blaming myself for my ex-husband’s affair …
8) Stop hating my ex-best friend for being part of the affair …
9) Treat myself to a new restaurant every month.
10) Learn to be happy alone.
“Claire! Let’s go! We’re going to be late!” My friend Sandra called from the kitchen.
“Coming! Coming!” I grabbed my jacket and headed downstairs.
I took another glance at myself in the hallway mirror and cursed under my breath. I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to let her drag me out to another singles mixer. I never found anyone worth my time at those things, and the foul scent of desperation always hung in the air.
“You look stunning!” Sandra tugged at my strapless black dress. “Can I please borrow your wardrobe?”
“Only if I can borrow your life …”
She rolled her eyes and ignored my pessimism as usual. “Tonight is the night you’ll meet the right guy! I can feel it!”
She always says that …
“Do we really need to go to another one of these things, Sands? I have some marketing research I could—”
“On New Year’s Eve? Are you out of your mind? We’re going out!”
“What’s the point? We’ve been to a ton of these things and it’s always the same … Can’t we just stay in, drink some wine, and go over our resolutions?”
“Claire …” She walked over to my front door and opened it. “We’re going out. Now. You don’t have any work to do and you know it. And it’s your turn to drive so let’s go!”
I stood in the winding buffet line and tossed a few veggie chips onto my plate. I looked up at the banner that hung over the bar and sighed. It read “New Year’s Middle-Aged Singles’ Mixer: Let’s Get Jiggy!”
Aside from the tacky banner, the interior of Pacific Bay Lounge left a lot to be desired: Surfboards served as table tops, old park benches were strewn about, and dingy blue and green streamers hung from the ceiling to simulate “waves.”
Tonight, the lounge was way over-capacity—not a huge surprise since lonely people seemed to flock to these types of events. I was so used to them that I’d become quite the people reader: The guy standing by the window was at least sixty, the blond hair dye he’d been using to look twenty years younger was beginning to fade. The woman who was dancing against the speakers was clearly going through a divorce; she was still wearing her wedding ring and she tossed back a shot every time the DJ yelled “Cheers to all the single ladies!”
I’d been there. Done that.
On the window seats that lined the far wall, shy women were fidgeting with their hair and clothes like nervous high school students. Most of them were being forced to be here and had probably never had a fully-functioning relationship in their lives.
I grabbed two beers from the end of the table and sat on an empty couch, observing one man’s poor attempt to get a shy woman to dance.
“Is this seat taken?” A gorgeous man with grey eyes smiled at me, interrupting my fascinating people watch.
“No. No, it’s not …”
“Great.” He sat down and put his beer on the table. “I’m Lance. What’s your name?”
“Claire. Claire Gracen.”
“That’s a pretty name. What do you do for a living, Claire?”
“I’m a marketing director for a software company. What do you do?”
&n
bsp; He tapped the label on his beer. “I own and manage a beer company, Leyland Beers. It’s in Nevada.”
“Very impressive,” I said. “So, what do you—”
“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Ugh, here we go …
“I’m thirty-nine, and yourself?”
“Wow …” He looked me up and down. “I’m forty seven. Do you have any kids?”
I felt myself smiling. “Two daughters. You?”
“No, I don’t have any kids. Life’s way too short for that—no offense. Can I call you sometime?”
Seriously? Is that all it takes these days? Age? Kids? Phone number? Is the art of conversation that DEAD?
“Umm sure …” I forced a smile. “It’s—”
“Wait. How old are your kids? Are they ‘with-the-babysitter-tonight-age’ or are they ‘secretly-stealing-beer-out-of-your-cabinet-while-you’re-gone-age’? I have to be frank with you because I’m not looking for anything serious, and all you women with kids tend to be more—”
“You know what?” I stood up. “I have to go to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”
I pushed through the crowd and made my way to the outside deck, where lots of singles were watching the ripples of the Pacific Ocean swell up and down. I took a deep breath and inhaled the salty wet air—the one thing I had yet to get used to since moving to the West Coast.
I looked over my shoulder and saw Sandra talking to yet another guy, teasingly rubbing his shoulder and biting her lip. She caught me staring and motioned for me to come over. She was mouthing “He has a friend!”
I turned around and rolled my eyes.
“I take it you’re not having a good time?” A husky voice said from beside me.
I didn’t even bother looking at him. I didn’t want to engage in any more pointless conversations or mundane introductions. I just wanted to go home.
Desperation of Love Page 19