by Reid, Penny
“Elizabeth….” Fiona’s voice held a note of warning. “Be nice.”
Elizabeth gave Fiona her very best Who, me? I’m completely innocent! look. I knew that look well. It didn’t work on me anymore, and considering Fiona’s stern eyebrows, I didn’t think it was working on Fiona either.
“No, really. It’s a real thing.” Marie nodded. “Elizabeth’s wanting to torture Quinn aside, I read an article about it in Cosmopolitan. Since so many couples are having sex before marriage these days, abstaining while planning the ceremony is supposed to be a way to make the wedding night special.”
“By making the bride and groom go insane?” Fiona asked, glancing away from her knitting. “Planning a wedding is stressful enough without having to abstain from physical intimacy.”
My mind snagged on the idea, picked it up, turned it over, and began assessing it from all angles. Then, my mind ran with it.
Rather than belt out, Eureka! I asked without thinking, “Do you really think abstinence would dramatically increase the level of stress prior to the wedding?”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed into suspicious slits as she studied me. “Janie, you make it sound like you want the wedding planning to be stressful.”
“I do,” I admitted, nodding emphatically. “I do want it to be stressful. Quinn and I have only been together for five months. Like I said, we have to fit years of the worst into approximately two months so we can both say our vows with our eyes open.”
Fiona stared at me, her mouth agape, her expression plainly shocked. “That’s craziness. You’re crazy, Janie. I can’t…I can’t even….”
Elizabeth laughed. “I’ve never seen Fiona speechless before.”
“Well, I think it’s a good idea.” Sandra shrugged and lifted her chin in my direction. “I can’t imagine marrying someone I’ve only known for five or six months. Good for you, making him wait another twelve weeks before tying the knot, and you’re a smart woman for introducing some hardship—even if it’s contrived—and being honest about your concerns. Granted, this is coming from the girl who makes all her first dates cry and whose longest relationship was in high school…so…grain of salt.”
“I’m afraid to voice an opinion,” Ashley volunteered, her eyes focused on the scarf she was knitting. “On one hand, I see your point, Janie, and I think your plan is very pragmatic; it would make logical sense if feelings weren’t involved. On the other hand, you two crazy kids are in love with each other. Maybe it’s the romantic in me, but applying logic to love is like buttering a pig before you slaughter it.”
“You have a romantic in you?” Sandra teased, fighting a smile.
“Yes I do, Freud,” Ashley responded, issuing Sandra a look of mock dissatisfaction. “I just save my love for fictional characters and my knitting group, and God knows why I put up with you.”
“What about you, Kat? What do you think?” Elizabeth nudged Kat with her elbow, prompting her out of her silence.
“What do I think?”
Elizabeth nodded then turned her sweater to begin a new row. “Yeah, what’s your take?”
Kat’s wide eyes glanced around the room. “Uh….” She cleared her throat then turned her attention to me. “It might sound like a cop-out, Janie, but I think you need to follow your heart. And if your heart is uncertain of Quinn, and as long as you’re being honest with him….” She ended the unfinished thought with a shrug, and her soft brown eyes told me she’d support me in whatever I decided.
“It’s not that I’m uncertain of him. It’s that I want our marriage to be built on a strong foundation. Right now, we’ve only had good times. We haven’t been tested. I haven’t been tested.”
“Withholding your body for the next several months certainly would be a test for Quinn.” Elizabeth gave me an evil grin, even though her words sounded like a warning.
“Well, I wouldn’t do it unless he agreed to it.” I crossed my arms, my attention shifting to a spot over Elizabeth’s shoulder as I thought through how to convince Quinn to go without sex for the next eleven-ish weeks. “If we’re going to be together for the rest of our lives, then abstinence for the next three-ish months shouldn’t be that big of a deal.” After I said the words, I wondered if I could actually last that long without his hands and mouth and…other parts.
“Good luck with that!” Marie shook her head and lifted her glass in my direction. “If you can manage to convince Quinn to go without physical intimacy while you’re planning the wedding, then I might hire you as my agent—because your powers of persuasion would obviously be magical.”
“I think everyone is overlooking the most important part of this whole situation, which is Janie’s insistence that she have a traditional wedding.” Sandra glanced around at us, her green eyes wide and serious.
“What is that?” Ashley sighed. “And you better not say bridesmaids dresses because, as much as I love Janie and will wear whatever she tells me to wear, I have never seen a bridesmaid dress that did anything but make the wearer look like Molly Ringwald in that movie Pretty in Pink. Was that not the ugliest dress? Why did she think she’d look good in that dress? That didn’t make any sense.”
“Someone cut her off,” Elizabeth said, looking pointedly at Ashley. “I think she’s had too much to drink.” She moved to take Ashley’s glass.
Ashley lifted her knitting needles in a very threatening way. “If you touch my wine, I will stick my Hiya-Hiya circular needle up your nose, and it’s one of those extra pointy ones.”
Elizabeth backed off, holding her hands up, palms out.
“No, not the dresses—although Ashley makes a good point about the bridesmaid dresses. We really should all sit down and come to a consensus before any decision is made.” Sandra spoke with a surprising degree of earnestness regarding the theoretical bridesmaids’ attire.
Then, suddenly, her entire expression changed to one of intense excitement. “I’m talking about the bachelorette party. Vegas, baby!”
Part III
Planning the Wedding
Chapter Eleven
I found and purchased a three-ring binder wedding planner Wednesday afternoon during lunch.
In addition to the list provided within the planner, I made an additional list of all the Quinn-Janie specific issues and plans that needed to be discussed and settled prior to the wedding.
Of course, the unresolved issues relating to the private clients were at the top of the list. Other major issues included meeting the parents, discussion of children (how many and how soon), prenuptial agreement, a voluntary period of abstinence before marriage, and riding his motorcycle without a helmet.
I felt pretty confident about the fact that Quinn would want me to meet his parents; the only question was how soon. I’d met his sister, Shelly, and we got along very well. In fact, Quinn and I typically had breakfast with her every Saturday morning at Giavanni’s Pancake House.
I sent an email to my dad and told him about the engagement. I made sure to offer to pay for his travel so he wouldn’t worry about the burden of expense. As well, I asked him to send me some possible dates for us to visit so he could meet Quinn. Reluctantly, I also asked him if he knew where my older sister was. I hadn’t spoken to her in years and didn’t know how to get in touch.
I assumed Quinn would agree that a prenup made a lot of sense, because it did make a lot of sense. In fact, I was a big advocate of prenuptial agreements in general and felt that the state should hand out a template with every marriage license application.
I was still uncomfortable with the fact that he was very rich, but it was no longer about the disparity in our circumstances. I wasn’t keeping score of gifts and favors, and neither was he. We did what came natural. I paid half the rent for the apartment with Elizabeth because, technically, that was where I lived. All my comic books were still there, as were the bulk of my shoes.
But the fact remained, he was very wealthy. A prenup would draw a visible protective circle around his money, and it would alwa
ys be his money, his business. Therefore, I wouldn’t ever have to take ownership for it. I didn’t want ownership of it. I didn’t even like thinking about it.
I guessed that he wanted children. This guess wasn’t based on any actual data, just a feeling I had. Therefore, on this point, an explicit confirmation was required.
Regarding abstinence before marriage, however, I was pretty sure I’d have to develop an extremely compelling and persuasive argument with graphs, citations, and figures if I had any hope of securing his stamp of approval. In all honesty, part of me wanted him to completely reject the idea.
Nevertheless, I was committed to my plan of manufacturing as much stress and hardship as possible during the next few months. At the very least, the conversation would be an excellent experience for us both. Perhaps it would even escalate into an argument.
Quinn found me at the kitchen table that evening surrounded by my bridal binder, wedding magazines, laptop, and miscellaneous citations and notes relating to waiting before the wedding.
I thought I heard the door, but I didn’t hear his footsteps, nor did I expect to. He was stealthy.
I imagined I felt his eyes on me, but his hands brushing away the curtain of hair from my back was my first tangible evidence that he was home. He placed three languid kisses on the center of my neck and then—pulling my shirt to one side—he kissed the top of my shoulder.
“Hi.” The single word greeting was more of a rumbly breath against my skin than sound; it made me shiver.
“Hi,” I responded, and turned my face toward his to request a kiss, which he supplied; yet I pulled away before he could deepen it, purposefully not meeting his eyes.
If I met his eyes then I would be hypnotized and witless. Then we wouldn’t talk and I would grow increasingly agitated until I unfairly lost my marbles over something ridiculous—like an inadvertent inaccurate reference to string theory as a science.
I cleared my throat, pressed my lips together, and found my Quinn-list of conversation topics. “Welcome home. I hope your trip was satisfactory.”
His hand stayed on my back, his arm on the back of my chair, as he claimed the spot next to mine. Quinn used it to pull my seat closer to his, the wooden legs making an abrupt sound against the tile floor, and turned my knees so that I was facing him.
I was wearing an A-line grey wool skirt that ended just below the knee. On a normal sized person, the skirt would have ended mid-calf. Beneath the skirt I wore black tights. Quinn’s hands snuck under the hem and caressed a path to my thighs, his fingers searching.
“These go all the way up.” He sounded disgruntled at this discovery. There was a visible frown in his voice. I wasn’t looking at his face because, again, hypnosis. Instead, I was scanning the list of issues and mentally reorganizing them based on importance and conversation flow.
I nodded because I assumed he was referring to the fact that I was wearing warm tights befitting the cold Chicago weather and not lace-topped thigh-highs. “Yes. Are you hungry? I made chicken and saved some for you in the fridge.”
“No, thanks. I grabbed something on the way home.” His hands continued their path upward. “Why are you wearing so many layers of clothing?”
“Because it was cold outside today. I think the high was twenty-four.”
“Are you cold now?”
“No.”
“Then….” Quinn paired this non-thought with a swift tug-yank that landed me on his lap. His fingers had already inched my tights and cotton underwear down a few inches before I could protest.
“Wait! Wait a minute!” My hands gripped his shoulders mostly due to instinct, and I squirmed away. His mouth was once again on my neck, and he gifted me wet kisses along the column of my throat.
“I need my wife.” His words were hot and possessive, causing me to shudder both inwardly and outwardly. I knew this shudder. It was the hypnotized shudder of cautionless desire.
“I’m not your wife, I’m your fiancée.” I arched my back, offering him more of my neck.
“Same difference,” he mumbled between kisses. He’d successfully pulled my tights to my upper thighs.
I grabbed his hands and held them still. “But we need to talk.”
“It can wait,” he whispered, leaning back to catch my eye, but his hands didn’t move.
I, stupidly, met his gaze and nearly forgot my name.
Witless.
Then his hands tugged again, and I shook myself, trying not to be overwhelmed by all the heat and promise of his stare. “No…no it can’t.” My voice was unsteady and breathless. “It’s important.”
His eyes searched mine, his glare probing. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Then nothing is more important right now than me rediscovering every inch of your perfect body.”
“Actually,” I said, gripping his hands harder and tightening my fingers, “it’s about that, Quinn—about all the inches of my body and about not having intercourse before the wedding, and waiting ’til the wedding night….”
Quinn flinched, and his eyes abruptly narrowed into sharp, piercing slits; my heart rate doubled as did my avalanche of words.
“…And other things as well, such as the private clients, because that issue isn’t really resolved, and you need to wear a helmet when you ride a motorcycle. Also the prenuptial agreement status, because I’m sure you’ll want one, because I want one, and also when I can call your parents for a visit, and whether or not we should wait to have children for a few years or get started right away, and how many you want, because I’d like to have at least two and then reevaluate at that point, but I’d like a commitment from you for two…children, that is….”
We stared at each other for a very long time, during which neither of us moved. I was resolved not to speak, because if I did speak first, I would start spouting data related to pre-wedding abstinence, and I felt we should wait to discuss that issue until the private clients issue was resolved. Also, I hadn’t yet prepared my graphs and citations list.
But not speaking was becoming increasingly difficult. Quinn’s eyes seemed to grow hotter with each passing second, though the rest of his face was a stoic mask. I was a little concerned that a bolt of lightning or a nuclear blast or some other plasmic inferno was going to burn a hole through my skull.
At last, after a pointed swallow and a moment or two of teeth grinding, he said, “We’re not getting a prenup. Don’t bring it up again.”
I winced at the glacial vehemence of his tone, and my heart seized in shock—I imagined this was what it would feel like to be stabbed.
“But…but I thought…I mean, I think that you should consider our differences in….
Quinn stood, his abrupt movements causing me to stumble from his lap. He moved his hands from my legs to my shoulders and waited until I’d regained my balance before speaking. “Don’t.”
I blinked up at him. “I can see that you’re serious. But I don’t understand why we can’t even discuss it. If you would just listen, I think you would see that….”
“No.” He shook his head, removing his hands and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Why not?”
“Because, just thinking about it makes me want to throw this table out that window.” He pointed to the table then the window in turn, emphasizing the coolly spoken threat.
I frowned and tried to surreptitiously put to rights my underwear and tights. “That’s ridiculous. A prenup is meant to….”
I didn’t get to finish, because Quinn turned away from me and stalked to the bedroom, pulling his suit jacket from his shoulders with rigid, stiff movements. I stared at his retreating form for two beats then finished fixing my tights and followed him.
He was angry, really, really angry, and I couldn’t fathom why. Of all the topics I’d covered, the prenup was the very last one I thought he’d take issue with.
I suddenly realized that this was a fight. We were having a fight, a real f
ight. Logically, I recognized that it was a good data point.
But I didn’t like it, because my throat felt tight and dread was coursing through my veins. My neck was hot and my scalp itched.
I’d never felt like this before, hot and cold, angry and anxious. I wanted to apologize, to escape this uncomfortable sensation, but my stubborn resolve wouldn’t let me because I didn’t feel like I was in the wrong.
I lifted my voice as I chased him into the bedroom. “A prenup is meant to protect you, your business, your assets in the event that our marriage ends. It’s a good thing, Quinn! There is nothing wrong with defining terms for divorce now so that our future break will be as seamless and painless as possible.”
Quinn spun on me, backed me into his dresser, and everything about him looked furious. “There isn’t going to be a future break.”
“You don’t know….”
“Yes, Janie, I do know. And the fact that you even brought it up…are you trying to hurt me?”
My mouth dropped open and I flinched, because I was completely astonished by his accusation. “What? No! No, Quinn, I’m doing this because I care about you.”
“Are you going to leave me?”
“What? No…!”
“Then drop it.” His eyes sliced through me, and he turned toward the closet, moving like a panther.
I gathered a deep breath and glanced at the ceiling for help. Unsurprisingly, it offered none. Since I couldn’t bring up any of the other very important issues until he calmed down—as they would likely be tainted by association—I decided to take a different approach.
“It occurs to me….” I inhaled another steadying breath, hoped it would even my tone so I didn’t sound quite so shaken. “It occurs to me that this is our first fight. How we move forward from here, what we learn from this interaction, how to talk to each other in particular, is very important. Therefore, it would be really great if we could discuss this calmly.”
I couldn’t see him because he was inside the walk-in closet, but I heard him huff an extremely bitter laugh just before three drawers slammed. An instant later, he was standing in the doorway, his arms braced on the trim, his large body filling the entire space.
