by Reid, Penny
“We’ve only been together five months.”
“I know.” He sighed like it was irrelevant.
“Do you honestly think that’s enough time to make an accurate and valid judgment about the viability of a person as your wife?”
“With you, yes, it’s more than enough. Too much.”
“That’s completely illogical. In five months, we’ve barely scratched the surface. We can’t possibly know enough about each other in order to make a decision like this. This is the tattoo of life decisions.”
“Tattoo of life decisions?”
“Yes. Tattoo. Marriage is the forever and permanent branding of one person to another. Sure, you can get it removed—but it’s expensive, it’s a process, and you’re never the same after. You’re scarred. It’s always a part of you, visible or not. You get a tattoo with the intention of a life-long commitment. You have to defend its existence and take ownership of it in front of others for the rest of your life regardless of how it sags or droops or changes shape and color—because it will! It will change and fade, and not in an aesthetically pleasing way.”
The side of his mouth lifted as I spoke and his eyes danced between mine. “Let’s get matching tattoos.”
I yanked my hand from his and pushed against his chest. He didn’t budge.
“No.” I shook my head. “This isn’t the kind of decision you make after knowing someone for five months—five amazing, lovely, wonderful, perfect, beyond sexually gratifying months. This is the kind of decision you make after two point four years—at the least. When the spark has faded, when you’ve been through at least two flu seasons, several holidays—with relatives—and holiday travel, seven to ten misunderstandings, and maybe one surgery.”
“What does the flu have to do with this?”
“Are you a grumpy sick person? Do you prefer me to hover or give you space? I don’t know! We haven’t done that.”
“Janie….”
“There have been no hard times, Quinn! We’ve proven very little other than we’re compatible in times of feast, but we know nothing about times of famine.”
“Janie….”
“I won’t be able to repeat the words in sickness and in health because I honestly have no idea.”
Quinn opened his mouth to respond but we were interrupted by the practiced sound of throat clearing.
“Mr. Sullivan, if you and Janie are ready….” Our tour guide’s voice sounded from over my shoulder. I closed my eyes for a long moment, my hands fisting in the lapels of his jacket.
Three seconds ticked by before he responded. “Of course.”
He covered my fists, encouraging me to release him, but kept hold of one of my hands, turning me toward the door and pulling me after. I glanced at the floor then up to his profile, hoping to find some indication of his thoughts, but was disappointed.
As ever, he was cucumber cool and appeared entirely unruffled.
Not like someone who has just been refused or accepted a proposal of marriage; more like someone who glides through life in charge of everyone and taking his superiority for granted.
As soon as we were through the door, his hand moved to the base of my spine, a possessive touch, and steered me down the stone hall after our guide. She glanced over her shoulder, her smile small and sincere, and pointed out items of interest.
This time I wasn’t listening. I was too preoccupied with all that was unsettled, how I would convince Quinn that this was lunacy, yet still not jeopardize our chances to be together for as long as possible.
If I really gave the matter some thought, I supposed—if we could get past his proposal without too much damage inflicted—we likely had another four years before he irrevocably tired of me and my eccentricities.
I was okay with that. I felt like four years was about my expiration date. Four flu seasons, holiday cycles, and yearly vacations. Really, there were only four destinations worth a vacation: beach, glacier, desert, and mountains. Bonus if we could pair them with a visit to the wine country or a world heritage site.
The first two years would likely be stellar. The last two would become increasingly strained until, finally, he grew cold and aloof all the time. He would make excuses to work late, avoid discussing future plans until—finally—I would suggest we split.
It would be the look of relief that I was most dreading—that moment when he would nod his agreement. It would be the first real emotion he would show during the last months of our future three-year and seven-month relationship, and it would be the last.
After that, I would move out, spend more time at the library, and invest in a truly excellent vibrator. He would resume his Wendall/Slamp lifestyle. Maybe we could part as friends. Maybe he’d put up with quarterly lunches or at least an annual check-in dinner.
We would have to take turns paying for the dinner, and I wouldn’t have to put up with him ordering for me anymore.
I was in the middle of making a mental note to look for investment properties now in neighborhoods that might likely improve in value over the next few years when I felt Quinn’s warm breath next to my ear.
“Stop it.” He whispered, sending a sudden shiver along my spine.
I blinked. We were approaching a staircase—narrow and medieval appearing—and Quinn had wrapped his arm around my waist, pressing my side to his.
“Stop what?”
“Stop having an entire discussion without me.”
I stiffened and his hand squeezed.
“One at a time, and please be sure to hold on to the rail. These stairs are very steep.” Emma called over her shoulder and demonstrated the appropriate technique for descending the spiraled steps.
“Are you going to be okay in those shoes?” Quinn separated from me, holding my hand and bringing me to a stop.
I nodded, my voice shakier than I’d like. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
I wasn’t concerned about the stairs. I was concerned about what came after the stairs.
He narrowed his eyes at my tone but allowed me to precede him. I noted that he stayed close the entire way down. When we arrived at the bottom, he reassumed his position—arm around my waist—and kissed my neck.
I was handed my jacket and we were escorted to the wharf. A tent—large for two people—had been placed on wooden planks overlooking the Thames, likely to protect us from intermittent rain. Three of the sides were enclosed and the fourth was open, the Tower Bridge immediately to our left and London Bridge some distance to our right—lit and casting both shadow and illumination on the expansive river below.
Within the tent was a table, elegantly set for two. My eyes drifted over the white linens, the fine china, the crystal goblets, the silver cutlery, and the low candles. Small circular lanterns hung from the ceiling casting the inside with a warm, amber glow. A leather upholstered, heavily cushioned bench—like a tall, deep-set sofa—was positioned facing the opening, and a plethora of pillows, wool blankets, and furs were arranged along the sides and back.
And, of course, three bottles of champagne were cooling in three different standing silver buckets set to one side.
“Come. Sit.” Quinn slipped his hand from my waist and caressed it down my arm until our fingers entwined. He pulled me after him to the bench, not releasing my hand even as we sat. He placed it instead on his thigh and held it there as magical—and up to this point, invisible—waiters appeared. They poured the champagne, revealed food, unfolded napkins on our laps, and offered pillows for comfort.
The wool blankets turned out to be cashmere.
Of course. Of course they were cashmere.
I knew they were cashmere because of all the yarn fondling I’d been required to do on knit nights.
I felt like a queen, really and truly pampered, and utterly swept off my feet.
Through all this, I stared at the Thames biting the inside of my lip and trying my best to refrain from continuing my one-sided internal conversation. Instead, I thought about all the submarines that had purportedl
y navigated the river during World War II.
Quinn’s touch roused me from the question under consideration—the current depth of the river Thames—and I turned my face to his. He’d lifted my left hand from his lap and was touching the circle of gold on my fourth finger, his gaze was affixed to the spot.
I briefly glanced around the tent. Our magical serving staff disappeared as quickly and quietly as they’d appeared and we were left with at least the illusion of completely privacy.
“I’m glad you like the ring.”
My eyes darted back to his. I became a little lost in his man-handsomeness, noting again that he would make a horribly ugly female if he’d ever decided to dress in drag. The cut of his jaw was too strong, the angles of his cheeks too sharp, his nose decidedly masculine and Romanesque.
I pressed my lips together and swallowed once before responding. “I do. I do like it. More accurately, I love it.” My gaze flickered to the ring on my finger then back to him. “It’s disconcerting to feel so possessive of a material thing.”
His mouth hitched to the side and his eyes moved between mine. “Then keep it and wear it.” His expression changed, and he looked both grave and vulnerable. “Marry me, Janie.”
I half blinked to hide the wince of pain inflicted by the intense sincerity of his words, and their impossibility.
He didn’t give me a chance to respond. “You said I make you fearless. Then don’t be afraid. Trust me.”
“I do trust you, and I’m not…I’m not precisely afraid. It’s more that I want us to be smart about this.”
“You want to overthink it.” He didn’t sound annoyed. Rather, he sounded like he was opening a negotiation.
“No. I want to do it right.”
“Then let’s do it right.” Quinn turned so that he was facing me, his torso angled toward mine, his arm resting on the table, his other hand on my leg. It was his you’ve-got-my-full-attention posturing. “What will it take for you to become my wife?”
I took a deep breath, glanced around the tent, noted that champagne had been poured. I reached for it, not precisely stalling, and took two large swallows.
I was bolstered by the bubbly when I spoke. “Well, first of all, I think we should wait two point four years.”
“No. What else?”
“Quinn…you asked me what it would take.”
“I’m not waiting two point four years. On the issue of time, of waiting, I will not negotiate.”
“Fine. Then how much time are we talking about? When do you propose we get married?”
“On Tuesday.”
“You mean the day after we get back to Chicago?”
He nodded.
My mouth fell open and my eyes bulged. “What? We can’t—no! And, besides, that’s the night my knitting group meets. You know that.”
He plucked his champagne from the table, appearing not at all perturbed, and shrugged. “What’s your counter offer?”
“Split the difference, one point two years.”
“Nope. I’m not willing to delay any longer than two weeks.” He shook his head. “Final offer.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Or else what?”
“Or else we get married next week, in Chicago.”
“I won’t do it—absolutely not. You…you behave as though I have no choice.”
Quinn grimaced, sipped his champagne, considered me over the rim, and said, “One month.”
“Three.”
“Deal.” He returned his glass to the table, grabbed my right hand, and shook it. “We good?”
I shook my head. “No.” Then I blurted the first idea that popped into my head. “I want a big wedding.”
His brow pulled low and the negotiation mask slipped, his features plainly betraying his surprise. “You want a big wedding?”
I nodded. “Yes. I want a really big wedding.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed that about you. In fact, I would have thought you’d want something really small and simple.” He sounded and looked suspicious.
“Usually I would, but since I only have three months to manufacture two point four years of normal relationship stress, the wedding will have to be quite big and complicated, with seating charts and video montages. We’ll have a fireworks display and a band and a DJ and little favor bags for all the guests.”
“Favor bags?” He looked alarmed. Actually, he looked horrified.
“Yes. And you’ll be in charge of them as well as the programs and invitations. And you’ll have to find a groom’s cake. And we’ll have family members in our wedding party.”
His eyes, a little dazed, drifted to the Thames.
I continued multi-tasking by ticking off superfluous wedding appurtenances on my fingers while holding my champagne glass. “Then there are flowers, photographers, framed pictures of our grandparents and parents on their wedding day, centerpieces, a choreographed first dance, toasts, the tuxes and the bridesmaids’ dresses, my dress, my veil, my shoes, my bridal lingerie….”
Quinn’s gaze abruptly met mine, heated and intense, but I forged on.
“And we’re going to do all the extra stuff too, like a wedding scavenger hunt, a chocolate fondue fountain, flying doves, air balloon rides, maybe a pony for the kids, a guest book, and a signed picture frame of our engagement picture.”
He held his hands up then gripped my arms, cutting me off. “Janie, this is ridiculous. You don’t want this, I don’t want this—why would we do this to ourselves?”
“Because you won’t wait the two point four years necessary to test the strength of our relationship, to allow us to say our wedding vows with honesty and knowledge that yes, we will stick together for better or worse. This wedding—planning this wedding—is going to be a nightmare. It’s going to be years of worse and sickness rolled into three months, and we’re going to make every single decision together. You will taste hors d’oeuvres and be required to give an opinion on steak or chicken.”
I gulped the rest of my champagne, braced myself for his refusal, and readied my counter strategy.
Really, he was right. This was not me. When I thought about my wedding—specifically and at this moment, my theoretical wedding to Quinn—I thought about taking a lunch break to run down to the courthouse. Then, on the following Tuesday, celebrate with hot dogs, potato chips, and lemon drops during knit night.
But this wasn’t about the wedding; the wedding didn’t really matter. I never understood the preoccupation with the wedding day, all that planning and focus and money. It was like preparing for childbirth with no thought to the fact that, after labor, you would have a new person to take care of.
The wedding was just one day.
This was about the care and feeding of the marriage, building a lasting foundation, bonding over shared suffering, and the thousands of days that would follow.
If he refused the rigors of wedding planning, my second suggested marathon of madness was going to be dropping us off on a deserted island for one month without food, water, or shelter. In fact, as I reflected on it, I was glad that I’d launched the ridiculous wedding idea as my first volley because when Quinn rejected it, the island might actually happen. It sounded like fun. I’d always wanted to take a foraging class, and a spearfishing naked Quinn was also a bonus.
“Okay.”
I blinked at him, startled out of my spearfishing-naked-Quinn daydream, and found him glaring at me. He looked…determined.
“Okay?”
He nodded once, taking my empty champagne glass out of my hand and setting it on the table.
“Yes. Fine. I’ll do it.”
I could feel my eyebrows pull together. I was shocked. “You’ll do it?” I croaked.
“Yes. I’ll do it. But, after it’s over, no more tests. No more fake problems or hoops to jump through—and no backing out either, no matter what. In return, you will promise me that once we get married, no waiting for the other shoe to drop.” He lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, reminding me of a conver
sation we’d had months ago, before we started dating, when he happened upon me at Smith’s Take-away and Grocery, and I’d explained the history behind the idiom waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I tore my bottom lip through my teeth as I thought about this promise and what it would mean. I would be giving up all the safety that comes with testing a hypothesis before taking a plunge.
“I know you love me.” His abrupt statement was said with conviction.
At his words, unexpected though they were, my mind calmed. I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the set of his jaw, the resolve in his gaze.
I nodded, agreed softly. “Yes. I love you.”
He lifted a hand and threaded his fingers through my medusa hair, gently grabbing a fistful as though to hold me in place.
“I love you.” His words were released on a breath, like the admission cost him. “I will do anything to prove that to you….”
“You don’t need to prove….”
“Let me finish. I will do anything to prove that to you. I will do anything to prove that what we have is worth a battle. What we have is worth a war. But I don’t want to spend any more of our time together fighting about hypotheticals. We haven’t done that since Vegas and Jem. It’s a waste of time.”
I pressed my lips together and nodded my understanding.
“No more steps backward. No more wasting time. You need us to prove that we can make it through a crisis. I understand that. I do.” He shifted closer, loosening his grip on my hair, his fingers moving to my neck. “In fact, I even agree with you.”
He gave me a small smile, which I couldn’t help but return, and pulled me forward so that our foreheads touched.
“You agree with me?”
“Yes, but only because I know you need tangible proof. You struggle with what-ifs, and until we’ve had our trial by fire, you’ll worry.” He pulled away so that our eyes connected as he said, “I don’t want you to worry. I want you to know.”
My eyes stung and I reflexively swallowed.
“But, once you know, that’s got to be it.” His voice held an edge of warning.
