Sean sits on the couch. His hands are squeezed into fists and he silently mouths a few words. I’ve seen this preparation many times, especially on the nights before his trial’s opening or closing arguments.
I remain at the base of the stairs, watching the man who’s consumed so many of my days and evenings over the last four years. I know Sean so well. I know he snores on his right side but not his left. I know he requests a number six blade at the barber, the scar on his right elbow came from a skateboarding crash on his twelfth birthday, and Lilly McGovern was his first kiss, fifth grade, after school, underneath the slide. He cringes when his aunt Kathy adds ice to her red wine or A-1 sauce to her steak, but he loves to dip his Doritos in sour cream.
There’s something to be said for knowing the idiosyncrasies about a person that others don’t. A secret window into his life. History.
“Hey, there.” He stands the moment he notices me.
“Hi.”
“Thanks for seeing me.” He twists his hands together. “You’d think a trial attorney wouldn’t be so nervous to plead his case. Do you want to sit?”
“No, I’m fine. What did you come to say?”
“Okay, I’ll get right to it. This time without you has been very enlightening. I’ve been on several dates with a woman who’s lovely, sweet, funny. She’s—”
“You’re joking, right? You’re here to tell me how great Sara is?”
“No, sorry, that’s not what I meant. Let me start over.” He wipes his brow.
He is nervous.
“What I’m trying to say is, Sara’s everything a man could ask for.”
“That isn’t any better.”
“But she isn’t you.”
“Yes, Sean, you’re right. We’re two separate people.” I can’t hide my sharp tone. “Your overpriced education is really paying off.”
“See, that’s what I mean. She isn’t snarky and stubborn and constantly nipping at my heels. She isn’t insanely determined and dedicated to her clients. She isn’t obsessed with love.”
“Are you complimenting me or insulting me?”
He takes a step closer. “She doesn’t make me laugh. She doesn’t make me excited to get up in the morning and see what the day holds. She doesn’t make me a better person. All she does, all any other woman does, is remind me that I once had something so great, so imperfectly perfect. She reminds me that I don’t want to spend another day, another minute, another millisecond without you.” Sean bends down on one knee. He holds out a stunning two-carat square-cut diamond ring.
Oh, my, God.
“I know this won’t be easy. I know I have a lot of work to do to earn your love and forgiveness, but please, let me spend the rest of my life proving how much I love you. Be my wife. Marry me.”
My mouth falls open. Holding this opportunity in my hand, this chance at a family and a future, I’m a mess. My thoughts are confused and suffocating, as if I’ve fallen into a frozen pond, frantically trying to get out from underneath a layer of ice, desperate for air.
“Sean, I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes.” His smile is anxious, eager, endearing. “Say yes to love.”
The angles of Nixon’s face come to mind. The smell of his skin as I leaned against him on the bike. The wonder and strength of his stare warming my skin like the morning sun cresting over Idyllwild.
But then his voice punctures my calm. You need to know, these past couple weeks have all been for show.
What is wrong with me? Why am I wasting a single thought on a man who’s playing a part? Sure, Nixon and I have spent a lot of time together, but he’s only holding up his side of the bargain. Our relationship is a business arrangement. Our love is a sham. Not even real. It’s nothing. Why can’t I get this through my thick head?
On the other hand, Sean and I have years together. Like Antonio’s, we’re comfortable and familiar. And, except for his momentary insanity, we haven’t had many bumps in the road. Maybe what Sean said is true. Maybe he did need to explore someone else to make our relationship healthier, to appreciate all that we have, to feel safe. Maybe I did, too? Maybe my fascination with Nixon is no more than my ego trying to ease the wounds of my battered heart.
In a sense, Sean dumping me made our bond stronger.
My scar reminds me yet again of the pain from having something so precious taken from me. It’s hard to let relationships go. Even years after the accident, I still grow angry when friends complain about wearisome Sunday night family spaghetti dinners or obligations to repeat their mom’s silly traditions like watching Elf while decorating the Christmas tree. I would be thinking, Be grateful you have a family. Be thankful for the consistency, something and someone to count on.
No doubt, my parents would’ve loved Sean. Dad would’ve appreciated Sean’s work ethic, a lawyer himself, patting him on the back and complimenting his impressive caseload, talking judgments and statutes, then cracking open a couple of beers and watching the game highlights or brushing another coat of paint on the house trim.
Mom would’ve enjoyed Sean’s casual attitude and lighthearted sense of humor. I picture the two of them walking to Peet’s for morning coffee, then strolling the long way home alongside the shoreline, hunting for beach glass, sand dollars, and coral. Sean tucking Mom’s “keepers” in his pockets.
They’d be happy for me. For Sean’s proposal. For the promise of my future. I have a mental image of their approving nod.
“You’re smiling. That’s a good sign.” He winks. “Bree, baby, please say yes.”
My eyes linger on the ring for several moments.
I think of his note. L’Straut Jewelers . . . ask Bree.
Equally powerful as hearing Sean utter the words marry me, if not more so, are the actions and thoughts that led up to his decision. It’s that revelation that charms me the most. The moment he decided, she’s the one. Honestly, is there anything more raw and meaningful than that awareness? I’m the person Sean wants to share his life with. Forever.
Ever since my parents passed, I’ve craved, needed, someone to count on, someone to share my past and future with. If I say no, then aren’t I walking away from exactly what I long for?
“Sean, I want to be completely honest with one another. Clean the slate.” I pull him up to a standing position. “Why did you break up with me?”
He slides the ring midway onto his pinkie and grabs my hands. “I got scared. I don’t think I’ve told you much about my parents’ divorce, but they fought constantly over money. How much this or that cost, why Dad bought a motorcycle when Mom wanted to redo the kitchen. Money ruined them, tore them apart.” He strokes my hands with his thumbs. “So, when we met with the financial advisor and discussed portfolio projections and interest rates, I thought of them. Their fights and tension gummed up my head. I feared the same might happen to us. I freaked out.” He wraps my hands behind his back. “I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes, but I love you. I love you more than anything.”
As I stare back at the man I’ve known intimately for four years, I’m taken back to the moment by the beach and the green flash. The first time he said he loved me. He’s right. We’ve come so far together. With a cleansing breath, I decide right there and then that mistakes are just that, mistakes. What type of person does it make me, not to forgive and forget a quick moment—albeit painful—over the years of wonderful moments?
“We have history. Good history.”
It’s as if he read my mind.
“I want to bounce our grandbabies on my knees and take them to Disneyland. I want to have Sunday dinners and weekend soccer games. Let’s start a family. Marry me, please.”
I press my body closer toward Sean, silencing the petty worry in my mind. Besides, if I want any chance at a solid future, I have to trust him. “Yes, I will marry you.”
“You have no idea how ha
ppy this makes me.”
He slips the ring onto my finger and kisses me long and slow.
I’m reminded of his taste, his comfort, his rhythm.
“Do you have any Champagne?”
“Drank it the night we broke up.”
“Well, no matter. There are better ways to celebrate, anyway. How about you and I go upstairs and I show you how much I missed you?” His lips are on my neck. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had you.”
“Um . . . actually.” I inch away. “It’s just . . . I had a really long weekend. I’m beat and our reunion should be special and . . .”
“Say no more. You’re right. We’re starting over. I want things perfect. No reason to rush. We have our whole lives.” He slides the bangs out of my eyes. “I’m leaving tomorrow for my conference in Denver. Terrible timing, I know. But how about this? When I get back, I’ll book us an oceanfront suite at La Valencia. We’ll share a very sexy, very romantic dinner for two. We’ll make new memories. Sound good?”
“Sounds good.” And it does. It really does.
He laughs and reaches for the door. “Wait until we tell Candace. Won’t she be shocked?”
“No!” I practically shout. “You can’t say anything.”
“Why not?”
“It will ruin everything.”
“Our engagement ruins everything?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, the paper.”
“Our little hiccup happened the night before my first interview and the paper demanded I have a boyfriend by my side, so I panicked and asked Nixon.”
“You mean this whole time you and Nixon were pretending?”
“Yes.”
“You never slept together?”
Does my imagination count? Stop it, Bree. Stop it right now. “No.”
“Damn, that’s good news.” Sean lifts me by the waist and spins me around.
“Okay, right, great. But put me down. Candace doesn’t know. She can’t know. Nor can anyone else. I have to continue dating Nixon and you have to keep pretending you’re dating Sara.”
“How long?”
“A couple more weeks, until the last interview posts.”
“It kills me not to share the news with the world, but I’ll play along. For a couple weeks. Mrs. Sean Thomas. God, I love the sound of that. All right, I’ll let you rest. I’ll see you the moment I get back from Denver. I love you, Bree.” He kisses me and steps out my front door.
“I love you, too.”
My sprinkler kicks on, soaking his shoes and pants.
“Shit!” He prances toward his car.
But I shouldn’t laugh.
I shouldn’t cry, either.
twenty-eight
“What the hell are these?” Jo asks, the following morning, dressed in a lavender-colored velour suit and sitting at her kitchen table.
“Roasted kale chips.”
“Where are my Swiss Rolls?”
“You don’t need that processed stuff.”
“I’m an old woman. I’ve earned the right to eat whatever I want.”
“Kale is good for you.”
“I think she’s trying to kill us,” she says to Martin, who’s nestled on her lap, and feeds him a chip.
He spits it out.
“See.”
I laugh and remove the pineapple and pepperoni pizza from the oven, sliding a slice onto her plate. “Eat this. It’s full of grease and artery-clogging cheese.”
“Now, this is what I’m talking about.”
I chew on a slice while unloading the remaining groceries.
“Did you know? You and Nick are winning the ‘Who Is Cuter?’ poll by eleven points.” She sits at the table, pointing at the Close-Up feature opened in front of her. She’s grabbed a yellow highlighter, poised to mark her favorite sentences. Just like we used to do with the bestsellers.
I’ve decided not to read the articles ahead of time. I’d rather listen to the write-up through her words. See the story through her eyes.
“And that score difference sure says something, considering we’ve never seen Nick’s face. I mean, look here, you’re both wearing helmets, for Pete’s sake.”
“He’s camera shy.” I head toward the fridge for milk, passing Martin.
He growls.
I growl back.
“When do I get to meet your boyfriend?”
Which one? “Um . . . soon.” Obviously, I’m eager to tell Jo about Sean’s proposal even though she’ll be puzzled. I’ll need to explain why Nixon posed as Nick and as my boyfriend. And that technically Sean’s my boyfriend and he dated Sara who’s also dating Nick . . . er, Nixon, but now he’s my fiancé, Sean that is, and . . . geez. Maybe I should draw a diagram because I’m a little confused myself.
I’m glad I left my engagement ring at home. Just seems easier.
“This Sean is a handsome fellow, too. Don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“It says he and Sara spent an afternoon . . .”
At the San Diego Zoo. Sean told me about it. He thought it’d be a good, more platonic environment than, say, a sunset harbor cruise or a romantic movie in the park. Next week he plans to meet Sara at the Del Mar beach cleanup. Which I think is genius. What girl wants to make out or get cozy while picking up stinky beer cans and soiled diapers?
Yes, tricking Sara is a crappy thing to do. But Sean promised to keep himself at arm’s length emotionally—and physically—these next couple of weeks so when he says they’re not connecting and breaks things off, it won’t come as a complete surprise. And I find comfort knowing that the practiced lawyer that Sean is will lace his words with sugar and accountability, shielding her feelings so that Sara walks away feeling victorious and better off without the likes of him.
Plus, she’s dating Nixon, too. Isn’t one charming guy enough?
Speaking of Nixon, he and I haven’t seen or spoken to one another since he dropped me at my curb. Yes, it’s been less than twenty-four hours, but still. I haven’t thought about him. Once or twice is all.
God, I’m so grateful Nixon cut me off and I didn’t end up blabbing like a hormonal teenager that afternoon. Imagine how embarrassing it would’ve been had I said—out loud—what I felt. Correction. What I thought I felt.
I fold Jo’s empty grocery bags and stack them in her pantry. Maybe I suffered from altitude sickness? That’s a thing, right? I know Idyllwild is no Mt. Everest, but still, spending day and night outside in the thin air, hiking to an even higher elevation in the morning, eating two nitrate-filled hot dogs. It’s no wonder I became delusional.
Well, that’s that. What does it matter now, anyway? Sean’s shiny ring, tucked safely in my nightstand at home, illuminates in my mind. I’m getting married. One thing is for sure. My emotions are jumbled no more.
“Look here, they’re feeding a giraffe.” Jo grabs my attention.
I sneak a peek over her shoulder. Sara’s hair is gathered into a low ponytail and her half-smiling, half-cringing face is turned away from the giraffe’s foot-long tongue as he nibbles a carrot off her extended hand.
Sean stands beside her, and though he’s laughing, his arms are crossed against his chest. His body is closed. Means his mind is closed, too. Good boy.
“What poll are you talking about, anyway? I don’t remember Candace saying anything like that.”
“It’s on your blog.”
“You’re following my blog?”
“Of course, I am. It’s not every day my granddaughter becomes a bestselling author.” She winks.
“Eleven points, you say?” I pour us each a glass of milk.
“Yep.” She returns to the article, following along with her index finger as she reads. “We can only wonder how the lovebirds spent their weekend in the mountains.”
He brushed his hand against mine.
“Did they watch for shooting stars under the crisp night air?”
I wrapped his sweatshirt close around my skin.
“Snuggle close in a tent made for two?”
The sunrise. Just us.
“Hello?” Jo waves the paper in my face. “Anyone home?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry.” What is your problem, Bree? I shake my mind clear. And who does Nixon think he is, anyway? Milling around in my head as if he owns the place.
“My, my, by the color of your cheeks, I’d say a lot more nature happened in that tent.”
“Nonsense, Jo.”
She pats her thigh and Martin jumps into her lap again. “He understands, don’t you, Martin? He has a crush on the Pomeranian two doors down.”
Anxious to change the subject, I say, “Did I tell you a squirrel attacked me?”
“You hate squirrels.”
“I know. There I was, um . . . taking care of business in the woods, when a squirrel with claws longer than piano keys lunged toward me. His tail swept against my butt. It’s a wonder I’m alive.”
“Oh, Bree.” She snickers. “You’ve never been one for the outdoors.”
We laugh together and it feels good. Damn good to see she’s not worrying about the 1058 form.
I’m worried enough for the both of us.
Jo reads on. “We’ve followed the pair for weeks, trying unsuccessfully to catch a clear shot of Bree’s man. But, as luck would have it, he’s escaped our camera. Though I’m determined to get the perfect shot, something about Nick’s evasiveness makes him all that more appealing. I agree with that.” Jo taps the paper before continuing. “Nick doesn’t want the sure-to-be-boy-band-like hysteria if his pearly whites are documented. But this reporter thinks it’s more than that. It’s more than self-preservation. It’s not about him. This man’s love is crystal clear, focusing completely on Bree, calling her simply, ‘my lovely.’”
“Wait . . . what?” I nearly choke on a pepperoni slice. “It says that?”
“Sure does. Right here.”
I peer over Jo’s shoulder.
My lovely.
Can I See You Again? Page 20
