Triple Love Score

by Brandi Megan Granett

  She pressed herself more tightly against him. They stood there until they couldn’t bear the cold. When they finally broke from the railing, a lone jogger stopped to tie his shoe behind them.

  “Could you take our picture?” Ronan asked.

  “Cold night for it, but sure,” the jogger said, taking Ronan’s phone. He snapped several, turning the phone this way and that. “I wanted to get the right one,” he said. “Has to be a special evening to be out at the Falls just for a look.”

  “Right one, indeed,” Ronan said. “Thank you.”

  He took the phone back and pocketed it quickly, not sharing the pictures with Miranda. It was so cold that she didn’t protest.

  “Let’s find a hotel,” Miranda said. “A warm room would be perfect right about now.”

  “I’d be happy with just a bed.”

  “A warm bed?”

  “Nah, we’ll warm it up.”

  When they got inside the hotel, Ronan insisted on signing them in and paying. “I told you, Miranda, my dollars will be worthless soon. I’d rather spend them on you.”

  “But you don’t have to,” she said.

  “But, I want to. Please let me.”

  She nodded and stepped away from the desk to examine the magazines in the lobby. She eavesdropped on Ronan turning on the brogue for the cute girl behind the counter. Then she heard him say, “my wife.” Her ears burned. Wife? What was he talking about? She returned to his side.

  “Here she is now.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Yes, husband,” she said, deciding to play along, though the word caught in her throat a little. She wasn’t meant to be an actress.

  “It’s so nice that you are celebrating your anniversary here! Let me get you a Falls view room near the top.”

  They wound up more than just near the top; the windows of their penthouse room wrapped around the corner of the building. They could see the Falls from every angle without any wind chill at all. After gawking for a few minutes and warming up, Miranda pulled off her coat, hat, and scarf. She started to walk toward the bathroom when Ronan caught her hand.

  “Come back,” he said. He scooped her into an embrace and pressed her against the smooth cool glass of the window. With his free hand, he tore at her clothes, quickly removing them and his own.

  “But the window,” she said.

  “No one can see in, but who cares if they can?” He lifted her up and moved, gently rocking into her. The glass around them fogged. When he shuddered with orgasm, he didn’t stop rocking. Her legs were about to buckle, then her own release came. She collapsed against him. Before she became a puddle on the floor, he picked her up honeymoon style and placed her gently on the bed. They didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. Ronan dozed off, and she lay there staring at the lights in the ceiling.

  It wasn’t love. At least not yet. She didn’t want to dismiss that possibility. A good girl shouldn’t do these things without some romantic future, some possible commitment looming. This felt like eating donuts for dinner—a grand idea, all in good fun, until the stomachache hit.

  After a few minutes he stirred awake. “I could really grow to love this,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

  “You and love. Why does it have to be that? You’re leaving. This isn’t some sort of ploy for a green card is it?” She let out a laugh and turned her head to look him in the eyes. Miranda felt his body tense.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  She heard Danielle’s words in her head. Red flag much. It was her turn to tense. She pulled herself upright.

  “What do I think?”

  “You think that I am using you. Using you so I can stay here.”

  “And you aren’t, right? I didn’t really think that, I was just joking.”

  “But, Miranda, I am using you. Not for a green card. I’ve been in the States for three years. In that time, I have made no friends. Published nothing. I earned a degree that is essentially worthless unless I want to keep teaching people how to string words together themselves, so that they can be just as unemployable in the future. No offense. You are a good teacher, suited for it. But I am not, but that isn’t the point here. The point here is that nothing I have done for the last three years has mattered. To me or to anyone else. I only came in the first place to support my sister, and that didn’t even matter—she left me here.”

  “But none of this has anything to do with me.”

  “But it does, Miranda. You are going to be the one thing I do that matters. The one thing that makes a difference in this place that I have landed in and will soon leave. I want you to remember me.”

  Something shifted inside her. She reached out and placed a hand on his chest right over his heart. The thump resonated through her hand joining her own pulse. “Remember you?” she said. “How could I forget? I’ve never done this before.”

  “Surely, I wasn’t your first.”

  “Not my first like that. But you are the first time I have given into my body instead of my brain.”

  “So you’ll remember me, then?”

  “Remember you? I don’t think I will ever be able to forget. And if we keep carrying on like this, I won’t want you to go. Did you ever think how unfair this is to do to a person?”

  “Unfair, lady? Really what we just did was unfair? I will heartily disagree and say instead that it should be celebrated—with champagne, in fact!” He rose from the bed and put his hands on his hips in a Superman pose.

  “Champagne?” she asked. “At this hour?”

  While Ronan dialed for room service, Miranda pulled out a piece of notepaper from her purse, scrawling champagne, bubbly, falls. Niagara. She would have to work on it. Find seven-letter words. She felt a bit tipsy already. Maybe falling in love felt like this. She looked up at Ronan, still naked, every part of him firm and taunt. He smiled at her. She smiled back. Wherever the next nineteen days would take her, she would be happy to go. And when they ended, well, she would deal with that then. It didn’t have to be love; you didn’t need love to have a good time.

  The next morning, woozy with champagne and late-night love making, they tumbled out of their hotel onto the boardwalk that led to the Falls’ overlook. Miranda spent some time taking pictures from different angles, trying to capture Ronan in a serious pose. Every time she thought she had it, he mugged a big smile or stuck out his tongue. Before they turned to go back to her car, they stood at the edge and just listened to the Falls thundering below. The early afternoon sunlight caught the spray and created a rainbow just across the gorge in front of them.

  Neither pointed it out to the other; they just stood there watching it until the light shifted, and the colors vanished from the sky. They remained silent for a little bit after that, holding hands tightly as they walked back to the car.

  At the car, he took her keys from her and opened the driver’s door. She thought for a moment he would drive, but instead he stepped aside and motioned for her to get in. As she slid past his open arms, he embraced her, his lips finding hers instantly. They kissed so long and so hard that Miranda thought she would lose her breath.

  “Thank you,” he finally said. “Thank you for building a memory with me.”

  By midweek, he had just about moved in. She left the apartment only briefly to attend mandatory end of term meetings and teach her Monday and Tuesday class, a class Ronan gladly skipped for once. He kept up his appointments and classes at the tutoring center. But other than that, for the next five days, they sequestered themselves within her apartment, cooking meals with ingredients Ronan ordered online and had delivered. They set the table with matching plates and the two cloth napkins she owned. They lit every candle, even the oddly shaped decorative candles, burning down snowman’s hats and Easter rabbit ears. The apartment glowed from the candles and the space between their own bodies. They talked. And talked. And talked.

  “Tell me about your mother,” he said over a plate of shepherd’s pie.

  “She got si
ck when I was ten and died when I was twelve. She loved the law, research, planning things, the beach but not the sand, and pancakes with real maple syrup.” She paused to take another sip of wine. She didn’t really mind talking about her mom, but no one outside her family and the Cramers knew her well enough to ask about her; when most people found out she had died, they dropped the question and looked away. “What about you? What’s your mom like?” she asked.

  “It’s hard to say what my mom is like. She doesn’t really talk. The only time I’ve been able to see her, really see her, was at my oldest sister’s wedding. She had a bit to drink and started dancing. She danced with my sisters, then her brothers, and finally all by herself. It was like she finally felt free. She celebrated a job well done. She successfully got a daughter married without getting knocked up.”

  “A big accomplishment?”

  “Indeed. That’s one of the reasons they sent me here after my youngest sister. As if by me being here, my presence alone could stop conception.”

  “Well, it worked right?”

  “Yeah, but that’s cause the guy was a fool and let her go running back to Ireland. She’s now dating a guy that installs carpet with my uncle. I think they’ll get married in the spring. And that will leave only me. Four sisters all married, and me, the bachelor poet.”

  “I thought you were giving that up?”

  “Being a bachelor? You’re not proposing are you? I said I didn’t want a green card marriage. I’m really too romantic for that. Poet and all.” He leaned over the still-steaming plates and kissed her on the lips. “But for you, I might consider the offer.”

  “Not being a bachelor, being a poet. You said you would become a plumber or lay carpet or something.”

  “Bah, I dunno. I’m not really serious about all that. I might teach junior school. There’s going to be an opening at the school in my village.”

  “Junior school? Like toddlers and kindergarten?”

  “Like junior high here. Early teens, like at the center. After they know something about the world, but before all the ideas get fixed. I think you can make a difference there. But not poetry. Writing is okay but not poetry. I’ve had enough teaching poetry.”

  “I like that. Before the ideas get fixed. Do you think ideas can ever get unfixed in a person?”

  “Do you mean do I think people can change?”

  “Yeah, can people change?”

  “I hope so, Miranda. If people can change, then anything is possible.”

  She let the silence fall between them as she finished her meal.

  “Food good?” Ronan asked.

  “Wonderful, thank you,” she said, her mouth still full. Her pocketed cell phone buzzed, probably with emails from Ambrose and maybe from Scott. She didn’t read them and didn’t reply.

  C H A P T E R

  THAT FRIDAY, Ronan announced, “We need a Christmas tree.”

  “But we won’t be here for the holidays. I need to go to my parents’ house.” She remembered Lynn’s excited voice over the phone and Scott’s promise of “in person.” And while their time at Niagara Falls made her feel a little bit closer to Ronan, it didn’t erase all of her doubts; part of it felt much too fast.

  “I’m not asking you to skip. I’m asking for a Christmas tree. There’s no rule that says you can’t enjoy a tree before Christmas Eve is there? I know you Americans do things differently, but surely you wouldn’t deny me a small part of a holiday celebration.”

  “Deny you? As if I deny you anything,” she said. Then she climbed on top of him. Her hair fell from its bun around her face. He reached up and tucked it behind her ears.

  “You haven’t asked me to your parents. Some could say that is a denial.”

  “Well, I mean, it’s just my family and—” Miranda stammered. Panic flooded her; she couldn’t imagine bringing Ronan home for Christmas.

  “You are very beautiful when you blush, Miranda. And don’t worry. I don’t want to meet your parents just yet. It’s too soon for that. Parents only complicate things. They’re lawyers, right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Why?” She wiggled free and moved to climb out of bed.

  “No reason,” he said. Then he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Stay,” he said. “Let me look at you.”

  She turned and sat cross-legged on the bed. “Look all you want,” she said. “Then we will go get you a Christmas tree. A small one. Okay?”

  “Take off your top,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I said I wanted to look at you.”

  “It’s your top actually,” she said, shrugging it off. “Anything else?”

  “Well, yes, you could take everything off.”

  “Oh, everything, okay.” She wiggled free of her pajama pants. Her nipples grew taut in the cool of the room. A light freckling of goose bumps appeared on her thighs. He made no move to touch her. She shifted a little, avoiding his eyes, which moved all over her body from head to toe.

  “Very beautiful,” he finally said. “But that’s not it.”

  “What’s not it? Can I get dressed?”

  “No,” he said, reaching out to stroke the top of her thigh. “Stay like this. Let me kiss you.” He tugged at her feet, making her stretch her legs out in front of her. He started kissing her toes, then her ankles, and knees, and thighs. He lingered there, teasing his tongue along the inside edge. With a light touch, he pushed her legs apart and kissed her higher and higher until his tongue connected with her body. She settled back against the pillows, unable to stay upright. He grabbed her hips and began to massage them using the same rhythm as his tongue against her. His tongue slipped inside her, first slow and then fast, alternating between penetrating and licking. Her whole body shuddered in ecstasy.

  “Thank you, thank you,” she said.

  “I love you,” he said. Then he got up and padded out of the room.

  She listened to him open the medicine cabinet and brush his teeth, then the shower starting, the low hum of a song she didn’t know. He loved her. Or at least he said he did. Some women dream of hearing such a confession, pull out all the stops to make it happen, and here she was, just lying there, thinking the only thing she wanted in that moment was a shower. By herself.

  The Christmas tree lot stood at the edge of town in front of the VFW hall. Old school light bulbs with vibrant filaments glowed faintly despite the noon sun. Ronan bounced through the lanes of trees. Every few feet he would stop and pull out a tree. He’d twirl it like a dance partner, then lean it back up against the rope propping the trees up.

  “I’ll know it when I see it,” he said.

  “I like short ones,” Miranda said. “Avery always gets the tallest to fill the ceiling, but I like short chubby ones. More homely. In a good way.”

  “Ah, the lady has a tree preference. Good to know.” He clapped his hands together and skipped ahead. “How about this?” he said. He pulled out a tree almost as wide as it was tall.

  Miranda mimicked his bounce. “Yes, yes, yes,” she said. “It’s perfect!”

  “Perfect?” he asked. “Can’t be. Nothing is better than you.”

  She leaned up on her toes and kissed him. He nearly dropped the tree from the force of her, toppling them both over.

  “Whoa,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time for that after we get this tree home, my lady.”

  As Ronan struggled to get the tree tied to the roof of her car, Miranda finally took out her phone to read her emails. There were twelve from Ambrose. They all said the same thing: “I don’t care when you sign the contract, but you need to keep posting. Don’t let the brand die while you decide. Post more.” And there was one from Scott, equally short, “Sign with Ambrose. Fair contract. Looking forward to seeing you on Christmas. Lynn says hey.”

  Christmas. A day that normally meant very little to her now felt like a hinge on which her life turned. Should she waste the last few days she had with Ronan by going home to Connecticut? What does it
mean that Scott is looking forward to seeing her? And then there’s Lynn. On Christmas. The possibility of that pulled at her in ways she didn’t expect. Along with Blocked Poet and the deal and the writing. And Ronan.

  Okay, she replied to Ambrose.

  Tell Lynn I said hey, she replied to Scott. And thanks, she added before hitting send.

  “What is it?” Ronan asked when he got in the car. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine; why?”

  “Your brow is furrowed. What are you thinking about?”

  “Work. That’s all. Work.”

  “Work? I thought your classes ended.”

  “They did. I have this other thing going. I’ll show you when we get home. After the tree, okay? One problem, though. I don’t have any decorations.”

  “I’ll get them. I’m pretty sure I can afford some fairy lights. And candy canes. You can show me your work when I get back.”

  Before he left, Ronan maneuvered the tree into place in her living room window. Without a proper stand, it leaned against the glass completely blocking the light from outside.

  “I’ll get a stand, too,” he said.

  She pulled out the Scrabble board and put on the coffee pot. The tree haphazardly installed in her living room window fueled boards about Christmas and glad tidings. Noel and Mistletoe, breaking the seven-letters-only rule this once. She photographed as many sculpture poems as she could.

  Once she started posting the pictures, she saw Ambrose’s point. The account for Blocked Poet binged repeatedly from likes and forwards and retweets and new Twitter and Instagram followers. Six or seven poems and her reach expanded. She printed out the contract from Ambrose, signed it, and slipped it into the scanner to email back. She didn’t know exactly what he could do for her, but whatever it was, she was up for the journey. She dug out the bottle of Champagne from last New Year’s Eve and found the fancy glasses. Ronan returned, cheeks flush from the walk to the shopping center and laden with bags containing many strands of lights, glass baubles for the tree, and candy canes in multiple flavors and colors.