by Julia Kent
“Jesus Christ.” Dec starts pacing, his hair-covered calves flexing as he walks fast, hands on hips. Hypnotized, I watch one long muscle on the side of his shin tighten in, then release. Tighten, release. I could watch this forever.
“And now I’m Mrs. Tapas?” I joke, eyes on his gorgeous legs.
He looks at my shirt. “Not yet.”
Even I have to laugh at that.
He doesn’t smile, the smoldering look enough to make me reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head, a warm breeze tickling my bare skin at the perfect moment.
“I love watching your skin react in real time,” he says, just observing me. I feel vulnerable, but not awkward. He’s my husband. If you can’t be naked and fully seen in every possible way with your soul mate, then when do you become real? This is it. The big time. He walks toward me, and I step into his space, expecting more.
Yet he holds back.
“You’re so beautiful.”
I stroke a slash of chocolate on my belly. “Minty fresh, too.”
He doesn’t smile, eyes narrowing into green slivers, his thick, dark brow full of authority and contemplation.
“Shannon, I—”
Tap tap tap.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he groans, deflating and expanding at the same time. “Who is it?”
“Bottle service, sir. And fine cheeses,” says a disembodied voice from the other side of the door.
My stomach rumbles. Sounds exactly like the sound Declan makes right now.
He looks at the door.
Looks at my bare breasts.
Door.
Breasts.
My stomach votes. It’s like Brexit: does he tell the guy to remain or leave?
“Come in,” Declan says with a sigh, waving me into the bathroom, where I wiggle into my filthy purple shirt.
A beaming staff member rolls in a room service tray with enough cheese for a fromagerie.
“Mr. and Mrs. McCormick! Allow me to—”
Dec grabs the bottle of Gewürztraminer. “Thank you. We’re good.”
The man panics. “But I have strict orders to air the wine and—”
Shove.
Click.
I walk back into the room. Pressing his back against the door, Declan closes his eyes, weary. “I’m so glad we’re not being interrupted by the paparazzi,” he drones on.
I chuckle, moving toward the food, finding a piece of sheep’s milk manchego and a delicious slice of what looks like overripe cantaloupe. I shove both in my mouth, juice pouring out of the corner of my closed lips.
“Mmmm. What is this?” I point to the orange fruit. “Not cantaloupe.”
He opens his eyes and follows my finger. “Papaya. Fresh.”
“They make it fresh? I’ve only ever had it dried.”
“That kind of papaya comes from a different tree, grown pre-dehydrated.”
I toss a grape at his head. It pings off his forehead and back at me.
He charges, tackling me gently, rolling me onto a small carpet, pinning me beneath his hot, tight body.
“You’re going to pay for that.” Hungry hands cup my breasts, the fruity taste of papaya mingling with his lips on mine.
Tap tap tap.
“GO AWAY!” we shout in unison.
“Your couple’s massage appointment, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick? We are here with tables ready for your pleasure.”
“My pleasure is under me, more than ready,” Declan says, banging his forehead gently on the tile floor.
I’m torn.
On the one hand, hot sex with Declan.
On the other hand, a nice massage.
No reason we can’t have both, right?
“Let’s get the massage, and then we’ll be all oiled up and ready for slick sex,” I whisper, biting his earlobe. “So smooth, so slippery, like oily eels finding new ways to make everything fit. Bet I can make you feel an electric arc run through your blood if I try hard enough, too.”
He perks up, sitting on his knees like a prairie dog poking his head out of a hole. “I like how you think.”
“I hope so. You’re stuck with my way of thinking for the next sixty years.”
Declan kisses my cheek, stands, and strides across the room, opening the door to find two workers carrying massage tables, dressed in scrubs.
“Come in,” he says, damn grumpy for a guy who’s about to get a luxury massage on the beach in Hawaii at night, under a beautiful star-filled sky. “Let’s get this over with.”
Declan
I generally don’t strip naked when I’m angry unless there’s sex as a reward.
A massage has to do. Someone’s hands other than my wife’s are all over me, and I have to admit it feels damn nice.
Shannon’s moaning and groaning on her massage table, making it hard for me.
Just hard.
“Declan?” she says in a low, rasping voice, like a film noir heroine. The voice makes my throat tighten, like she’s lightly running her fingernails over my ass.
But with her voice.
“Mmmm?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“We’re married.”
“Yes.”
“Forever.”
“Yes.”
“That’s profound.”
“Excuse me,” I say to my massage therapist, body tensing at the strange sing-songy way she’s speaking. “Is this massage oil entheogenic?” Andrew and Amanda drank wine spiked with hallucinogens. Maybe it’s a trend.
“What? No, sir. It’s jojoba oil with lavender. A little coconut. Does it not please you?” she asks, alarmed. “We can get entheogenic oil if you’d prefer. What is an entheogen? Is it an herb? A flower?”
“Never mind.” I settle back down. “We’re fine,” mumble into the face cradle.
“Declan?” Shannon asks.
“Yes?”
“Are you sure you made the right choice?” Her voice carries from her face cradle to mine, echoing oddly.
“Marrying you?”
“Mmmm hmmm.”
“More than sure.”
“In sickness and in health?”
“Yes.”
“In toilets and in tapas bars?”
“’Til death do us part.”
“You could have had anyone in the world,” she murmurs.
“No,” I reply, my answer stuck in the space between the ribs over my heart. “I couldn’t. Just you.”
And then she zones out, her light, steady breathing making it clear she’s relaxed, giving into the change of blood flow, her parasympathetic nervous system taking over as she trusts completely and lets go.
Someday I’ll know what that feels like.
Today is not that day.
My phone buzzes across the room, constantly vibrating against the dresser top, a reminder of a new business acquisition and parents who just don’t know when to quit. Isn’t the point of having children to raise them to be independent and to let them go? Dad says so.
Dad is a hypocrite.
I hid the truth from Shannon. Again. During those five hours she slept, I fended off more messages from Dad and Marie. Approved the auction bid on a signed piece of Yes memorabilia, handwritten notes from one of their first songs. Convinced Koshigiri to give me another phone call in an hour, and here I am, wrapping up a massage.
And Shannon knows about none of it.
Grace’s words haunt me as the massage therapist works on my neck.
I’m protecting Shannon. Not lying. There is a difference. A huge difference.
The outcome of my actions may be the same, but my purpose is different. Not telling her about Marie and Dad comes from a place of concern. Our honeymoon should be about us. Not them. Why bring her into their drama? I can contain it. Manage it.
Squelch it.
I open my eyes slowly as the massage therapist softly whispers that she’s done, her hands receding, the glow of the massage over. I’m tense but the ho
ur of silence helped clarify what I need to do next.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing. I’ll read through my messages and then shut off my phone. Grace is having the diamond earrings delivered straight here. Resort staff will help with a gift box and a proper meal. I’ll wine and dine my bride in the way she deserves, and then we’ll have sex until we burn so many calories we have to leave the room.
Or get room service.
Bride’s choice.
Our massage therapists wrap it up fast, leaving the table for Shannon to snooze on, her deep relaxation making me smile. One of her arms slips out from under the sheet and hangs.
It’s her left arm, the wedding ring shining. Everywhere I look, I see our bands.
Out of habit, I grab my phone, walking naked across the room, legs slick with oil. As I grasp my smartphone it buzzes, a series of sounds like vinegar being poured over baking soda and Pop Rocks.
As I open the text app, I see why.
Hundreds of texts from my father and Marie.
I’m about to ignore both when the corner of my eye catches the last few words of Marie’s latest text.
...a present-opening party at your apartment that you’re hosting....
Wait a minute.
I scroll up, checking the older messages.
To find she has invaded my home. Text after text from Marie.
We took the spare key you gave us and brought all the wedding presents to your place.
Oh, my, you have an extensive wine collection.
They make special refrigerators just for wine?
You own so many pairs of black dress shoes, Declan.
A low moan starts, deep in my chest, damn close to that spot over my heart. Shannon makes a light mewling sound, a smile crossing her mouth briefly. Sweet slumber.
Good.
Because I’m living a real-life nightmare here.
I open the text box and type:
Get the hell out of my house, Marie. Now.
Then I slam the phone down on the dresser and shove both hands in my hair, tugging lightly up. I breathe, long, deep breaths that make my oiled-up abs tighten against my spine, the movement rhythmic, making me calmer. It’s dark and we’re outside on a little patio, no true door between the outdoors and the room. Complete privacy here in Hawaii – aside from being constantly interrupted by staff – makes Marie’s intrusion back home seem more transgressive.
Bzzzz.
Haha Declan. Funny. We’re just helping!
I frown. Wait a minute. I blocked her. Didn’t I block her?
I look at my phone. Yes. I did.
I blocked you. How are you texting me?
Jeffrey did something with a phone so I could text you again. You didn’t really block me, silly. You wouldn’t do that to your own mother-in-law. He fixed your mistake.
Jeffrey, huh? I need to pull him aside when we’re home and put him on retainer. I can pay off a ten-year-old kid to keep him from helping his grandma with tech issues.
He won’t come cheap, but whatever price he quotes is better than the price of Marie’s antics.
I did block you. I’ll do it again. But first, get out of my house. You have five minutes.
I can’t help myself. I add:
It has to be three in the morning there. What are you doing up?
She replies back with: I couldn’t sleep for some reason. Feel antsy. Not hot-flash antsy, like I used to --
Oh, God. Do I really want to read the rest of this? No, but...
Like something’s wrong. Is Shannon OK? she finishes.
Bzzz. My phone rings. It’s Marie.
“You are about three seconds away from being banned from our life,” I say into the phone before she can even draw the first breath to start her ludicrous defense of her behavior.
“Eep!” is all Marie says.
“You do not have the right to use our spare apartment key to come into my home, go through my closet, check out my wine collection, and rummage through the gifts,” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low. All traces of the relaxing massage are long gone.
“But I was trying to help and get your gifts here and we were just -- ”
“No.”
“But I -- ”
“No. Do you understand the word no?”
“But -- ”
“Not but, Marie. No. Leave my house. Do not ever use that spare key unless it’s to get into the apartment after Shannon and I die in a freak accident together.”
A sharp, shrill intake of air fills the line. “Don’t say that! How morbid!”
“I can say whatever I want, Marie. I am a separate individual from you. I have my own thoughts. My own ideas. My own life. My own imperatives. I am not dependent on you emotionally, physically, or financially. Neither is Shannon. I do not know how much more crystal clear I can make this: stop crossing every boundary in our lives.”
“Shannon doesn’t think like you do, Dec -- ”
“Shannon ran away from you, Marie. At her own wedding. In front of a thousand guests. On television. And you think that’s not proof that you cross boundaries.” I do not phrase this as a question.
Silence.
“Let me give you some insight into how things are going to work from now on, Marie.”
Silence.
“My home is my home. You come over when you’re invited. Never, ever at any other time.”
“But -- ”
“AND, my family is my family. Right now, that means Shannon. Eventually, that will mean kids, too.”
“I was hoping you’d have grandchildren right away -- ”
“Children. Not grandchildren. See what you’re doing? You’re describing my life in terms of your life. That is not how the world works. I describe my life in terms of me. My children. Not your grandchildren. I decide. Shannon decides. We decide. You do not get to decide what happens in our life.”
“You just don’t understand, Declan, because you didn’t have parents who -- ”
I interrupt her. “I didn’t have a mother who treats her children like they’re extensions of herself that she can use to live out the parts of her life that she wishes she had.”
Until this moment, I didn’t know silence had degrees of severity to it. Whatever you want to call the next few seconds, the word “silence” doesn’t do it justice.
Soft weeping fills the line.
Shannon would tell me this is the part where I should feel guilty. I inventory my emotions.
I give it five seconds.
Nope. Not guilty at all.
If anything, I do feel regret.
Regret for not confronting Marie sooner.
“This isn’t a misunderstanding,” I say in a gentler voice, knowing I need to make my points. Drive them home. I’m not going in for the kill. I have no desire to destroy my relationship with Marie, because despite her flaws, she’s a good person at heart, and she loves Shannon dearly.
But I have to take a stand.
“When people disagree with you, Marie, they’re not misinformed. They’re not going to come around after you run roughshod over them and then suddenly see life your way. I want privacy in my life. I want a life with clear, delineated lines between who Shannon and I grow into being together and who we are separately in the world. You aren’t allowing us to do this. I’m done allowing you to have any say whatsoever in my life. Get. Out. Of. My. Apartment. Go home. Go home to your home, to your husband. I am Shannon’s core person now. She is mine. You’re her family of origin, but I am her family of creation.”
“Okay,” she says in a childlike voice. “I’m sorry.”
None of this makes me feel victorious.
“Thank you.”
“But will you still host a gift opening party?”
“How about you ask us that when we get home.”
“But....um, okay. Good idea.” She’s choking her way through this.
“And stop asking when we’re producing grandchildren. Every time you ask, we’ll push the d
ate back a month.”
“You wouldn’t!”
My turn to use silence to my advantage.
“Fine,” she sighs. “Fine.”
“Good bye, Marie.” I hang up while I’m ahead.
A text appears on my phone.
Dad.
Can you find a luau with a monkey in it? Monkeys are trending on social media, according to our PR managers, and a video with you and Shannon with a monkey could get Anterdec great press.
I close the text box. I have a limit of one overbearing parent per twenty-four hours.
I slide on workout clothes.
I get ready to go for a run under the moon. Might even howl at it, too.
Just then, my phone buzzes.
Koshigiri.
And away we go.
Chapter 6
Shannon
A shard of bright glass pierces my eye. Turns out sunlight can feel like a weapon if used in the right quantity and at just the right time. I roll over on my back, my neck cosseted by fine silk, goose feathers making my pillow perfectly lumpy. I’m naked, and smooth.
So smooth.
Why am I so smooth?
And alone.
“Dec?”
Silence.
“Declan?” Next to the bed, there is a tray with coffee in an insulated pitcher, cream, sparkling water, papaya and pineapple, and chunks of peeled coconut.
Someone’s attended to my needs.
Well, most of them.
I do a mental check. Then a halfway physical one, reaching down, correlating what my mind knows with how my body feels.
Nope. We did not have sex last night.
So where’s my husband?
“Declan?” I sit up, plump pillows behind me, and pour some coffee and cream. The aroma arouses me before I even take a sip, the rich, resonant tones of Kona coffee playing across my tongue like I’m royalty.
I’m suddenly way more interested in that Kona coffee plantation visit.
I look on Declan’s mussed side of the bed. The sheets are stained with little oil streaks. Given how slippery I am, I imagine my half of the bed is the same.
I remember the massages we had, next to each other.
And then—nothing.
Did I fall asleep? How did I get in bed? I tent the covers. Huh. Panties. All I’m wearing is panties.
