Crush

by Nicole Williams

  “We’re twenty-one-year-old millionaires,” he said with a shrug. “And now that I’ve got the means to give you anything and everything, I’m going to. I want to make you happy, Luce. That’s all I give a damn about,” he said, pointing at me. “You. Happy. Forever.”

  “Happy?” I repeated, crossing my arms. “You think this is what’s going to make me happy? What did you do? Go down to the local library and check out The Idiot’s Guide to Making a Gold-digging Trophy Wife Happy?”

  I tried biting my tongue again. Man, I tried, but apparently I’d reached my quota of tongue-biting today.

  “Because if I was a gold digger then I imagine this would make me very happy,” I said, sweeping my arms around the room. “But I’m not. Despite your wanting me to be this girl who wants your money, I’m not that girl!”

  What was I saying? What was I so mad about?

  Jude’s face went from shocked, to sad, to angry in two seconds flat. “No, you’re not that girl, Luce. It doesn’t seem like I can do anything to make you happy these days. Maybe you just don’t want to be happy.”

  Those words were like a slap to my face. I reminded myself yet again that this house was Jude’s way of showing his love for me, but my temper had taken off and I couldn’t pull it back. “Here’s a tip. If you’re looking to make someone happy, maybe you should think about what they’d want, not what you want them to want.”

  Wrapping his hands behind his neck, Jude spun away from me. “And here’s a tip for you. You have to be willing to let happiness in when it comes your way.”

  His words made me flinch.

  “How is you buying a house for us in Southern California without asking me first supposed to equate with happiness? I live in New York, Jude. New. York.”

  “You live in New York for another year,” he said, staring at the nearest wall like he wanted to bang his head against it. “Once you’re done with school you can leave and move in with me.”

  This wasn’t a slap. This was a punch. A sucker punch to the gut. “I can leave New York and move in with you here? In California? In a Playboy-size mansion?” How had there been such a disconnect between us? Where did he get off assuming he could just map my life out for me without checking with me first? “Who said I wanted to pick up and move across the country to live with you here in the land of fake tits and phony smiles?”

  From the look on his face, you would have thought I’d just socked him in the stomach. “When you agreed to marry me. When you let me put that ring on your finger.” His words were slow and controlled. So much so they were scary-sounding.

  “So what you heard when I said yes to marrying you is that I’d willingly—no, gladly—give up my dreams, future plans, et cetera, et cetera, so you could live yours?” I shouted. “Because I guess I missed the fine print.”

  Jude closed his eyes. “What do you want, Lucy?” I cringed internally. He called me Lucy only if he was really pissed or hurt. “Because apparently I don’t have a damn clue. So tell me. What. The. Hell. Do. You. Want?”

  “I want to finish school. I’m going to school for dance, so I know it might seem crazy, but I’d actually like to dance after I graduate.” I could barely look at him right now. Not because of what he was saying, but because of what I was saying to him. I didn’t want to hurt him; in fact, I wanted the opposite. So when I hurt him, I hated myself.

  “Okay, you want to dance.” He extended his arms at his sides. “Good news, Luce. You can dance here in San Diego. Problem solved.”

  I snorted. “Problem not solved. If I want to dance in some crummy community theater rendition of Swan Lake once a year, I can dance here. I did not work my butt off dancing the past fifteen years of my life to perform half-assed dances in front of snoring seniors who paid ten dollars a ticket.”

  Jude’s forehead lined. Well, it lined deeper. “So what are you saying? You want to stay in New York when you’re done with school?”

  How had we not worked this out before? Maybe because we’d been so busy living in the moment, or stumbling over our pasts, we’d forgotten to look ahead. We’d missed the future part of our relationship.

  “New York. Paris. London,” I said, shrugging. “Those are the cities where dancers who want to dance go.”

  I could see Jude’s internal battle. The same WTF one I was experiencing. Why had it taken us so long to figure out that what I wanted and what he wanted might not align? “Well, shit, Luce. I didn’t get drafted by the Jets. Or the Giants. Or some European league,” he said, shaking his head. “I got drafted by the Chargers. I’m going to be in San Diego for a while.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  “You know what?”

  “I know you’re in San Diego. I know I’m in New York.”

  I wanted—I needed—a break from this conversation. A few hours to figure out what was happening, what had been said, and where to go from here. I knew my priorities, and Jude was one notch above dance, but did Jude place me one notch below football in his mind?

  I didn’t think so. He’d proven I came first over and over again, but this—the house, the truck, the expectations, the assumptions—all of this was starting to worry me. I needed to sort some serious shit out, and I couldn’t do it with him staring at me the way he was now. And I certainly couldn’t do it inside this mansion-on-steroids.

  “Where does that leave us then, Luce?” he said, his voice quiet and his face tired. He looked like he needed time to work things out as badly as I did.

  Where did that leave us? San Diego? New York? Somewhere smack in the middle?

  “At a crossroads,” I said with a shrug.

  “A crossroads?” he repeated, coming toward me. “After everything we’ve been through, you’re telling me we’re at a crossroads when I’ve got a ring on your finger and all our dreams are finally coming true?”

  I took a deep breath before replying. “No. All your dreams are coming true. I’m still working on mine, so yes, we’re at a crossroads.”

  The veins in his neck were coming to the surface. He was pissed, and I was only making it worse. “We are not at a crossroads,” he hissed through his teeth.

  “Oh, yes, we damn well are at a crossroads!” I yelled back.

  His face went a little red. “No. We’re. Not.”

  “Yes. We. Are!” God, were we really doing this? Fighting by repeating each other’s words, like a couple of middle school kids?

  “Goddammit, Lucy Larson!” he shouted. “No, we’re not! And that’s that, so stop talking about crossroads. In fact, just stop talking, because everything that’s coming out of your mouth is plain crazy!”

  I felt tears pricking to the surface and I wasn’t going to let them fall here. “You’re a real ass sometimes, you know that?” I said, before running across the enormous foyer, heading toward the back of the house. I needed to get away from Jude, get some fresh air, and get my mind-set straight again. I was a mess and was only going to get messier if I stayed in the same room with him for another minute.

  I heard Jude curse at the top of his lungs before his footsteps sounded behind me. “Wait, Luce,” he said, but I couldn’t. Not this time.

  Racing down a hall, I came around a corner into another giant room. Rushing through it, I headed for the double doors that I assumed led outside.

  Fresh air. A minute to think.

  Shoving through the door, I found myself, presumably, in the backyard. But this was a backyard like no other. Like the house, it was spacious and elaborate. The “lagoon” I’d heard soooo much about was in front of me. There was a natural rock feature coming out of the center of it, featuring slides going into the pool. It reminded me of the pool at the hotel we’d stayed at in the Bahamas when I was ten. My brother and I couldn’t be pulled away from that thing the whole week.

  Behind the pool there was another building, this one more the size of a regular house. I guessed it was the pool house. I heard Jude’s footsteps approaching, but I wasn’t ready for him. He liked to talk thing
s out first, think them out later. I was exactly the opposite, and I knew, given the heated topic, if we picked up where we left off before I had a couple hours to cool down, another screaming match would ensue.

  I might not have matured enough to keep from yelling, but I was wise enough to try to avoid it when I could.

  Striding across the back patio, I hoped whatever part of the backyard was behind the next turn would provide some temporary shelter or hiding place. The instant I turned, I knew peace and quiet wouldn’t be on the agenda tonight.

  Milling about a sprawling patio were a few dozen bodies. Drinks in hand, chatting with one another, they didn’t notice me at first.

  And then Jude came racing around the corner, still yelling my name.

  Then they noticed me.

  “What the—”

  “F—” What I started, Jude finished.

  EIGHT

  “Wow. We suck at throwing a surprise party.” A guy who looked like he could bench a semi truck came forward with a couple champagne glasses in hand.

  I was still trying to determine whether I’d landed in Oz when the giant, whose shoulders and strut gave him away as a starting linebacker, handed me a glass. I took it automatically, trying to ignore everyone looking at me like I was an experiment gone wrong.

  “We might have screwed up the surprise part, but we certainly won’t screw up the ‘party’ part.” The giant handed the other glass to Jude, then slid a flask out of his jacket pocket. Unscrewing the cap, he lifted it. “To the new master and mistress of this California castle. May the parties be wild and the sex even wilder.” Winking back at us, he shouted, “Cheers!”

  A chorus of, “Cheers!” exploded, but I was beyond words. Even one-syllable ones. I wasn’t sure what twilight zone I’d found myself in, but I wanted out.

  Now.

  “Terrell,” Jude said, coming up behind me. I could feel the heat from his body, he was that close, and I wanted to have those arms hold me right now so badly . . . so I took a couple steps away. I both was and wasn’t ready for his arms around me. “What the hell is this?” Jude didn’t sound angry, but he wasn’t happy either.

  “An attempt at a surprise party,” Terrell replied. “The team wanted to christen your new crib accordingly. And what says christening better than thirty of your rowdy teammates, their hot wives, girlfriends, mistresses, dates, and everything else in between”—his eyebrows waggled in suggestion—“and booze.”

  Behind me, Jude sighed. He sounded as tired as I felt.

  “Plus, we wanted to meet the infamous Lucy,” Terrell continued, smiling at me. “I’m the guy who keeps your man from getting his ass sacked, Lucy,” he said, extending his hand. It was so big, it swallowed mine whole. “Our QB here assumes it’s his fancy moves, and not mine, that will keep him from going down, but I’ll let you in on a little secret.” Terrell leaned in. “He’s wrong.”

  A round of laughter went through the crowd.

  “Jude makes a lot of assumptions,” I said, giving him a pointed look.

  Terrell stared between me and Jude before grabbing the glass from Jude’s hand and steering him toward a table with more bottles of alcohol than there were people in attendance. “You need something stronger than this, I’m guessing.” Jude looked back at me but stayed with Terrell. The Jude I knew wouldn’t have let anyone pull him away from me. Especially when I was upset and uncomfortable.

  “Ladies!” Terrell hollered. “Make Lucy one of the gang.”

  I stood there for a few more moments, feeling like I was the last person to be picked for kickball, when one of the girls stepped away from the player she was with and approached. She wasn’t dressed like the others, who adhered to the shorter-is-better policy when it came to dress selection. She was sporting an airy wrap dress and gold sandals, and, unlike the rest of the female faces staring at me like I was gum on the bottom of a shoe, she had a smile on her face. A genuine smile.

  “So you’re the Lucy Jude can’t stop talking about,” she said, and instead of shaking my hand, she pulled me into a hug. Like her smile, her hug was a real one.

  “It’s nice to meet the girl a guy can’t shut up about. Reminds me of the way my husband used to be about me before we had four kids and became the laziest romantics ever.” She motioned over to the group of guys Jude had been escorted to. A guy about Jude’s height and weight tilted his beer our way.

  “I’m Sybill, and that’s my husband, Deon, over there.”

  “Hey, Lucy!” Deon tilted his beer at us again. “I’m the one who earns his paycheck. These other posers just like to cash ’em.”

  Deon received a round of shoves from the guys around him.

  “That’s right, baby!” Sybill said, before turning her attention back on me. “So. How are you hanging in there?”

  As a policy, I didn’t normally spill my guts to total strangers, but Sybill’s warm smile cut right through my gut-spilling rules and restrictions. “It’s a lot to take in,” I began. “Weeks ago Jude was a college student, and now he’s going to be playing on millions of televisions in a couple months.”

  “It most certainly is a lot to take in,” she said. “When Deon was drafted, we were seniors in college. I packed up and moved across the country and, I kid you not, found out I was pregnant a week before his first game.” She laughed, staring at her husband in a way I was familiar with. It was the way I looked at Jude. “I was so scared it would throw him off that I didn’t tell him until after the game was over. We were married a month later and decided one was so much fun, we might as well have three more.”

  “That sounds like a hell of a lot to absorb all at once,” I said, snagging a bottle of water from a table. “But look at you two now.” I motioned between them, because words were useless when it came to describing their obvious connection.

  “A couple who has to schedule nooky to make sure we still make time for it.” She winked over at me. “But it’s a good life. And I’ve got a good man who gave me four kids who I love so much I feel a little nutty sometimes.”

  Okay. I was glomming onto Sybill at these events and not letting go. Ever. We could rock our jeans and tees together while the rest of the girls flounced around in satin and sequins.

  “Speaking of my four munchkins . . .” Rummaging through her purse, Sybill pulled out a phone and answered it. “What’s up, Jess?”

  Frowning, she motioned at her husband. “Okay, give Riley a bit of Sprite and a saltine. We’ll be home in a half hour.”

  “Sick munchkin?” I guessed.

  “Vomiting-spaghetti-and-meatballs munchkin,” she said. “Hey, Deon! Riley’s sick. You wanna grab the car and I’ll meet you out front?”

  Deon flicked her a salute and jogged inside.

  “Sorry your little man’s sick,” I said. “I hope he feels better soon.”

  “Knowing Riley, he’ll be up and playing Wii by the time we get home.” She waved at a few of the guests before patting my forearm. “Don’t let the other girls intimidate you, Lucy,” she said quietly. “There’s not a whole lot going on up here”—she tapped her head—“or here”—her hand moved to her heart—“but they’re easily controlled. They’re so shallow, all you have to do is tell them you like their new purse, or dress, or boob job, and you’ll be one of the gang. Shower them in schmooze and you’re in.”

  I looked back at where the rest of the party was, then at Sybill, who was heading inside the house. “I don’t think I want in.”

  She threw me a smile. “Yeah, me neither. Obviously I never have been or will be an ‘it’ girl,” she said with a shrug. “I like you, Lucy Larson. Let’s be friends.”

  It was such a kindergarten way of putting it, but so honest. One good thing had come of this day—I had a new friend. “I like you, too. Friend.”

  She waved before glancing back at Jude. “Sweet pad, QB! Sorry to eat and run, but life calls.”

  Jude glanced between Sybill and me, not doing as good a job as I was of pretending we hadn’t just ha
d a screaming match minutes ago. “Thanks, Sybill,” he replied. “I’m glad you got to finally meet Luce.”

  With Sybill gone, and Jude starting to make his way toward me, that group of girls to my right were a welcome distraction. I ignored the fact that their dresses were so shiny that together they created a collective disco ball. I also ignored that I would be the smallest-boobed girl in the bunch. Smallest by a landslide.

  All I knew was that I wasn’t ready to talk to Jude just yet, I wasn’t ready to move past the nasty things we’d said to each other, and I certainly didn’t want a repeat of that blowup. I’d get past it—I always did—but not yet.

  As Jude drew closer, I popped over to the girls. I should have reminded myself that “popping” wasn’t exactly a casual way to work your way into the group. Every flatironed, platinum-blond head spun toward me. How many times did I need to be on the spot in my twenty-one years of life? Really?

  However, my not-so-stealthy move had worked. Jude wasn’t marching my way anymore. Smart man.

  Out of the pan, into the fire.

  Say something, Lucy, I commanded myself as everyone waited, staring at me like I didn’t belong. Then I remembered Sybill’s words of wisdom. I latched on to the first thing that caught my attention.

  “I love your ring,” I said, nodding at the girl next to me, her hand curled around a champagne glass.

  There was another moment of silence before a chorus of “awww”s went through the group.

  “That is so sweet of you to say,” Ring Girl said, putting her other hand to her chest. Wow. I’d seen big boobs in my day, but these things. They could have had their own zip code. “Chad got it for me for our anniversary.”

  More “aww”s. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard. I didn’t do “awww.”

  “How many years have you been married?” I asked, feeling like I had this small-talk thing down.

  “Not our wedding anniversary, silly,” she said, laughing like I was just too cute. “We’re not married, just dating.”