by Nikki Chase
“Yeah. Like I said, I’d be happy anywhere as long as I’m with you,” I say, growing tired of the questions.
“I just wanted to make sure…”
“Make sure what?” I ask when Gabe leaves his sentence hanging.
“I wanted to make sure that you’re sure. Because there’s no going back after this.”
“What are you talking about, babe?” I ask. “We both knew there was no going back when we got on that flight together.”
“I know. But I’m not talking about our location. I’m talking about us.”
Another cryptic answer.
I quell the urge to ask him another question and just give him an expectant look.
Gabe looks down into my eyes, his dark pupils reflecting the lights from the city in the distance. He lets go of my shoulders and digs into his pocket before he drops to one knee.
Before I can ask Gabe if he’s hurt, he thrusts up a small black box for me to see.
It’s a ring. With a brilliant, transparent stone at the top.
“Yes,” I blurt out.
“I haven’t said anything,” Gabe says, chuckling.
“Then do it.” My heart hammers so hard it feels like my whole body is throbbing with every beat. So this is why he’s been acting weird.
“Jacqueline Summers,” he says. “Or Jackie Nolan. I don’t care what your name is. But I love you. I love you the way I’ve never loved anyone before.”
“I love you, too.”
Gabe’s dark eyes study my face while his lips form a big grin. He knows what my answer is, and even though it didn’t count the first time I said it, he’s already celebrating inside. Gone is the distractedness that’s been plaguing him all night.
“We belong together. We’ve always belonged together,” he says. “I’m glad you realized it first, because I was too blind to see it. But now I see it, too. We belong together—forever. So will you marry me?”
“Yes. Of course.” Tears fill my eyes and bend the lights in the background, taking them out of focus. My vision clears when wet tears glide down my cheeks. “Of course, I’ll marry you.”
With one knee still on the ground, Gabe takes my hand and slips the ring onto my finger.
“Now everyone knows you’re mine,” he says. “No random guy’s going to asking you to bear their children.”
I’m still laughing when Gabe gets up from the ground and scoops me up in his arms. Instinctively, I throw my own arms around his neck when I lose my balance, but I’m in good hands. His strong arms won’t let me fall. He’s got my back.
And there, we seal our engagement with a kiss, with the stars and the city as our witnesses.
Jacqueline
One Month Later
This morning, I put on a colorful African-print dress and go into the registrar’s office to wait for our turn to get married.
It’s been three hours, and we’re still sitting in this big room with other couples and their families. As the locals like to say, it’s time to “exercise patience.”
We’ve also asked some co-workers to come and sign as witnesses for us—a doctor and three nurses. We’re having a light chat to pass the time, just like everyone else here.
It must be blindingly bright and hot outside, but luckily this office is air-conditioned. The little bit of sunlight that manages to penetrate the orange curtains only makes the whole scene seem surreal.
When the official-looking guy in a business suit calls out Gabe’s name, our whole group stands up for our turn.
Our wedding ceremony takes about five minutes, from start to finish.
We exchange rings, say the standard vows, sign the paperwork, and kiss—nothing too raunchy, of course; this is a government office.
Maybe I should’ve told my family about my wedding. Not Dad or Ray… but maybe Mom…?
Too bad she’d definitely tell Ray, and then who knows what he’d do? Last I heard, Dr. Kent and Ray are still looking for us, and I’m not going to help them.
I’ll be honest, this isn’t the wedding I’d fantasized about, growing up. In my childish imagination, I had a big wedding where I wore a big, white, poofy dress and I had a huge multi-tiered cake, too.
It’s not like I’m sad about not having “the wedding of my dreams,” though. I don’t need any of those things.
It’s not like Gabe and I can’t afford a big wedding, after all. We both make good money. Maybe not as much money as we would back home, but things are cheaper here, too.
It’s just that we don’t have anyone we want to invite anyway. In fact, if they didn’t require witnesses, Gabe and I would’ve happily come here on our own, just the two of us.
The only person I’d want to invite is Karen, who has become a good friend. She keeps me up to date on the goings-on at Hill Crest Hospital, and she loves hearing about my life here with Gabe.
I no longer feel the need to separate my circles so I’d love for her to come here for a visit. But her schedule is far too busy and Ghana is way too far for her to travel for a five-minute ceremony.
But it’s not a big deal. She can come here for a vacation some other time.
All I care about is the one thing that hasn’t changed my whole life.
The man of my dreams is still the same man. And today I’m finally marrying him for real.
I’m happy to have finally found my home.
Wherever I go, as long as Gabe’s with me, I’m home.
And that’s all that matters.
Epilogue
Gabriel—Four Years Later
Time flies when you’re having fun.
After one blissfully quiet year of the married life, Jacqueline and I got a beautiful surprise in the form of a baby girl. We named her Samantha, after her uncle.
She was born in the hospital where we work. Our co-workers oohed and aahed through the big window at the nursery.
Even though the nurses didn’t give Samantha an identification bracelet, it was always easy to find her. She was the only pale-skinned, thin-haired baby. The brown babies around her had abundant hair as soon as they’d emerged from their mothers’ wombs.
But luckily for Samantha, her hair has been growing thicker and longer over the years. At three years old, she now has fine, straight, blonde hair like her mother.
She has my eyes, though. It’s funny how much Samantha looks like both Jacqueline and me, even though the two of us don’t look alike. Ah, the wonders of human biology.
I turn off all the lights downstairs and climb up the carpeted steps as quietly and quickly as I can.
Jacqueline’s often too tired to stay up long past Samantha’s bedtime, so they’re both probably asleep now. I don’t want to wake anyone up if they’re asleep, but I also want to see them if they’re still up.
My busy schedule at the hospital means that I often only see Samantha early in the morning or late at night. It’s only ten minutes past Samantha’s bedtime now, but it’s already dark and quiet upstairs, where all the bedrooms are.
Jacqueline insists on staying home and taking care of Samantha, at least for the first few years. So there’s always one of us here with our daughter when she wakes up and goes to sleep.
Jacqueline takes on her new role as a mother seriously, and even though she’s often critical of herself, I think she’s doing a great job.
As I walk down the hallway toward Samantha’s bedroom, I hear faint laughter from inside.
My heart does a little happy flip and I quicken my pace. Maybe my wife and daughter are still playing together.
But then I hear something that stops me in my tracks.
Is that a man’s voice in Samantha’s bedroom?
Through the gap under her door, I can see that it’s dark inside.
Jacqueline wouldn’t let a grown man play alone in the dark with Samantha at her bedtime.
Who the fuck is that?
An intruder?
I grab a vase from a shelf on the wall. I can smash it against something hard and then I�
��ll have a sharp, deadly weapon.
I turn the doorknob and swing the door open. Adrenaline pumps into my bloodstream. Coupled with my natural instinct to protect my daughter, I’m ready to kill if necessary. The Hippocratic Oath can go fuck itself right now.
“Daddy, you’re home,” Samantha’s small, girlish voice says. She sounds happy as a clam.
I turn on the ceiling light.
“Honey, are you okay?” I rush to her side, even as my eyes scan the hidden nooks and crannies in the room and hold the vase by its neck, ready to use it as a weapon. “Was there someone here?”
“Yeah,” she says in a sleepy voice as she sits up.
My muscles tense. The intruder must be watching, ready to attack.
“Where is he now, honey? Tell Daddy.”
“Behind you,” she says.
I swing around, but there’s nothing. Just a shelf full of Samantha’s colorful books and toys.
“Where is he?” I ask again.
“Right there,” Samantha says, pointing to the empty space. “Don’t worry, Daddy. It’s just Sam.”
It’s sweet that she names her imaginary friend after her uncle, especially because she’s named after him, too. It’s too bad Sam the imaginary friend can’t also go on to create more Sams—obviously, Jacqueline and I are fans of the name.
Even though Jacqueline didn’t have time to pack before leaving San Francisco, she has some childhood pictures stored on her phone that we’ve showed Samantha. So we weren’t surprised when she told us her new friend, Sam, was a friendly, grown-up dude with light-brown hair and blue eyes.
But has a stranger found out about Samantha’s imaginary friend and used the information to enter our home?
I open the doors of the closet. Nothing.
There’s nowhere else to hide.
There’s a window, but we’re on the second floor. Besides, the window is closed.
“Honey, who was here?” I ask again.
There’s no man hiding in this room, but I could swear I heard someone.
“I told you, Daddy. It’s Sam.” Samantha pauses and tilts her head like she’s listening to someone. Then, she opens her little mouth. “He says he’s sorry.”
“Who? Sam? For startling me?” I don’t even know what I’m asking anymore.
It can’t be true. There’s no other man in this room. As much as I love her and think the world of her, Samantha’s still just a toddler.
“Yes.” She pauses, again looking like she’s listening. She adds, “And for everything.”
With my heart pounding, I sit on the edge of Samantha’s single bed. I don’t know why, but I feel like I have to listen.
That laughter… I hadn’t heard it in more than ten years, but I’d recognize it anywhere. It really did sound like him.
“When you say it’s Sam, do you mean your uncle, honey?” I ask softly, searching her face for dishonesty and finding only innocence and confusion.
“Yes. I told you, Daddy.”
“I know you did.” I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I have to ask, “What else is Sam saying?”
Samantha smiles. After another short pause, she says, “He says you’re a good friend. He misses you.”
I lean down and pull her little body into a tight hug. I still have no idea what to believe, but peace washes over me and the guilt that I’ve been holding onto begins to melt away.
“Daddy? Are you okay?” Samantha asks in a concerned voice.
“Yes, honey. I’m okay. I just miss Sam, too.”
She laughs softly and yawns.
“You go to sleep now.” I give her a goodnight kiss and tuck her in, then I quickly turn off the light. “Good night, honey.”
“Good night, Daddy,” she says as I slip outside.
I give myself permission to freak out over the creepy thing that has just happened, but all I feel is love.
Entering my own bedroom, I watch as Jacqueline’s body rise up and down under the blanket with her every breath. I wonder if she’s going to think I’m insane for thinking Sam’s ghost has followed us all the way here to Ghana just to play with his niece.
But she’s probably exhausted, and the story can wait until tomorrow.
I shed my clothes and climb into bed. Leaning over and giving my wife a light peck on her cheek, I whisper, “I love you.”
She grinds her teeth softly, then she mumbles, “Love you, too.”
The corners of my lips tug up into a smile. As usual, she won’t remember saying that in the morning, but I love that she doesn’t stop loving me, even in her sleep.
And maybe it’s not such a big stretch to believe that my best friend still loves me the way I love him, wherever he is.
Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed Jacqueline and Gabe’s story.
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Knocked Up
Kat
“His office looks more like an upscale jazz lounge than a place of work, all dark wood and smooth leather. And it doesn’t only look good.
“Whenever I take a seat on the designer chair across the desk from him, it feels like my ass is being cradled by fluffy clouds.”
My boss stops reading and turns his steely blue eyes on me.
“I’m glad you enjoy my furniture, Kat,” he says.
“It’s fictional,” I say quickly, but my defense sounds as thin as Keira Knightley, even to my own ears.
Heath raises an eyebrow. “Your protagonist works in a private investment company. Her boss has made a fortune from going short on stocks of unethical companies, even though he's only twenty-eight.
“His last big move was basically a $100 million bet against this company that was running a pyramid scheme. Oh, and he’s also—” Heath glances at the screen of his computer “—a sanctimonious, arrogant bully.”
I squirm in my seat as Heath stares at me.
“Did I miss anything?” he asks. There’s no anger in his eyes. If anything, he seems amused by the whole thing. But I feel like crawling into a hole and dying.
“Umm… Not really,” I lie.
I wonder if he’s also noticed the part where my main character describes her boss as “a man with the body of a Greek god and the face of a Hollywood heart-throb.” Because—surprise, surprise—that’s based on him, too.
“It may be fiction, but I’d say it’s at least based on a true story. Wouldn’t you agree?” he asks.
I swallow. How is my throat so dry?
“Very loosely based on reality. Just the background stuff, really.” I force my lips into a smile.
“Hmm…” As Heath nods distractedly and leans forward to read the writing on the screen, the messy pile of dark hair on his head tumbles forward. His finger scrolls the wheel of the mouse.
Normally, I’d be fantasizing about that digit scrolling my wheel, if you know what I mean. I mean the one in my panties—is that too vague? I’ve been wondering if I should use that in the final version of my novel. Either way, that’s the kind of dirty thought that’s gotten me into trouble in the first place.
God, I wish a great, empty void would appear right under this stupid chair and suck me away somewhere else. Anywhere else.
This morning, I got to the office early so I could edit a few chapters of my romance manuscript before work. But the computer on my desk was dead, and nobody in the IT department picked up any of my fourteen calls because it was too early in the morning.
I actually bumped into Jeff from legal in the elevator, though, so I knew he was around. He’d once mentioned liking to tinker with computers in his spare time so he probably could've helped.
But he's also a creep who stares at my chest and says things like “milk jugs” and “birthing hips.” I wouldn't be too surprised if one day
he says something like, “Does this rag smell like chloroform to you?” And that would be the start of my life as a sex slave, kept in the dungeon of Jeff's basement.
So, for the sake of my freedom and liberty, I decided to use my boss’ computer.
It seemed like a good idea, until I realized I’d forgotten to take out my USB stick before slipping out of his office.
Even worse, my moment of realization came only seconds ago when Heath started reading out a passage from my manuscript.
And he hasn’t even gotten to the sexy part…
“Heath, I’m so sorry I used your computer. I promise I won’t do it again,” I say, breaking the silence before he finishes reading the whole thing. “We should get back to work. Mr. Mikhailov’s assistant has already texted me to let me know his flight from Moscow had landed on time, so he should be here in less than an hour.”
“He flies on his own private jet. Of course he’s on time,” Heath says, easily dodging my obvious attempt at changing the subject. He reads on. “I realize Mr. Jones is standing right behind my chair. As he bends down, he rests his hands on my shoulders. I can’t help but imagine those big, masculine hands running all over other parts of my body. His stubble tickles my neck and I almost giggle, but then he whispers, ‘You’re in trouble now, Sarah.’”
Heath huffs a small laugh. His eyes twinkle with amusement as a thin smile forms on his lips. “Is that where it ends?”
“It’s uh, not done yet,” I say. “Really, it’s not ready for anyone to read yet, so—”
God, how is he so damn gorgeous? Those steely blue eyes make it hard for me to even think when he's around.
“Oh, these pink marks with comments from Jane—these aren’t notes from someone who’s read this?”
“That’s just Jane… my roommate. She, uh, beta-reads for… Uh, that means she reads my manuscript and gives me her feedback before I publish it,” I stammer.
