“I was just...”
“Go,” he says. “I just want to watch you walk away.”
I escape down the stairs, with a smile on my own face, but when I hit the bathroom, I’m disappointed. There is nothing in my reflection that shows how different I feel this morning. It’s like staring at a stranger in the mirror, because who I used to be, shouldn’t be there anymore. My regular, old face should be replaced with a woman who knows what it is like to have sex.
I climb the stairs back to the bedroom. I want to strut into the room, confident and womanly, but I don’t think I could pull it off. Instead, I peek around the corner first, to see if Oscar is watching. He’s not. His head is on his pillow, nose toward the ceiling, eyes closed.
I scurry toward the edge of the bed, hoping to make it before he opens his eyes and turns his head to me. I don’t. He pops his eyes open and I nearly shriek. A smile spreads over his face, and his eyes sweep over my naked body.
“You okay?”
“Mmm hmm,” I say, diving between the sheets. He turns toward his bedside table, to check the time on his phone, and that’s when I see the long, raking cuts in his back. The sheet beneath him is speckled with his blood, not mine. I groan. “I wrecked your back.”
“I know,” he says, laying back and reaching for me. He doesn’t seem upset at all. Then he smirks, “It’s only fair. I wrecked your virginity.”
I half-laugh, pushing his face away. When I lay back on the pillow, there is a lump. Reaching underneath, I extract my nightgown.
“Oh, good,” I say, but Oscar grabs the bunch of fabric and throws it off the end of the bed.
“No clothes,” he says. “I don’t allow clothes in my bed.”
I pull the sheet up over me, but he pulls me closer. He presses my hips against his, and he groans.
“No more,” I say. He groans again.
“Fine. Not now,” he says. “But soon.”
A delicious drop of adrenaline races through me, and I think: maybe the woman I couldn’t see in the mirror is in here after all. I snuggle closer, replaying last night in my head, as I inadvertently rub up against him.
“Last warning,” he mumbles.
“Alright, alright,” I say, and lie still.
“I was thinking we could go home today,” he sighs into my hair and I feel an unexpected twinge of sadness over the idea. I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but last night was exciting, and I want it to happen again. There won’t be any hope of that, if I have to pack up, drive back, and get dropped off at my father’s house. It will be an agonizing wait, to be with Oscar again, until we are married. The idea of packing exhausts me. I never want to leave this bed.
“I don’t want to go,” I say.
“No?” he says. “You’re having second thoughts about marrying me?”
“No,” I say, surprised that he’d think that. Especially now. Especially with my naked rear pressed into his lap. “I just don’t want to go home. I...I don’t want to be away from you.”
“That’s what you thought? You’re not going home, Hale. You’ve got a new home now. With me. We’ll be staying at my father’s house, until we find our own place. We’ve got to start house hunting right after we’re married. It’s going to be busy when we get back.”
“Let’s just stay here,” I say, and his laugh is so deep that I feel it roll through my back and into my stomach.
“It would be nice,” he says. “But it will be even better, once you have my last name, and we’re in our own house, and our own bed. We’ve got a lot to get done first, though. Where do you want to go for our honeymoon?”
I blush, but I’m not looking at him, so I whisper, “To bed.”
Oscar pulls me even closer, his hand moving like fire over my skin.
#
The second time feels better than the first, but when I get out of bed, I move so slowly across the floor that it worries Oscar. I take a shower, and by the time I come out, he’s packed up our things, emptied a lot of the fridge into garbage bags, and has everything ready to go. He has a box of donuts on the table for me, along with his phone, and a glass of milk.
“Just relax and talk to Sher while I grab a shower, okay?” he says. I take a seat at the table, as he goes into the bathroom and turns on the water. The phone rings, as I finish my donut. The screen says DAD, and I think of just letting it go to voicemail, but it’s Oscar’s dad, so it could be important. I pick up.
“Hello?” I say, and the voice that greets me is accusatory.
“Who is this?”
“Hale,” I say.
“Oh,” Mr. Maree says. His voice drops to a pleasant tone. “Hello, Hale. How are you?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Where’s Oscar?”
“Oh, um,” I stammer. How can I say his son’s in the shower? My entire face burns what is probably a fuschia color. Mr. Maree probably hears it in my voice. My new, woman voice. I stumble for what to say and come up with nothing but the truth. I frown as I tell Oscar’s dad, “He’s in the shower.”
“Oh.” It’s Mr. Maree’s turn to stammer. “Well, could you have his call me when he’s—through?”
“I will,” I say, wincing hard once the words are out.
“Alright then. It was nice talking with you, Hale.”
“You too. Bye!” I wince again and hang up. I drop Oscar’s phone on the table and a sqwerky shiver rolls through me. It’s not like Mr. Maree wouldn’t expect any of this. He practically insisted on it. But knowing that we all share a secret, which we are never going to discuss openly, is weird too.
Oscar emerges from the bathroom, his black hair still wet, although he’s fully dressed. And now, when I look at him, I see so much more than just the way his shirt hugs his arms and chest, or the way his shorts fit him. Now I know just how powerful and gorgeous his body is, under all those clothes. And I flush, thinking about what a crime it is to ever cover that body up.
“Ready to go?” he says.
“Sure. Your father called.”
“You talked to him?”
“Yeah. He just said to have you call him.”
“Then I’ll do that,” he says, landing a kiss on my sugared lips. “Mmm. Cinnamon sugar.”
He slips his phone from his pocket, and calls his father.
“Hey, Dad,” he says, pacing closer to the windows facing the beach. I trace the width of his shoulders, appreciating how his back plunges into his narrow waist. I remember how I laid on the bed, watching his incredible backside in the mirror overhead, as he pushed himself into me.
“We’re coming back today,” he says, turning, and I snap out of my daydream. He grins at me as he continues talking to his father. “Yes, that would be fine. I think we’re only looking for an intimate gathering though. Well, that’s not intimate. I don’t know, I could ask her.”
Oscar presses mute and says, “My father wants to throw us a reception, Hale. What do you think?”
“I don’t have many people to invite,” I shrug. “My dad, Sher’s family, that’s about it.”
“That’s fine. My father would like us to have the wedding ceremony on our grounds, followed by an outdoor reception. What do you think?”
I shrug. I have no idea. I’ve never been to a wedding, not even my mother’s. “Good, I guess.”
“She said that’s fine, Dad,” Oscar says into the phone. He laughs. “Don’t get too outrageous, okay?...No, Dad...that’s outrageous...that too...we’ll talk when we get back, alright?”
#
I sleep too long. I miss the ride home, and feel bad when I wake up just as Oscar’s arms slide around me from the open, truck door. We’re only feet from the Maree’s front entrance.
“What are you doing?”
“I didn’t think you were going to wake up.”
“I’m awake,” I say, sliding out onto the driveway beside him, but when I wobble on the ground, Oscar takes me up into his arms anyway.
“I should carry you over the threshold,” he gri
ns. I am surprised at how easy it is to relax in his arms, breathing in the deep scent of the cologne I gave him.
The door opens just as we reach it, and I recognize Mr. Maree from the night in my kitchen. He is in a suit, his body held stiffly, the whites of his eyes are white instead of bloodshot. He steps aside, so Oscar can carry me in and set me down in the enormous entryway. Oscar stays close, his arm around my waist.
“Good trip?” Mr. Maree asks, and Oscar nods.
“I slept all the way back,” I say. I don’t know why I needed to say that. Mr. Maree takes it in stride.
“Well, I suppose that’s the life of a newlywed,” he says kindly. “How about you show Hale to the guest house, Oscar, and we’ll have a talk before dinner. Hale, I hope you enjoy mesquite chicken. I am looking forward to discussing the wedding party then.”
With that, Mr. Maree turns and walks away, and Oscar says, “We’re staying in the guest house until we find our own place. It’s more private that way.”
He leads me through his mansion to the back patio. We walk through French doors, and down a cobbled garden path to another house. What they call a ‘guest house’ looks like a regular house to me, even if the mansion dwarfs it. It’s charming, with a front porch that stretches around the entire exterior, and enough trees to seclude it from the mansion.
Oscar opens the front door and lifts me over the threshold again. He sets me down inside, on a polished, wood floor that has a better shine than my own hair. To the right, there are two steps leading down to the white carpet of the living room, straight forward is a kitchen, and to the left are three doors, one that leads into an enormous bedroom, one that opens to a bathroom, and the other that leads into a den.
With his fingertips, Oscar takes me into the bedroom. The bed has a metal canopy draped around the top with white lace. There is a walk-in closet, and a door leading into the bathroom.
“If you want to relax in the tub, I’ll bring in our bags,” Oscar says. He opens the door to a raised tub that is large enough for five people.
“It’s a swimming pool,” I say. Oscar laughs and turns on the water, tossing in some of the bath beads from a dish on the ledge. I guess I’m taking a bath.
“I’ll join you in a minute,” he whispers, leaving a kiss on my neck, and then he is gone, back out the door to get the bags.
#
There are no bubbles. None. And there is a huge stained glass window that lets so much light in, it’s like being outside. Without bubbles to hide beneath. The bath beads only scent the water, so by the time the tub fills up, Oscar is back, and I’m still standing there, chewing on my thumbnail.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“Oh, um, I thought there’d be bubbles,” I say.
“Those aren’t, huh?” He points to the dish of bath beads and I shake my head. “Huh, well, they smell good.”
He strips off his shirt easily, but pauses when he sees that I’m still standing there, gnawing my thumb. He reaches up and moves my hand away from my mouth.
“You okay?” he asks.
“It’s really bright in here,” I tell him.
“Good.” He smiles shamelessly. “Why did you think I wanted to take a bath in here?”
He steps toward me, reaching for the waistband of my shorts. I let him undress me and do the same to him, although I don’t look. I keep my gaze rooted in his, and he does the same. But being naked in front of Oscar, with his eyes never once wandering from mine, is even more intense than if he were kneeling between my legs, watching his own finger moving in and out of me.
We step up into the bath together, and lower into the warm water at once. Oscar takes my hands and drapes them over his shoulders. He sits on the ledge beneath the waterline, and pulls me on top of him, so my knees are on either side of his hips. Without ever taking his eyes off mine, he lowers me down onto his lap.
I feel his manhood pressing up toward me. He lowers me down on the tip slowly, but it hurts as he enters me. I bite my lip.
“That hurts?” he asks. I shake my head, but as he moves more deeply inside me, I have to bite harder to stop myself from whimpering.
“No, no,” Oscar says, pulling out of me. “If it hurts, we’ve got to stop and let you heal.”
He draws me close and kisses me. “We’re not doing this because I want it. We do this because we want it. Understand?”
I nod, and he kisses me again.
#
Stepping into the dining room in the Maree mansion, I feel totally underdressed. The table is made of dark, polished wood, and it’s set with fine china. Mr. Maree is still wearing his suit, his polished shoes, and every strand of his hair is in place. The only thing that keeps me from running away is Oscar, standing beside me in shorts too.
Oscar pulls out a chair for me, and takes the one beside it for himself. Mr. Maree takes a seat too, just as a woman in cotton capris and a blue t-shirt comes in with a tray of salads. She serves us the salads, along with a basket of bread, and fills our water glasses.
“Your dinner will be ready in a moment,” she says. “Anyone need anything else before then? Mr. Maree? Oscar? Hale?”
“No thank you, Linda,” Mr. Maree and Oscar answer, almost at once.
I’m shocked that she knows my name, but I just shake my head with a shy smile. She smiles too, and excuses herself from the room with her empty tray.
“So, we’re having a wedding,” Mr. Maree says. “Has Oscar told you my suggestion? I was thinking we could have the ceremony on the grounds and have an outdoor reception.”
“That sounds sweet,” I say.
“Excellent,” Mr. Maree says. “Then we’ll send you for a dress tomorrow, and I’ll let Holly know to go ahead with the arrangements for a Sunday wedding.”
If I had food in mouth, I’d choke. That means we have one day to get ready. The only comfort I have is from the conversations I’ve overheard between Oscar and his father. The wedding will be a small gathering in the back yard, nothing much, so maybe it will only take a day to prepare. I can’t imagine many guests coming, on a day’s notice. I’m sure my father will be there, but I’m not sure how I feel about that just yet. Our last conversation ended with him rifling a bottle at the wall beside me.
“Sunday is perfect,” I say, and Mr. Maree grins.
“Generally speaking, weddings are reserved for Saturdays, however, this is a particularly special occasion,” he says. I think he’s going to mention Rick Tatum, and how we need to hurry everything along to seal our families together, or more like, seal my and my father’s mouths shut, but Mr. Maree turns his eyes lovingly to his son, and I realize instantly that I assumed wrong. “It’s not everyday that my only son gets married, and you’ll see Hale, that being a Maree means that sometimes, not very often, but sometimes, we can tell the world that Sunday is actually Saturday, and they will agree.”
I am in awe of what that means. I can’t even tell the guy at the bakery that his three-day-old bread should be marked down.
“Let’s see,” Mr. Maree says, retrieving his phone. He mumbles as he scrolls his phone screen, “Holly sent me questions to move things along. Ah yes. Colors. What color preference do you have, Hale?”
“Purple,” Oscar answers, at the same time that I say, “Yellow.”
“Hmm,” Mr. Maree says, texting. “Purple and yellow. Any preferences for music or table arrangements?”
I have no idea what I would prefer. A stereo? Flowers? I don’t know a thing about flowers. The only two I can identify are roses and dandelions.
“Whatever you think is best,” I say, and Mr. Maree smiles at me.
“Any preference for the main dishes?”
“I don’t know,” I say, glancing at Oscar, but he just shrugs, encouraging me to answer. “I haven’t been to any weddings. I know they had mostaccioli at a baby shower I went to.”
“You’re certainly easy to get along with, Hale,” Mr. Maree says. “I can tell that it will be a pleasure to have you in our family.�
��
“Thank you,” I say. I don’t know what to call him. Sir? Mr. Maree? Dad? I just steer around it by taking a drink of water. I glance over at Oscar and see him watching me with a tiny grin. I mouth to him, what? as his father texts something into his phone.
Beautiful, Oscar mouths back, with a wink that heats me up inside.
“Oh,” Mr. Maree looks up from his phone. “Your friend, Sher, has chosen some dress ideas, it seems. Holly has also informed the dress shop that you’re coming.”
“I’ll take her there tomorrow,” Oscar says.
“Alright,” Mr. Maree says, glancing at his son with a smile. “And what about you, Oscar? Holly’s got ideas for your tuxedo style, but I told her you would want some say in the matter. I assume I’m right?”
“You are,” Oscar says. “I’ll talk with Holly myself.”
“Perfect,” Mr. Maree says. He clicks in another text and lays the phone down beside his plate. “People say weddings are nightmares to plan. I just don’t see it.”
“That’s because it’s Holly’s nightmare, not yours,” Oscar laughs. His father replies with a chuckle, sliding a bite of salad into his mouth.
“One last bit of business, Hale,” Mr. Maree says, after Linda delivers our main course. “I’ve spoken to your father, and I understand that the two of you left on, well, not the best of terms.”
I push the green beans across my plate with my fork. My father gave me to a stranger. No, he threw me out to be with a stranger. I might have fallen in love with the stranger and agreed to be his wife, but what if I hadn’t? Should that even matter now?
“He’d like to have a word with you,” Mr. Maree says. “Actually, I think it is more accurate to say he’d like to apologize to you. He’s doing well, and I hope you won’t mind that I invited him here tonight for dessert.”
“Um,” I glance at Mr. Maree, and at Oscar, and back again. “I guess that’s fine.”
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