by M. E. Carter
I shrug and toss my tie and jacket onto the freshly made bed. “Must be that sexy lingerie you’re wearing then. Care to join me in the bath?”
She narrows her eyes at me, putting her hands on her hips. Her pose makes me want to strip the lace right off her body, but I have more important plans. “Are you offering me dirty sex in the bathtub?”
“I was offering you a nice, relaxing bath. But since you mentioned dirty sex, I’m game.”
She rolls her eyes, but takes my hand anyway and follows me in the bathroom. For a hotel, the bathroom is good sized. We didn’t spring for anything fancy when we booked the reservation. Just some local franchise place. The room is pretty standard, but the bathroom was a surprise for both of us. Double vanity with granite countertops. Separate glass shower with a garden tub. I’ve never seen a bathroom like this in a hotel before, but I’m not complaining either. I just plan to take advantage of it.
As I set the water to the perfect temperature, Joie uses her fancy shower gel to make giant bubbles. Then we strip down to our birthday suits, and I help her climb in with me. As much as I’d love to sit her on my lap and have her ride me until the waves spill over the side onto the floor, just relaxing is nice, too. It’s been a long day for both of us.
We practically melt into each other, Joie running her hands up and down my arms lazily and playing with the bubbles.
“It was a nice wedding,” I finally say, kissing her gently behind the ear and nuzzling into her more.
“Mmm,” she replies noncommittally.
This right here. This is what I like about being in a relationship. Knowing someone well enough, trusting someone deeply enough, that we can be together without expectations of keeping the other entertained. That we can talk about our day without it making it all dramatics and emotional hoo-ha.
“Elena seems really nice.”
Joie sighs. “She’s really great. Perfect for Greg. I’m so glad he found her.”
“I’m so glad I found you.”
She reaches up and cups my cheek, stroking my scruff gently before going back to playing with the bubbles.
“Do you ever feel like you’re cheating on Sheila?”
I freeze at the unexpected question. “Because we’re together?”
“Yeah.” Her shoulders shrug slightly. “I’ve never been in your situation, so I’m curious. I wanna know about your feeeeelings,” she singsongs with a giggle. I pinch her in the rib gently in response, making her squeak.
One thing I’ve always liked about Joie is she’s never seemed intimidated by a ghost. She doesn’t mind talking about my late wife. Doesn’t seem to mind that a part of me will always love her. She just accepts that part of me. I have tremendous appreciation for her respect of my feelings and that relationship.
Wrapping my arms tightly around her, I respond, “Actually, no.”
“Really? I’ve read about so many people who say they feel guilty about stuff like that.”
“I think it’s because it wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t like she fell overboard on a cruise ship and I’m left with all those ‘what ifs.’ It was a long, long process. I watched her wither away and was there when she died.”
Joie stiffens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything . . .”
“No, no,” I reassure her. “I’m not trying to put you in your place. I just think when it’s sudden, like a car accident or heart attack or something, it must feel different. Jarring. We had a lot of time to prepare. There wasn’t anything left unsaid, and one of the things Sheila told me was to find someone else. Someone who would make me happy.” I lean my head back against the tub as a thought occurs to me. “Wow. It almost sounds like she broke up with me.”
“No, breaking up would be a choice. She didn’t have a choice.” Joie intertwines our fingers and kisses my knuckles. “She let you go so you could be happy.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. I guess that’s why it doesn’t feel like cheating. It feels like she gave us her blessing a long time ago.”
“Hmm.”
I know that kind of response. There’s more on her mind. “Okay, spill it,” I demand. Here I was thinking she wasn’t intimidated by a ghost. Maybe I was wrong.
“But if she hadn’t died, or if she came back somehow, would you be able to choose between us?”
It’s the question no widower ever wants to answer, because, how can you? “There is no way I can answer that correctly.”
“It’s not about answering correctly,” she says calmly. Okay, maybe my original assessment is still true. “Call it morbid curiosity. Which actually might be the wrong choice of words in this context.”
I chuckle. “I don’t think it’s a valid question. Having to choose between both of you means comparing you against each other, and that’s not a fair assessment.”
“It’s not?”
“Nope. She was the love of the first half of my life. You’re the love of the second half. Equally important. Equally loved. Equally as good. But only one of you is here rubbing your slippery, soapy ass all up and down me.”
I guide her to shift in my arms until she’s straddling me, her core right where I want it.
“What’s with all these deep questions anyway?”
She shrugs and begins rubbing herself against me. “Just my mind wandering. It started with the wedding and how they’re both on their second marriage and how we’d be on our second marriage if we got married someday . . .”
I open my mouth to respond but she cuts me off with her finger on my lips.
“. . . don’t say anything. It was only wandering thoughts. But I was thinking about the difference of marrying after a divorce versus after a death. That’s it. No big deep emotional crisis happening or anything.”
“Good,” I say as I begin kissing below her jaw. She lifts her chin to give me better access. “Because I don’t ever want you to think I love her more than I love you. I love you different, but the same.”
“I know,” she breathes, her head falling back further as she grinds down on me. “And I love you way more than I ever loved my ex.”
I smile against her soapy, smooth skin then pull back to look in her eyes. She’s beautiful like this—a sheen of sweat from the heat of the water, her mascara smudged under her eyes from the steam, the glow of pending sex. I rub my thumbs into her shoulders, watching as her eyes close, and she relaxes even more into my touch.
“Wanna move in with me?”
The question catches her off guard, but not so much that she reacts quickly. It’s more like she takes a few seconds for it to register. When it finally does, her eyes look up at me lazily.
“Yeah, I do.”
I try not to grin because I feel like there’s a “but” coming.
“But?” I coax.
“No but.” I start to relax until she says, “except . . .”
“That’s the same as a but.” She grimaces, which makes me feel bad because I wasn’t trying to embarrass her. Wrapping my hand around the back of her neck, I encourage her to continue. “Tell me. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m trying really hard not to let this influence my decision . . .”
“Isaac.”
She nods and bites her lip.
For eighteen years there was no husband or father to protect or provide for Joie and her son. The asshole ditched them. Joie’s parents were around, but Joie was young enough and too stubborn to admit she needed help. So it was her and Isaac against the world.
In some ways, I think they have a much stronger bond than parents with multiple kids. They act a lot like best friends versus parent/child. Granted, he’s a grown man, so laying down the law is long since over. But when we first started dating, it was hard for Joie not to take Isaac’s feelings into consideration. For a while, it seemed she was willing to sacrifice our relationship, so he wouldn’t be uncomfortable. So much so that I had to put him in his place and remind him of what a selfish bastard he was being.
But Joie powered through
the struggle and eventually realized she deserves to be happy, too. Still, her old patterns of insecurity sometimes rear their ugly head, and she has to think through the implications before making a decision. Now is one of those times.
“Baby, look at me.” She focuses through her lashes. Damn, she’s beautiful. “Be really, really honest with me.” She nods and takes a breath. “You’re worried he’ll be mad and won’t approve, right?” She nods again. “But after everything we went through before, don’t you think, even if he has concerns at first, he’ll eventually get over it?”
She sighs and leans into me, looping her arms around my neck and resting her head on my shoulder. “I know he’ll be okay with it. He’ll be more than okay. I think maybe I’m more anxious about telling him than about his reaction. Like the anticipation being worse than the outcome.”
Rubbing my hands down her naked back, I try to validate her concerns. I don’t totally understand them, but that doesn’t make them any less real. It’s no different than my desire to win football games. She may never understand the gravity of that desire, but she would never disregard it. And for all her independence and strength, the one thing that can bring her to her knees is the worries she has as a mom. I have to respect that.
“Would it help if I asked for his blessing?”
A giggle erupts from her. “What?”
Laughter is good. That means her anxiety is dissipating. “You know, man to man. To make sure he knows my intentions.”
She pulls back to look at me. The waves keep dropping so her nipples peek out above the water line before disappearing again. It’s very distracting.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Her hands come to my cheeks and she scratches my scruff. “But I appreciate it. And I’d love for you to be there so we can tell him together.”
I break out into a smile. “So is that a yes?”
“Of course it is. Was there really any question?”
I pull her to me, crushing her lips to mine, no more confirmation needed.
Breaking the news to Isaac wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Yes, his jaw clenched for a few seconds when the words “Jack is moving in with me” registered. And yes, he took a deep breath, probably to calm himself. But then he said, “I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy.”
Yep. I was shocked.
As it turns out, the hardest part was deciding where we were going to live.
Jack has lived in Flinton for ten years, so he wanted to stay close to campus. Staying close to campus, though, meant either me moving into his tiny apartment, or us going through the process of selling my house and buying a new one. That meant a bunch of income verifications I would never pass as a full-time student who works only six hours a week.
Granted, the idea of not having a forty-five-minute commute each day is appealing, but coming home to my house is gratifying. It’s my little slice of paradise away from the rest of the world. It reminds me of how far I’ve come from the party-hard teenage girl I once was. Plus, giving up the equity, especially since we have no idea where I’ll end up working in a few years, seemed like a poor choice when we discussed our options.
In the end, we made a compromise of sorts. Jack gave up the apartment and decided to move into my home for the next few years. Once I graduate, and we know if I’m going to get a job in San Antonio, Austin, or one of the small towns like Flinton, we’ll discuss our living arrangements again.
At least, Jack wants me to believe it’s a compromise. I think the deciding factor was his realization that moving to the outskirts of San Antonio opened up a lot of options for hole-in-the-wall restaurants to try. It’s been a while since he’s found something new and authentic.
Regardless, now my house is being overrun by boxes and bags. So many bags. You’d think it would excite me, but Jack seems to only have two kinds of carryalls—black, carry-on suitcases with wheels and Vikings duffle bags. That’s it. It’s very disappointing, not to mention non-functional for the modern-day traveler.
Jack laughed when I told him that.
With the exception of a few odds and ends still being brought in, I think we’re finally almost done with the moving part. It’s taken us most of the day, despite how little he brought with him.
Since my house was already furnished, Jack was able to take most of his stuff to Goodwill. A few pieces here and there came with him, like an old wooden trunk that Sheila had jokingly called her hope chest. It’s a beautiful piece of woodwork that looks very rustic and Texas. It’s also where Jack stores all their old photo albums and the mementos he had of their life together. No way was I making him get rid of it. It’s too important. With a piece of specially-cut glass placed on top, it now sits in our living room and acts as a coffee table. It’s like part of Jack’s past is here, welcoming him into his future.
Yes, I know that sounds ridiculously cheesy, but there’s no other way to explain why it’s important for me to have it in our line of sight all the time.
Other than that one beautiful piece and a few odds and ends, all the rest of his furniture is gone.
I look up from the box I’m unloading when the front door bangs open and Hank practically falls into the room, carrying . . .
Oh no.
“What is that doing in my house?” I practically screech. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“It’s fucking heavy is what it is,” Hank exclaims. “Can you grab the cushion? I think it got stuck in the door jamb.”
“Oh!” I hustle, realizing he’s going to injure himself at any moment if they don’t get it inside and put down. Seeing Jack holding up the other end, grimacing, I work as quickly as I can.
A few tugs and twists later, I have the cushion out of the way and the two big bad football coaches come staggering in, trying their hardest to place the recliner gently on the floor.
Pointing my finger at the monstrosity, I try very hard not to sound as appalled as I am. “Uh, what is that?”
Jack either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the look of disdain on my face. He’s smiling like it’s Christmas morning. “It’s my chair.”
“Yeah, I got that. Why is it in my living room?”
He looks dumbfounded. “Because it’s my chair.”
Hank snickers from the other side of the room as he plops down on the couch so he can lean back and close his eyes. “Hasn’t even unpacked yet and the honeymoon is already over.”
We ignore him as we continue to stare at each other—him with a big, goofy grin and me looking like I smell something bad. Come to think of it, I might be. There’s an odor in the room now that wasn’t here before. I’m not sure if it’s the men or the monstrosity.
“Jack, I know the chair is important to you, but, um, it doesn’t really, you know . . . match the décor of the room.”
I’m trying to not sound like a horrible controlling person, but I don’t do well when other people get in my space and start moving it around. Which is a terrible thing to say since we’re moving in together and, technically, this is our space. But it’s going to take a bit for me to adjust.
My attempts at being polite are obviously not working, since Jack crosses his arms and widens his stance, blocking my way past him. I’m not sure where he things I’m trying to go, but clearly he’s defensive about his recliner. And here I thought men had a weird relationship with their cars.
“Are you saying my chair is not welcome in your home? In our home?”
I can tell by the look on his face that he’s not really irritated, but I also know he isn’t going to back down because he has a point. It’s just been so long since I’ve had to share a space with anyone other than my son, I’m not sure where my hard limits are. I don’t think the chair is one of them, but . . . wow, is that thing ugly.
Choosing my words carefully again, I look him in the eye, cross my own arms, and try a different angle. “I’m saying there is an underprivileged person out there who needs it more than you do.”
My eyes nar
row when he begins laughing at me. I knew he wasn’t really irritated, even though I’m headed that way.
“Really, Joie? You’re pulling the starving-kids-in-China tactic?”
“I would never do that!”
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “I think you just did.”
Huffing, I blow my bangs out of my face and cave. “Fine. I did. Did it work?”
“No.”
“Come on, Jack,” I plead. “It’s just so . . . so . . . it’s so ugly.”
His jaw drops and covers his heart like I’ve wounded him. “How dare you?! I have had my chair since I was a junior in college . . .”
“I can tell . . .”
“It has been with me longer than most of my friends. Longer than my niece and nephew have been alive. It’s a part of me.”
“Literally?” I ask, crinkling my nose. “Because it kind of smells like BO.”
Hank barks a laugh, his eyes still shut so he misses the glare Jack shoots his way. He spins back to me, and I continue with my argument.
“I mean really, Jack. What color is this anyway?”
“It’s green.”
I scoff. “Hardly. If anything, I might call it puce, and that’s being generous.”
“I call it diarrhea brown,” Hank tosses out.
“You stay out of it,” Jack chides before looking back to me. “Come on, Joie. I only brought a few things with me. This chair and my dead wife’s hope chest are the only two pieces of furniture I own anymore.”
I gape and him and point my finger. “Don’t you dare use Sheila as a sympathy card. That’s so inappropriate.”
“Oh come on. She would have used it against me.”
“It’s true,” Hank pipes up, eyes still closed. “She used to joke about her death all the time. She had a wickedly morbid sense of humor. You know she got me to open my fifty-year-old bottle of Johnny Walker Black, telling me she was gonna die? She was in remission then, and I fell for it.”
“See?” Jack says victoriously. “If Sheila wouldn’t be offended, you’re not allowed to be.”
