Every Breath You Take

by Bianca Sloane

  Distractions.

  That’s what the problem was, what it had always been. Too many goddang distractions.

  Lesson learned.

  He knew he couldn’t do what he’d done before. He’d lost too much time that way and in the end had ruined everything. He’d learned patience in the hospital.

  Now he had to learn to be smart.

  He needed to remove the distractions, make it so that it was just the two of them, with no one to whisper in her ear or turn her head.

  It was his mission to save her from those others.

  They needed a house. A house just for them, where they could live together in peace, far from the distractions that had gotten in the way the first time.

  Finding the house had been easy. There were so many foreclosures in the area, all he had to do was find an auction. It was almost embarrassing how little he paid in the end—all cash. He could thank his grandparents for leaving him that trust fund, the one he was able to get his hands on just before he skipped out on his parents. It was funny how they didn’t overturn the terms of the trust so he couldn’t access the money. Well, he couldn’t worry about why they’d done something or why they hadn’t. All he could do was be glad, because without it, he wouldn’t be able to do any of this.

  Chapter 21

  SHE

  Natalie eyed the canned green beans and greasy chicken floating on the paper plate in front of her and fought the urge to vomit all over them. She couldn’t stomach the metallic mush of the beans or the slimy, fatty chicken breast. After every meal, he would prod her for praise, trying to extract her gratitude for cooking such wonderful meals for her. He always liked to tell her he knew her better than she knew herself: what she liked, what she didn’t. Yet, he always made her do what he wanted. Eat what he wanted. Be his adoring little puppet.

  He called these forced ritualistic meals their quiet time where they could talk and confide in each other. The reality was his alternately blathering on about himself and his unyielding obsession with her or poking her with endless, incessant questions about what she thought about him. What she had thought the first time they met. What she thought about when he said this or when he did that. Sometimes, she thought he was trying to provoke her into declaring her love for him. Or her hatred.

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of professing either.

  She turned her focus back to him now, sitting in a chair at the end of the bed and chattering on about “the future.” She noticed he liked to do that. Babble on about “the future” and what they would do in “the future.” How they would spend their days and what life would be like with just the two of them. He never talked about the present. She wondered whether his conscience ever bothered him and if it was too hard for him to face exactly how he’d blown her life apart. Or maybe he didn’t care. It was as if it was easier to live in some nether region of “the future,” where his overly detailed obsessions dictated her life . . . much the way they had done in all these weeks—had it been weeks? No, it had to be months since he’d forced her to come here. The other day—at least she thought it was the other day—she thought she felt the vent in her room blow heat. That must mean summer had passed and winter was imminent.

  Didn’t it?

  Chapter 22

  SHE

  Natalie sniffed and pulled the collar of her black wool coat closer to her neck. As much as she loved Chicago, she didn’t dig the cold, bony fingers of winter clawing at her.

  Funny enough, though, she hadn’t minded winter in Paris at all.

  Paris with Jason had been a fairy tale. After the usual whirl of holiday parties and other social obligations, they spent a frenetic Christmas with his family, swept up in a tidal wave of presents and traditions of church on Christmas Eve and a big breakfast of gooey cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs that were more cheese than eggs, and fat logs of sausage before spending the morning opening presents. She was embarrassed by the shower of gifts from his family, but Jason had just laughed and said it meant she was part of the tribe. In private, he gave her a sterling silver heart tag charm bracelet and a hefty gold-tinted padlock, telling her she’d find out what it was for later; she gave him a platinum watch inscribed “Always, Natalie.”

  They departed for Paris the next morning, and as tired as she was, she was too excited to sleep. After Jason finished his business, they spent their days exploring the Louvre, strolling along the Left Bank, visiting the Arc de Triomphe and ice skating at the rink outside the Hôtel de Ville—well, trying to, since they were both terrible; they spent more time edging along the side and trying not to go spinning across the ice. They crowded into the Champs-Élysées to welcome in the New Year, wishing each other “bonne année” at midnight and kissing long and slow as the crowd exploded around them. She couldn’t get enough of the little cafés with their buttery pastries and delicate cafés au laits or the French markets, bursting with cheeses, meats, baguettes, jams, and jellies. On their last night, he surprised her with a dinner reservation at Le Jules Verne in the Eiffel Tower, and they watched fireworks from the balcony of their hotel.

  Yes, she would always remember December in Paris.

  She smiled now, on her way home after brunch with Christine and Brandy at Wildberry. She needed to do a few hours of work from home before she met Brandy later that night. Jason was in California on business for a few days, and they’d talked five or six times a day since he’d been gone. Brandy and Christine had joked at brunch that they’d be walking down the aisle as bridesmaids any day now. She didn’t let on to the girls, but she hoped that’s where things were headed. It wasn’t that they had talked about it, but she just had a feeling that soon . . . she would be Mrs. Jason Hudson. Natalie Scott Hudson. Natalie Hudson. She smiled. They all had a nice ring to them.

  She grabbed her mail, melting when she saw Jason’s familiar cream stationery sitting upright in the box with an L.A. postmark. She waited until she was upstairs, not wanting to share her reaction to his words with anyone.

  Scotty,

  Even when I’m out of town, I just can’t stop writing letters. What is that about? ;-)

  So, I was looking at the calendar today and realized we’ve been together almost eight months. That’s wild, isn’t it? Who would’ve thought, right? I know you didn’t. I’ve always prided myself on proving people wrong, and let me tell you, I’m glad I was able to prove your first impression of me wrong. You better be glad, too! ;-)

  Okay, okay, all jokes aside, these past eight months have been . . . great. Wait, that’s too trite, isn’t it? Amazing? Crazy? Spectacular? Okay, I’ll stop, ’cause I’m starting to sound more than a little cheesy, though you should be used to that by now. :P

  I guess I should start with ‘thank you’ for taking a chance on me and not holding all my weirdness against me—then or now (ha ha!). I love that you just laugh at me or that you join right in or that you totally call me on stuff when I need it. You just get me and are the best thing that ever happened to me. If Paris didn’t show you that, then, baby, I’m fresh out of ideas ;-).

  So, here’s to eight more months. And eight more months after that and so on and so on and so on. You think you can handle it (if you can survive catfish Fridays, you can survive anything, right ;-P)? No, what I mean to say is, I can’t wait and I hope you can’t either.

  Love, Love, Love

  Jason

  “Catfish Fridays,” Natalie said, laughing to herself about Jason’s hankering for catfish at least two Friday nights out of the month, which prompted trips to his favorite spot on the West Side to curb his craving. She didn’t mind a nibble of crispy fish or the accompanying slice of squishy white bread stained orange with hot sauce once in a while, figuring it was a fair trade for his tolerating her occasional penchant for noshing on logs of raw cookie dough in bed, which grossed him out.

  Natalie reread the letter four more times before ambling into her bedroom to pull out the miniature red lacquer trunk with the faux lock to drop this letter on t
op so it could get to know its older siblings. She thumbed through the stack, a faint ribbon of his cologne still lingering across the pages, the creases scruffy and the edges starting to wilt from her obsessive rereading. She’d never received love letters before and sometimes rereading them was the equivalent of pinching herself.

  She forgot all about the press release she was supposed to be writing and pulled his first letter from the bottom of the stack and started reading.

  Chapter 23

  HE

  Everything was almost ready.

  He took a deep breath, relishing the sharp, damp smell of the new paint. He enjoyed the soft crunch of the new carpet beneath his feet. The wink of the shiny new appliances.

  He streamed in and out of the rooms, his imagination already racing ahead to the future they would share here. Of lounging on the couch together while they watched movies, rolled around each other like caterpillars, sharing breakfast and the intimate inside jokes of lovers.

  The images of her in his world . . . finally . . . after all this time made him tremble with a pure, coursing joy he hadn’t experienced in years. It was all he could do to keep from doing cartwheels across the floor.

  She would love it. She would understand that everything he did, he did for her. She’d be grateful. She’d be happy.

  She’d be his.

  He sighed a breathy, contented little sigh as his mind settled back into the present and what needed to happen now.

  Phase two.

  Chapter 24

  SHE

  “You know, as much as I love this restaurant, I think the one in Paris was better.”

  “Which one?” Jason asked.

  “All of them,” she laughed, and he joined in.

  “Paris was pretty amazing, wasn’t it?” he said, his voice soft as he picked up her hand, playing with her fingers.

  “Yeah,” she murmured, smiling at him. “Trip of a lifetime.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “You were a great tour guide.”

  “You know, I do what I do.”

  “That you do.”

  “So . . . you ready to go home?”

  “Your place or mine?” she said, her voice husky and teasing.

  He laughed. “Yours, ’cause mine is a mess.”

  She stood up and he grabbed her hand as they made their way to the front of the restaurant. “Jason, I think the messiest I’ve ever seen your place is when I saw a toast crumb on the counter.”

  “I know, I know, I’m a little compulsive with the cleaning, but I just can’t stand it being messy. And trust me, it’s more than some toast crumbs on the counter.”

  “Well, thank God I’m not a slob,” she said. “I don’t think I would have stood a chance with you.”

  “Eh, maybe half a chance,” he said, winking and giving her a peck on the cheek as they stepped outside, the late winter wind slicing into them both. She clamped her hands around his forearm to keep from blowing away as he hailed a taxi. They bundled into one and gave her address before he snapped his fingers. “Oh. Wait. I just remembered, I’ve got the guy coming over early to try and figure out what’s wrong with the dishwasher. Do you mind just staying at my place tonight?”

  She shrugged. “That’s fine. I’ll just ignore the toast crumbs.”

  He poked her in the ribs and gave the cab driver his address. Within minutes, they pulled up to his building and headed upstairs, drowsy and sated from a night of rich food and wine.

  She let the wall outside his apartment hold her up as he fumbled for his keys. He walked ahead of her into the darkened living room.

  “Hey, baby, can you catch the light?” he asked, his voice moving away from her.

  “Sure,” she said, frowning as she hit the switch next to the door. It smelled like. . .

  She gasped when she looked up to see the entire apartment was flooded with red roses. Short vases. Tall vases. Round vases and square. Petals strewn across the floor. “What is this?”

  “One guess,” he said, coming up behind her to grab her waist as he pointed to the swath of rose petals littering the hardwood. She opened her mouth, but he just kept pointing to the floor. She bit her bottom lip, smiling back at him as she followed the path into the bedroom. Parisian music played softly in the background. The bed was blanketed in red roses, and the overhead lights were dim. In the middle of the bed was a blue Tiffany box tied with silky white ribbon. Her hands flew to her open mouth.

  “Are you kidding?” she whispered as his lips found their way into the groove of her neck.

  “Surprised?” he whispered.

  She could only cry. He held her hand and walked her over to the bed, grabbing the box and standing in front of her, before dropping to one knee. She couldn’t stop the tears, could only stare into his beautiful eyes, look at his beautiful face and thank God for sending this beautiful man to her. He opened the box to reveal a huge emerald-cut platinum ring.

  “Oh, my God, I can’t take it,” she said. “You’re giving me a heart attack.”

  “Come on now, Scotty, don’t die on me yet.”

  She laughed, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her coat. “I’ll try.”

  He licked his lips and looked into her eyes for a moment. “Baby, when I think about my future, I think about how much I want you in it. I want to . . . wake up next to you each morning with your hair lookin’ all crazy, and I want to . . . get annoyed when you start playin’ that crazy music you like to listen to and start singing along—off-key, I might add.”

  “Hey, Backstreet Boys is not crazy music—”

  “Uh huh,” he said, laughing. “Anyway, baby, I wanna be like seventy and still be gettin’ it on like we’re rabbits. . .”

  “Ewww.”

  He let his face lapse into seriousness. “Scotty, what I’m trying to say is that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and so I want to know . . . will you marry me?”

  She couldn’t speak; her only response was to fall to her knees and throw her arms around him. He pulled back and cocked his ear toward her.

  “I don’t think I heard you.”

  “Can’t you tell what my answer is?”

  “Uh uh. I need to hear the word.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice splintering with happiness as they kissed again. He leaned back and slipped the ring on her finger before swooping her up and carrying her to the bed.

  • • •

  The whine and rumble of the garbage truck on the street below woke her. Natalie exhaled and looked over at Jason’s silhouette in the dim morning light. He always looked so . . . pretty when he slept. No snoring, no mouth hanging open with threads of drool sliding out of one corner. Just . . . peaceful. Sweet. She stroked his face for a few seconds before rolling onto her back and holding her hand up, the engagement ring glittering in the smoky grays of early morning.

  She smiled as she remembered the night before: following the trail of roses into the room, him on one knee, her crying, saying yes. Making love as though their lives depended on it.

  She hugged herself before snuggling back into the crook of his arm. He chuckled and slid his other arm across her waist, pulling her to him.

  “Good morning,” he murmured into the wisps of her hair.

  “Hey.”

  “How’d you sleep?” he asked, kissing the back of her neck.

  “I don’t think I did. I was too happy.”

  “Hmmm . . . I’m glad,” he said. “That you were happy, I mean, not that you didn’t sleep.”

  “Did last night really happen?”

  “What, you don’t remember?” he said, laughing.

  “Of course. No, it’s just . . . it was amazing. Awesome. Incredible. Best night of my life.”

  “I’m glad you remember, ’cause I don’t know if I can get down on one knee again, you know? I’m old,” he said.

  “Well, that’s true,” she said before propping herself up on one elbow. “You did a great job, by the way. It’s a beautiful ring.”


  “I can’t take all the credit. Brandy gave me her two cents.”

  Natalie snorted. “Of course she did. Hey. You know I didn’t put her up to that, right?”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “Trust me, I know Brandy does her own thing. No, it was funny, I just happened to run into her one day while I was out at lunch, and she said something like, ‘so when you giving my girl a ring?’ or something like that, and I said, ‘as a matter of fact, I’m gonna start that process pretty soon,’ and the next thing I knew we were at Tiffany’s, and she was giving me thumbs up, thumbs down. Actually . . . this was the first one I looked at.”

  “I love it,” she said, leaning down to kiss him. “So . . . what should we do today? You know, to celebrate.”

  He let his fingertips graze her shoulder before kissing it. “I mean, this is all the celebrating I’m plannin’ on doing. . .”

  “No, no, I feel like we should . . . I don’t know . . . have lunch somewhere fun or take a carriage ride or something. Something.”

  “It’s fifteen degrees outside.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said, laughing. “Scratch the carriage ride.”

  “Like I said, I’m good staying like this all day, every day—”

  “Every day?” she said, giggling. “Are we ever going to work?”

  “Uh uh. We’ll just live off love.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see how long that lasts before the mortgage company comes in to boot our asses out of here.” She looked around. “Of course, we’ll have to clean up all these rose petals first.”

  He sat up and poked the crust of sleep from his eyes. “We’ll need to start moving your stuff in pretty soon, too.”

  “I must love you to give up my high-rise.” She snuggled closer to him. “You know the next question everyone will be asking is when are we going to get married.”

  “That’s up to you, babe. You just tell me when and where and I’m there.”