Ground Rules: Rewritten

by Roya Carmen

  After just a few hours of sleep, I wake up. The room is still drenched in darkness. It’s just a few minutes before my six o’clock wake-up call. I grab my cell and turn off the alarm. I don’t want to wake up Weston. I’ve never seen him look so beautiful. There’s always a softness in his voice, in his actions, but I’ve rarely seen it on his face before—there always seems to be so much going on in his mind; a tentative expression, anxiety. It’s something I’ve never quite been able to understand before. But now, in slumber, he’s free of all those emotions, those thoughts that keep him from being completely peaceful.

  I kiss him softly on the cheek, careful not to wake him.

  The flight back is tense. First, because I’m a bit afraid still, just as I was on the flight over. And second, because Weston and I, well, were on another plane all together now. And that scares the hell out of me. He’s part of me. This isn’t just about sex anymore.

  The kids are rowdy, but nothing could pull me away from my thoughts. I think about little Jonathan. I should have known. I should have known there was more to the story. I should have known Weston and Bridget had entered into this kind of life, not fully by choice or boredom, but possibly by chance, by need, to fulfill a void, to try to forget.

  I’ve always wondered what drove them to this lifestyle. Weston has never seemed liked the kind of man who would be so openly…open. He’s always seemed like such a closed man, an introvert, an introspective man, a monogamous sort.

  But it all makes sense now.

  I look up at him every now and then, and he shoots me a smile. He’s so beautiful and he seems to have the world at his feet. Both he and Bridget. I used to think their life was so perfect. But then again, the grass is always greener…

  This scares me. This deepened emotional intimacy we shared last night. First, we made love, then I confided in him, and he in me. We shared both our physical and emotional selves in a way that is planes above sexual lust.

  I’ve tried to remain emotionally distant. I’ve tried so hard. I shouldn’t have gone to New York. I shouldn’t have gone with him to his room. I shouldn’t have let him make love to me.

  I shouldn’t have let all this get so out of control.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  …you’re mine, not his.

  GABE IS PACING ON THE FRONT WALK when the driver pulls into our driveway. Weston set us up in a limo for the ride back because we needed the space for our new guest, Tokyo, Claire’s gigantic giraffe.

  Chloe and Claire both make a beeline for Gabe and jump up on him, like they haven’t seen him for ages. In reality, it’s been less than forty-eight hours. The driver helps Gabe and me with the giraffe and the luggage.

  Gabe slams the door shut and throws the luggage around. “I’m ordering pizza tonight.”

  “Careful with that. How have you been?” I ask, hanging my purse. “Miss us?”

  “Where’d the giraffe come from?” he snaps.

  I look up. Chloe and Claire are dragging the giraffe up the stairs, with great effort. “Weston got it for Claire.”

  He glares at me. “Of course,” he scoffs. “Mr. Moneybags just had to get her the biggest toy in the store.”

  I suck in a breath, holding in my words.

  He rubs his forehead, looking exhausted. “Pretty convenient for him to plan this trip on this weekend.”

  “He—”

  “He knew I was busy. He planned it that way.”

  I wrap my arms around his waist. “You should have asked me not to go.”

  “I wasn’t thinking,” he tells me, his expression full of regret. “I didn’t want to take this away from the girls, didn’t want to be the bad guy. And besides, I can’t cage you.”

  “I shouldn’t have gone.”

  I know that now.

  I know it was a terrible mistake.

  He jerks away from me. “This needs to stop.”

  My heart sinks. It can’t.

  Please don’t ask me to let him go.

  He rakes a hand through his unruly hair. “You two are getting way too chummy again. I’m sick of this guy. I don’t want him around you anymore.”

  My heart pounds. “You really want to end this?”

  He turns from me, and doesn’t say a word. And I wonder if he has feelings for her. Occasionally I wonder if he does. I don’t think he does. But then again, he doesn’t suspect the magnitude of my feelings for Weston.

  “I…I just,” he says, at a loss for words. “I just want him to know you’re mine, not his.”

  “He does,” I say, not quite sure I’m telling the truth.

  Claire studies the collection of tiny clothes spread out on the dark wood floors of our living room; minuscule jackets, jeans, pretty blouses, dresses, hats and tiny plastic boots and shoes. She holds on to her three Barbies.

  “We don’t have all day to play this game,” Chloe snaps. “Hurry up already.”

  “Chloe,” I scold but smile a little. She’s just like her dad, a tad impatient.

  We’re playing “Fashion Show” one of Chloe’s favorite games. We each get three dolls and get to pick out our clothing from the house collection, one piece at a time, taking turns until all the pieces are gone.

  Once all the clothing is picked out, we dress the dolls. I’m going for motorcycle-chick with my first doll, a bottle-blonde with blue eyes—slutty black mini-skirt, motorcycle jacket, and tall heeled black hooker boots. I can’t believe my girls are dressing their dolls in these trampy clothes. Not the kind of clothes I would personally wear, but heck, if I had a rack like this doll, who knows. I make a mental note to discretely remove the slutty skirt and boots from the collection.

  Claire furrows her brow in frustration, trying to work a tiny tweed jacket on her doll. She lacks the dexterity needed to work some of the pieces. I give her a hand and she smiles up at me.

  Her smile is the most precious thing to me. She pulls at my heart. I can’t imagine not seeing her every single day. I think about these things sometimes, worst case scenarios. If Gabe and I were to ever separate, we’d have to share custody. I could never do that, be away from my girls. And if I was the reason for a breakup between Weston and Bridget, I would be the one responsible for taking him away from his daughter and his son. It would be my fault if Lizzie and Ashton saw their dad, only every other week, or two weekends a month.

  I will never go there. I will never ask him for this. I will never let him ask me. He belongs to them. And I belong with Claire, Chloe and Gabe.

  Gabe sits on the sofa, beer in hand, a smile plastered on his face. “Another fashion show?”

  I smile up at him. “Yes, stick around. You’re in for a good show. We’ll be playing music and everything.”

  I work on my last doll. She wears a red ball gown and stylish hat.

  Gabe leans in. “I like the rocker chick,” he says with an impish grin. “She’s hot.”

  I smile up at him. “Trampy is more like. But she looks pretty good. All she’s missing is a tattoo.”

  He laughs. “Funny you should mention that…”

  I cock my brow. “Why?”

  He sinks back into the sofa. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Chloe shoots him a look. “Mommy is busy right now.”

  He smiles. “After the fashion show, of course.”

  The show goes off without a hitch. The audience is made up of a myriad of stuffed animals; a peacock, lots of cats and dogs, three or four bears, a zebra and an iguana. Quite the eclectic crowd.

  When the show is done, the girls sprint off, leaving me to pick up the mess, as usual. I throw all the stuffed animals in a large laundry basket, stick the doll clothes in a box, and stuff the tiny slutty skirt and hooker boots in my pocket.

  Gabe comes up from behind, wraps his arm around my waist and kisses my shoulder. “Can we talk?”

  “Sure.” I say, curious. I turn around to see him holding a blue folder. My brain goes automatically into overdrive, directly to the worst case scenario.
What is that? Work stuff? Financial documents? Divorce papers?

  Gabe grabs my hand. “Relax, Ella. You look like your foot’s stuck on a train track,” he says as he pulls me to the sofa. “I just want to show you something.”

  I take a seat next to him, anxious.

  He rakes a hand through his unruly curls. “We’ve talked about this before,” he starts. “But I really wanted to talk about it again.”

  I sit up straight, on alert. “Talk about what?”

  He opens the folder. And I immediately know what this is all about. Right there on the white sheet of paper, are two matching tattoo designs; one for me and one for him.

  I sigh. “Gabe…”

  He shoots me a tight-lipped smile. “Do you like them?”

  I study them further. They’re quite beautiful—simple, tasteful, black scroll designs. Curvaceous lines wrapped around our names; “Gabriel” for me and “Mirella” for him. We’ve talked about this before but I could never take the plunge. As it stands, I’m completely ink-free.

  I grab the sheet of paper. “Why do you want this so much?”

  He fixes me. “Because I love you,” he says simply. “Because I want us to be together forever.”

  I bite my lip. “But we are together forever,” I tell him, lifting my left hand to his face. “This…this ring represents that.”

  He shrugs. “But you can take that off, easily…in a second.”

  I jerk back. “Oh, so I see. You want to brand me. ‘Property of Gabriel Keates.’”

  He sucks in a breath. “Well, I don’t expect you to wear it on your arm. I thought we could have them inked just above our hip bones.”

  I think about it for a second. It does seem sexy, in a weird possessive way. But I know this is all about jealousy. About Gabe wanting Weston to know.

  He leans in close. “No one would see it unless you’re wearing a slinky bikini. It would be just for us.”

  I look up at him. “Weston would see it.”

  He looks away. “Yes, exactly, he wou—”

  “You don’t own me, Gabe,” I snap. “Stop treating me like property.”

  His gaze fixes mine. “I know I don’t own you, Ella. But you are mine in a sense. You doing this for me would show me you’re in it for the long run.”

  I close my eyes. “But I am.”

  “Can you guarantee that? Can you tell me we’ll be together five years from now? Can you tell me you won’t be in Hawaii, sipping piña coladas with Weston?”

  I take his hand in mine. I understand he’s scared. He’s scared shitless he’ll lose me. “I’ll always be here, Gabe.”

  He looks up at me but doesn’t say a word. I’m not sure he believes me. There’s a vulnerability, a sweetness about him—it’s those big hazel eyes of his—Chloe has the same beautiful eyes.

  I want to prove it to him.

  I smile at him. “I promise to think about it.”

  I’m a ball of nerves when we walk into the tattoo salon. Relief washes over me as I take in the sleek, classy space; dark wood floors, dark red walls, cozy white painted brick fireplace. Black and white photos of tattoo covered models line the walls. Gabe would look good up there too.

  I had this horrible vision of this shabby hole-in-the-wall with peeling paint and questionable sanitary practices. But Gabe, knowing how paranoid I am, assures me this place is inspected on a regular basis by the health department. But as clean as it seems, the atmosphere is warm and relaxing, not sterile at all.

  It’s almost sexy.

  A thin tattoo-covered blonde welcomes us with a smile. “Hi, Gabe, how are you?”

  He reaches in for a hug. “I’m great, Vanessa,” he tells her as he pulls away. “This is my wife, Mirella.”

  She offers her hand with a big wide grin. “So we’re doing couple tattoos today?”

  I nod and shrug at the same time, still not sure. “Looks like it.”

  She laughs. “Don’t be too afraid,” she tells me as she leads me to a private room. “It’s not that scary.”

  “Um…” I stammer. “On a scale of one to ten, just how painful is it? Is it worse than childbirth?”

  She laughs. “Oh no. I have two kids. Childbirth is way more painful.”

  I sigh a breath of relief. “Well, in that case, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “So Gabe mentioned you’d like them on the hip bone,” she says as she washes her hands. “Who’s going first?” she asks with a sly smile.

  I inhale sharply. “Gabe.” Or maybe I should go first, I can’t help but wonder. Seeing it happen is going to freak me out even more. But maybe, I can still back out.

  “Gabe it is. He’s an old pro.”

  He smiles, undoing his belt. “The pants off?”

  “Just above the knees,” she says. There’s something a little wrong about my husband undressing for yet another blonde. I’m starting to hate blondes.

  He keeps his briefs on and makes himself comfortable on the black dentist-style chair. My gaze travels across the room—stainless steel counter with all sorts of things; steel containers, ointments in pumps, bandages, plastics pouches bunched up in a box. And there’s an interesting steel-armed gadget which almost looks like an ultra-cool light.

  Every surface is spotless. Everything is organized meticulously. I’m no longer concerned about Hepatitis. Now, I’m just worried about the pain. “Uh…maybe I could just get some temporary tattoos designed,” I say to Gabe. “You know there’s a web site which custom designs temporary tattoos.”

  Vanessa smiles at me as she puts on surgical gloves.

  “I could wear one every now and then. What do you think?”

  He smiles. “You’re not getting out of this, Ella. You promised.”

  I slouch back on the chair. “I know.”

  “Are we ready?” Vanessa asks Gabe with a flirty smile.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  She smiles again. “You’ve done this before.” Yes, these two have a somewhat intimate relationship—this is Gabe’s seventh tattoo. In addition to his massive tribal tattoo wrapped over his shoulder and half of his torso, he also has small ones; on the back of his neck, his inside wrist, and his lower leg. And two Celtic tattoos, one on the back of his shoulder, and one on his arm.

  She pulls the band of his briefs down, and adjusts them just below his hip bone. It is revealing to say the least, but Gabe doesn’t seem to care. He shoots me a wicked smile. She shaves and sterilizes the area. And they discuss exact positioning.

  Vanessa sticks a sticker-type paper on his skin. She tells me this is the transfer. And apparently there’s one waiting for me too. Great.

  She pulls the paper off. “So, what’s the verdict?”

  Gabe studies the design for a few seconds—not long enough if you ask me—this thing will be permanent. “Looks good,” he says, and lies back.

  I swivel on my chair. “No turning back now.”

  “Nope,” he says.

  Vanessa grabs one of the steel containers, rips one of those plastic pouches open and pulls out a needle. “All our needles are sterile single-use. Gabe told me you were worried about sterilization,” she says as she pulls out the ultra-cool needle contraption.

  “Oh, it’s cool. I can see this place is top-notch.”

  She smiles. “It is. I’ve been doing this for a while.”

  She starts to ink, and Gabe shoots me a tight-lipped smile. I can tell it’s painful but there’s no way he’s letting on.

  I sit on the edge of my chair to get a better look. “Hurts a little bit?” I tease.

  He smiles. “Not at all.”

  “The bit over the bone might hurt a little more,” Vanessa tells him, “but you know that.”

  “Try not to focus on the pain,” I offer, remembering my very weird snorkeling therapy session with Weston.

  I can see this will be a long process, and I walk over to the reception, and peruse a few tattoo magazines and the binder of tattoo photos.

  I try to
enjoy myself, but thoughts of impending torture loom overhead. I look over at Gabe once in a while. He seems pretty relaxed. How bad could it be? But then again, Gabe is no stranger to pain.

  The tattoo is looking good. Sexy. This one is just for me. As Vanessa starts to ink my name on his flesh, I smile. Part of me likes it, I can’t deny it. A symbol of his love for me, marked permanently on his flesh, to disappear only when his body turns to ashes or earth.

  This is wicked sexy.

  Finally, after quite a while, Vanessa is done. “Come and see.”

  I stand and check out her work. “Looks great,” I offer, shooting a smile at Gabe. He winks at me.

  Vanessa rubs an ointment on the inked skin and tapes a bandage on. “You know the drill,” she says to Gabe. “But I’ll be giving you the care instructions when you leave.”

  Gabe pulls his briefs and pants back up and gets up from the chair with a wince, his movements slow.

  “Are you sore?” I ask him, concerned more about my impending pain than anything else.

  “I’m good,” he says with a kiss on my cheek. “Your turn.”

  I lay back on the sleek black leather chair, eyes closed. I suck in a breath and exhale slowly. I can do this.

  “It’s pretty much the same ride for you,” Vanessa says as she pulls out another transfer from her folder. She eyes me with a hint of a smile. “You sure you want to do this?” she asks me one last time.

  I look over at Gabe, who is sitting on the chair, smiling at me. “Yes, positive.” I want to do this for him. With everything I’ve put him through this past year, he deserves to know I’m devoted to him. No matter how many times I tell him I want to spend the rest of my life with him, nothing will convey it more than this tattoo. Actions speak louder than words, as they say. “Let’s get on with it.”

  We go over the positioning and she presses the transfer onto my skin. Although I don’t feel too nervous yet, my hands do feel clammy, and it suddenly gets a few degrees hotter. The panic officially sets in when she rips open one of those needles pouches. The sight of it gets me breathing fast.

  “Just do your breathing,” Gabe tells me. He knows the signs of a panic attack. He’s witnessed a few over the years. I need to get a hold of myself. I do my breathing exercises; they’re very similar to the labor breathing exercises I practiced in my prenatal classes. I close my eyes and decide it’s best not to look anymore.