I could feel tears start to well in my eyes. I don't know where they were coming from. They were just coming. And I made no effort to stop them. Because I figured it was a normal reaction to a situation like this. And I've struggled so hard over the past year to be just that . . . normal.
"So what do you say?" Jamie asked, holding out the velvet box in front of me, the beautiful princess-cut diamond reflecting perfectly off the glare of the golf course dome lights. "Will you marry me, Jennifer H.?"
I laughed aloud at the nickname. He used to call me that when we first started dating. Because when we met on that fateful flight back from Las Vegas, I refused to tell him my last name. I gave him only the first letter.
Contemplation is never something you're supposed to do at a time like this. It's one of the most important decisions of your life, yet it's probably the only one that you're actually expected to make without thinking. Basing the rest of your life solely on your gut reaction. Because when a man is down on one knee, holding out a piece of jewelry that probably cost more than your first car, confessing his undying love for you, the last thing you want to do is make him wait while you mull it over.
So I closed my eyes and trusted my instinct. I refused to think. My heart was beating faster than I ever thought it could go without the threat of breaking down. But I knew that it was a sign. Something to keep me moving forward. To keep me from living in the past. So I said the first word that came out of my mouth, and as I did, I made a silent vow to myself never to second-guess it.
"Yes!" I shouted, throwing my arms around his neck and pulling him back up to his feet.
Jamie was beaming. I had never seen a smile on him quite like that before. It filled me with something soft and warm and comforting. As though someone had injected a huge mug of warm hot chocolate directly into my bloodstream.
As I watched him slide the large diamond around my finger, I found it hard to believe that I was actually shaking. In fact, I had a hard time keeping my hand steady enough for him to get the ring on. It's funny, I never imagined this being something that would make me nervous, after everything that I've done and seen. After every ring I'd seen removed. But then again, I'd never really imagined this to begin with.
Jamie laughed at my unsteady hands as he finally got the platinum band all the way up my finger. "You seem almost more nervous than me."
"You didn't seem nervous at all!" But then I stopped and remembered his little outburst earlier in the evening when I was trying to figure out what to wear. "Wait a minute," I said with a sudden realization. "Is this why you were prosecuting me about the nanny assignment?"
Jamie surrendered with a sheepish shrug. "I guess I just needed to make sure that you would still choose me over your former job."
"Well," I said, staring down at my left hand, "I hope you have your answer."
Jamie stood up and held both of my hands in his, staring deeply into my eyes. "I do."
He leaned in and kissed me then. I half expected to see fireworks light up the sky out of the corner of my eye. It seemed like such an appropriate accessory for this moment. But I suppose firework kisses only happen at the end of cheesy romantic movies.
I didn't exactly miss them, though. The fireworks, that is. Because it already felt like the Fourth of July was happening inside my stomach.
The minute Jamie and I got home from the golf course, we were ripping each other's clothes off like teenagers after the prom. We stumbled through the living room, desperately devouring each other's mouths as I pulled off his shirt and he unzipped my pants. My mind was still buzzing from the proposal. I had just agreed to marry someone. Me! Jennifer Hunter. The longtime inspector of fidelity had agreed to walk down the aisle, say, "I do," pledge forever in front of everyone I know. And then what? Babies? Preschool selection, high school graduation, a golf course-adjacent condo in a gated community in Florida?
I felt the dizziness start to take over. I told myself to slow down. One step at a time. No one was asking me to move to Florida. It was just a proposal. Nothing between us had changed.
We fell onto the bed, and Jamie's hands went for the back of my bra. He was kissing me everywhere, and I tried to wash away all of my doubts and anxiety and just live in the moment. Enjoy the feeling of his body on top of mine. I reminded myself that this was what it was all about. Just me and him. Nothing else mattered.
As soon as he was inside of me, the rest of the world just kind of faded away. Like magic. And all I could feel was him. Every part of him. The way he moved, the way he smelled, the way his hair felt between my fingertips. If this was what I was agreeing to for all of eternity, then dress me up in white and hand me a bouquet.
"I think we should go somewhere to celebrate," Jamie said as we lay in bed afterward, his arm draped under my neck, his hand gently rubbing the top of my shoulder.
I snuggled up next to him, the post-engagement sex bliss washing over my entire body. "Where do you want to go?"
"I don't know. Cabo, Catalina, Hawaii."
"Mmm," I cooed in his ear. "I like the sound of that. Just you and me alone on an island somewhere."
"How about I book something for next weekend?"
I sighed euphorically. "Sounds perfect."
"So who are you going to tell first?"
"About our vacation?"
Jamie laughed. "No, silly. About the engagement."
"Oh, right." I nestled closer to the side of his body. "I don't know," I replied dreamily. "I guess my mom and my half-sister and my niece and then my friends."
He reached up and began stroking my hair. My eyes slowly started to close, and I could feel the warmth of his body overtaking mine. And just as my eyelashes hit my lower lids, he asked, "What about your dad?"
My eyes flew open again. I hadn't thought about him. Of course I would have to tell him. But suddenly, the thought of it made me want to change my name and move to another country.
I swallowed hard. "What about my dad?"
"Well," Jamie said with a certain air of precaution, as if he were handling this moment with the same care that you'd handle a test tube with biohazard cultures growing inside, "I was just thinking that this may be a good opportunity for me to meet your dad. And for you to meet your dad's new wife."
And then the nausea came. It felt as though my stomach had just taken three dizzying upside-down loops on an F-14 fighter plane while I was still here on the ground lying in bed, trying to enjoy what was once a very beautiful moment.
I had just rekindled my relationship with my father a year ago. And that relationship generally consisted of lunches, dinners, and an occasional Sunday matinee movie. We hadn't really reached the point of true father/daughter intimacy. He knew of Jamie, and I knew of his new wife, but we hardly talked about them, let alone had a face-to-face meeting. I couldn't imagine myself calling up my dad to gush about anything having to do with my love life. Not since the very reason we didn't speak in the first place was directly related to his love life. The thought of running to him to brag about my faithful, trusting, honest relationship seemed almost humorous to me.
My dad had gotten remarried about nine months ago to his third wife. And despite his persistent efforts to get me to come to the wedding, I had politely declined the invitations. The thought of watching my dad stand up on an altar and swear to be faithful to a new woman after the dreadful way he'd betrayed my mother just felt wrong to me. You're supposed to go to weddings to wish people well, support their commitment to each other, give them a big high five for finally settling down. That image didn't exactly compute when you inserted my father into the equation.
But regardless, my dad and I had actually managed to build something of a rapport these past twelve months. We avoided certain topics and relied heavily on others. It was as if there were an unspoken rule between us. Don't talk about relationships. Don't talk about cheating. And definitely don't talk about the past. Then, of course, there was the added unspoken rule that only I knew about: Don't talk about what you
really do for a living. We stuck mostly to generic subjects like weather, news, sports teams, and politics. And that was the reason I had yet to meet his new wife and he had yet to meet Jamie. It's not that he hadn't suggested it . . . numerous times. As had Jamie. I just didn't feel we had graduated to that level yet.
Jamie had always been so supportive of my desire to take it slow when it came to my relationship with my father. But I had a hunch that my days of avoidance were going to come to an end very quickly.
"Yes," I said after another bitter swallow. "I guess you're right. This would be the perfect opportunity for everyone to meet."
The next morning before work, I called my mom, my half-sister, Julia, and my niece, Hannah, and told them the exciting news of the engagement. They all reacted pretty much the way I had expected. With my mom, there was a lot of shrieks and crying and even a few Godly praises, as if I had just told her that I had conceived immaculately.
My emotionally stunted half-sister, Julia, congratulated me politely, careful not to show too much excitement (presumably so she wouldn't hurt herself), and her daughter, my fourteen-year-old niece, Hannah, followed her breathless rounds of "Oh, my God!" with three distinct and non-negotiable requests: (1) "You have to let me help you pick out the dress." (2) "You have to let me be a bridesmaid." And (3) "You absolutely have to hire a professional makeup person."
When I hung up the phone, I knew that the next appropriate person to call would be my dad. Even if he hadn't been a part of my life for a good portion of my adult years, he was part of it now, and therefore I had to tell him.
And Jamie was right: This was a good excuse for everyone to meet. It would have to happen eventually, and the thought of waiting until the wedding day sounded even worse.
So I picked up the phone again, took a deep breath, and started punching in the number I had committed to memory, one slow, painful digit at a time. I don't think I could have done it any slower if I had been using a rotary phone.
3-1-0 . . . 5-5-5 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . 2 . . .
The last digit was a seven. I knew it was a seven. There wasn't a single doubt in my mind that it was a seven. Yet I just couldn't press it. My finger touched the corresponding key on the keypad, but I just couldn't apply any pressure.
My breathing had gotten shallow, but I hardly noticed. I was too focused on that damn number seven button. How had it suddenly become so menacing? It was just a stupid number on a stupid phone. There were nine others just like it, yet somehow this one number had taken on an entirely new meaning.
With one swift movement, I clicked off the phone and placed it back on the cradle.
This is stupid, I told myself. You're a twenty-nine-year-old woman. You're fully capable of picking up the fucking phone and dialing a fucking phone number.
I reached out and grabbed the phone again, holding it out in front of me and focusing intensely on the keypad, the way an aspiring mountain climber would stare longingly at Mount Everest.
"Who are you calling?" Jamie's voice filtered into the kitchen, causing me to jump. I quickly returned the phone to the cradle and spun around to face him.
"No one," I said brightly. "I just got done telling Hannah about the engagement."
This made him smile, and he came over to me and wrapped his arms around my waist. He was wearing nothing but a towel, and his fresh, wet skin smelled incredible. I inhaled deeply.
"And? How did it go?" he asked.
"She warned me about the pitfalls of home makeup application."
Jamie chuckled. "Sounds like Hannah. So you gonna call your friends next?"
I kissed him on the cheek and started for the hallway. "Nope," I replied casually. "They're coming over tonight to work on Sophie's place cards for the wedding. I figured I'd tell them all then."
"Good idea."
"I'm just gonna hop in the shower!" I called eagerly as I was halfway down the hallway. Once I had reached my bathroom, I couldn't get into that shower fast enough. I turned on the faucet, threw my shirt over my head and whipped off my sweatpants and underwear, and bounced into the stall.
I wasn't really that excited to take a shower. I was just trying to get as far away from that phone as possible.
After Jamie had left for work, I stood fully dressed and ready to go in front of my bedroom mirror. Everything about me—from head to toe—screamed professional businesswoman, from the dark gray pants suit over the black cotton camisole to the simple knot in my hair, twisted and pinned at the base of my head. The clean lines of my makeup, the unadorned strand of pearls hanging across my neck, even the Louis Vuitton briefcase I held in my right hand.
As with any other day, there were so many elements that made up my outfit selection. So many pieces that came together to form the meticulously designed representation of myself that I chose to display to my employees and my clients.
Yet today, all I could see was the big, fat, sparkling diamond on my finger.
It stood out like a beacon, drawing the attention of anyone in its vicinity. I may as well have had a spotlight pointed at my left hand.
I tried to imagine myself walking into the office with the brilliance and shine of this newly acquired accessory lighting the way ahead of me. There was no doubt it would be noticed. No, not only noticed. Revered, admired, gushed over, celebrated, and most of all . . . questioned.
Because before today, I was a mystery. My life outside of the office didn't even exist. Every time I walked through those double glass doors, I left all aspects of Jennifer Hunter behind. And until six P.M. that night, I was known only as "Ashlyn." A woman who, as far as everyone else was concerned, had no dates, no prospects, no friends, and no family to speak of.
I stared into the mirror at the ring on my finger, my eyes nearly burning from its radiant reflection.
This ring makes me a different person.
The thought entered my mind so fast, I had no time to process the root of its origins. But where it came from didn't matter much. As soon as it was out there, I knew it was true. This ring did make me a different person. Not because I was, in fact, different just by wearing it, but because people's perceptions of me would change the moment they laid eyes on it.
I thought about the appointment I had later this morning with Camille Klein, the wife of the real estate agent Teresa had tested last week. She was coming in at eleven. How would she react when she saw this ring on my finger? Would she glance at it out of the corner of her eye but try to ignore it as she listened to me deliver the results of her husband's assignment? Would she judge me for wearing it while I gave her the most heartbreaking news of her life?
I would if I were her.
Because everyone knows a diamond ring on someone's left hand isn't just a diamond ring. It's a hopeful promise. Or in my case, a bold statement. Asserting to the world that I refuse to end up like the majority of my clients.
Even though I wasn't the one conducting the actual assignments anymore, I was pretty sure that being married or even engaged while running a fidelity inspection business was some kind of conflict of interest. I guess this is one of those rare industries where people trust you more when you're single.
And in one swift, fluid movement, I slid the ring off my finger, dropped it into an interior compartment of my briefcase, and closed the flap, keeping the new me safely concealed behind a wall of expensive Italian leather.
6
princess cut in an uncertain setting
"All right, let's get this over with," Zoë announced later that evening as she strode through my front door. "Bring on the glue sticks and the glitter."
Sophie entered right behind her, carrying three large shopping bags full of supplies. She groaned loudly, clearly not appreciating Zoë's sarcasm. "For the last time, Zoë, there is no glitter. It's my wedding, not my sweet sixteen."
"Whatever." Zoë waltzed into the living room and plopped down on the sofa. "Where's the pizza?"
"I ordered it about twenty minutes ago. It should be here soon," I repl
ied, glancing curiously into the hallway behind Sophie. "Where's John?"
Zoë rolled her eyes. "He's out with his new boyfriend. He said he'll stop by later."
I stifled a frustrated sigh. I had been waiting to tell my friends about my engagement all day. Through two difficult and disheartening post-assignment meetings. Camille Klein cried on my shoulder for ten minutes when she found out her husband had seduced Teresa in one of his for-sale homes, and Neal Carter had punched the wall when I told him that his wife had invited Cameron back to their home for coffee when his kids were in school. Then I had to call in a repairman to fix the dent.
I was looking forward to doling out some good news for a change, and I wasn't sure the information would stay trapped inside of me much longer. I was honestly planning just on blurting it out the minute everyone had crossed the threshold, but apparently, it wasn't going to work that way. And John would kill me if I didn't wait for him.
My shoulders slumped as I closed the door behind Sophie and watched as she covered my coffee table with newspaper and then proceeded to empty the contents of her shopping bags.
"Okay," she said, spreading out the supplies in perfectly divided sections across the table. "I've devised a system that should help this assembly process run smoothly."
Zoë shot me a look and then turned her attention to our bride-to-be. "Sophie," she began in her infamous "don't piss me off" tone, "they're place cards, not circuit boards."
But Sophie simply ignored her remark and began to explain to us the complicated inner workings of her carefully devised plan.
Thirty minutes into the evening, I was a nervous wreck. John still hadn't shown up, and I couldn't bring myself to eat any of the pizza that had been delivered because I was positive I'd just throw it right back up. Plus, I had already ruined four place cards (much to the dismay of Sophie) owing to the shakiness of my hands. Just for the record, hot glue guns and nerves? Not a good mix.
The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men Page 7
