by Penny Reid
“Someone cut her off,” Elizabeth said, looking pointedly at Ashley. “I think she’s had too much to drink.” She moved to take Ashley’s glass.
Ashley lifted her knitting needles in a very threatening way. “If you touch my wine, I will stick my Hiya-Hiya circular needle up your nose, and it’s one of those extra pointy ones.”
Elizabeth backed off, holding her hands up, palms out.
“No, not the dresses—although Ashley makes a good point about the bridesmaid dresses. We really should all sit down and come to a consensus before any decision is made.” Sandra spoke with a surprising degree of earnestness regarding the theoretical bridesmaids’ attire.
Then, suddenly, her entire expression changed to one of intense excitement. “I’m talking about the bachelorette party. Vegas, baby!”
Part 3: Planning the Wedding
CHAPTER 11
I found and purchased a three-ring binder wedding planner Wednesday afternoon during lunch.
In addition to the list provided within the planner, I made an additional list of all the Quinn-Janie specific issues and plans that needed to be discussed and settled prior to the wedding.
Of course, the unresolved issues relating to the private clients were at the top of the list. Other major issues included meeting the parents, discussion of children (how many and how soon), prenuptial agreement, a voluntary period of abstinence before marriage, and riding his motorcycle without a helmet.
I felt pretty confident about the fact that Quinn would want me to meet his parents; the only question was how soon. I’d met his sister, Shelly, and we got along very well. In fact, Quinn and I typically had breakfast with her every Saturday morning at Giavanni’s Pancake House.
I sent an email to my dad and told him about the engagement. I made sure to offer to pay for his travel so he wouldn’t worry about the burden of expense. As well, I asked him to send me some possible dates for us to visit so he could meet Quinn. Reluctantly, I also asked him if he knew where my older sister was. I hadn’t spoken to her in years and didn’t know how to get in touch.
I assumed Quinn would agree that a prenup made a lot of sense, because it did make a lot of sense. In fact, I was a big advocate of prenuptial agreements in general and felt that the state should hand out a template with every marriage license application.
I was still uncomfortable with the fact that he was very rich, but it was no longer about the disparity in our circumstances. I wasn’t keeping score of gifts and favors, and neither was he. We did what came natural. I paid half the rent for the apartment with Elizabeth because, technically, that was where I lived. All my comic books were still there, as were the bulk of my shoes.
But the fact remained, he was very wealthy. A prenup would draw a visible protective circle around his money, and it would always be his money, his business. Therefore, I wouldn’t ever have to take ownership for it. I didn’t want ownership of it. I didn’t even like thinking about it.
I guessed that he wanted children. This guess wasn’t based on any actual data, just a feeling I had. Therefore, on this point, an explicit confirmation was required.
Regarding abstinence before marriage, however, I was pretty sure I’d have to develop an extremely compelling and persuasive argument with graphs, citations, and figures if I had any hope of securing his stamp of approval. In all honesty, part of me wanted him to completely reject the idea.
Nevertheless, I was committed to my plan of manufacturing as much stress and hardship as possible during the next few months. At the very least, the conversation would be an excellent experience for us both. Perhaps it would even escalate into an argument.
Quinn found me at the kitchen table that evening surrounded by my bridal binder, wedding magazines, laptop, and miscellaneous citations and notes relating to waiting before the wedding.
I thought I heard the door, but I didn’t hear his footsteps, nor did I expect to. He was stealthy.
I imagined I felt his eyes on me, but his hands brushing away the curtain of hair from my back was my first tangible evidence that he was home. He placed three languid kisses on the center of my neck and then—pulling my shirt to one side—he kissed the top of my shoulder.
“Hi.” The single word greeting was more of a rumbly breath against my skin than sound; it made me shiver.
“Hi,” I responded, and turned my face toward his to request a kiss, which he supplied; yet I pulled away before he could deepen it, purposefully not meeting his eyes.
If I met his eyes then I would be hypnotized and witless. Then we wouldn’t talk and I would grow increasingly agitated until I unfairly lost my marbles over something ridiculous—like an inadvertent inaccurate reference to string theory as a science.
I cleared my throat, pressed my lips together, and found my Quinn-list of conversation topics. “Welcome home. I hope your trip was satisfactory.”
His hand stayed on my back, his arm on the back of my chair, as he claimed the spot next to mine. Quinn used it to pull my seat closer to his, the wooden legs making an abrupt sound against the tile floor, and turned my knees so that I was facing him.
I was wearing an A-line grey wool skirt that ended just below the knee. On a normal sized person, the skirt would have ended mid-calf. Beneath the skirt I wore black tights. Quinn’s hands snuck under the hem and caressed a path to my thighs, his fingers searching.
“These go all the way up.” He sounded disgruntled at this discovery. There was a visible frown in his voice. I wasn’t looking at his face because, again, hypnosis. Instead, I was scanning the list of issues and mentally reorganizing them based on importance and conversation flow.
I nodded because I assumed he was referring to the fact that I was wearing warm tights befitting the cold Chicago weather and not lace-topped thigh-highs. “Yes. Are you hungry? I made chicken and saved some for you in the fridge.”
“No, thanks. I grabbed something on the way home.” His hands continued their path upward. “Why are you wearing so many layers of clothing?”
“Because it was cold outside today. I think the high was twenty-four.”
“Are you cold now?”
“No.”
“Then….” Quinn paired this non-thought with a swift tug-yank that landed me on his lap. His fingers had already inched my tights and cotton underwear down a few inches before I could protest.
“Wait! Wait a minute!” My hands gripped his shoulders mostly due to instinct, and I squirmed away. His mouth was once again on my neck, and he gifted me wet kisses along the column of my throat.
“I need my wife.” His words were hot and possessive, causing me to shudder both inwardly and outwardly. I knew this shudder. It was the hypnotized shudder of cautionless desire.
“I’m not your wife, I’m your fiancée.” I arched my back, offering him more of my neck.
“Same difference,” he mumbled between kisses. He’d successfully pulled my tights to my upper thighs.
I grabbed his hands and held them still. “But we need to talk.”
“It can wait,” he whispered, leaning back to catch my eye, but his hands didn’t move.
I, stupidly, met his gaze and nearly forgot my name.
Witless.
Then his hands tugged again, and I shook myself, trying not to be overwhelmed by all the heat and promise of his stare. “No…no it can’t.” My voice was unsteady and breathless. “It’s important.”
His eyes searched mine, his glare probing. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Then nothing is more important right now than me rediscovering every inch of your perfect body.”
“Actually,” I said, gripping his hands harder and tightening my fingers, “it’s about that, Quinn—about all the inches of my body and about not having intercourse before the wedding, and waiting ’til the wedding night….”
Quinn flinched, and his eyes abruptly narrowed into sharp, piercing slits; my heart rate doubled as did my avalanche
of words.
“…And other things as well, such as the private clients, because that issue isn’t really resolved, and you need to wear a helmet when you ride a motorcycle. Also the prenuptial agreement status, because I’m sure you’ll want one, because I want one, and also when I can call your parents for a visit, and whether or not we should wait to have children for a few years or get started right away, and how many you want, because I’d like to have at least two and then reevaluate at that point, but I’d like a commitment from you for two…children, that is….”
We stared at each other for a very long time, during which neither of us moved. I was resolved not to speak, because if I did speak first, I would start spouting data related to pre-wedding abstinence, and I felt we should wait to discuss that issue until the private clients issue was resolved. Also, I hadn’t yet prepared my graphs and citations list.
But not speaking was becoming increasingly difficult. Quinn’s eyes seemed to grow hotter with each passing second, though the rest of his face was a stoic mask. I was a little concerned that a bolt of lightning or a nuclear blast or some other plasmic inferno was going to burn a hole through my skull.
At last, after a pointed swallow and a moment or two of teeth grinding, he said, “We’re not getting a prenup. Don’t bring it up again.”
I winced at the glacial vehemence of his tone, and my heart seized in shock—I imagined this was what it would feel like to be stabbed.
“But…but I thought…I mean, I think that you should consider our differences in….
Quinn stood, his abrupt movements causing me to stumble from his lap. He moved his hands from my legs to my shoulders and waited until I’d regained my balance before speaking. “Don’t.”
I blinked up at him. “I can see that you’re serious. But I don’t understand why we can’t even discuss it. If you would just listen, I think you would see that….”
“No.” He shook his head, removing his hands and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Why not?”
“Because, just thinking about it makes me want to throw this table out that window.” He pointed to the table then the window in turn, emphasizing the coolly spoken threat.
I frowned and tried to surreptitiously put to rights my underwear and tights. “That’s ridiculous. A prenup is meant to….”
I didn’t get to finish, because Quinn turned away from me and stalked to the bedroom, pulling his suit jacket from his shoulders with rigid, stiff movements. I stared at his retreating form for two beats then finished fixing my tights and followed him.
He was angry, really, really angry, and I couldn’t fathom why. Of all the topics I’d covered, the prenup was the very last one I thought he’d take issue with.
I suddenly realized that this was a fight. We were having a fight, a real fight. Logically, I recognized that it was a good data point.
But I didn’t like it, because my throat felt tight and dread was coursing through my veins. My neck was hot and my scalp itched.
I’d never felt like this before, hot and cold, angry and anxious. I wanted to apologize, to escape this uncomfortable sensation, but my stubborn resolve wouldn’t let me because I didn’t feel like I was in the wrong.
I lifted my voice as I chased him into the bedroom. “A prenup is meant to protect you, your business, your assets in the event that our marriage ends. It’s a good thing, Quinn! There is nothing wrong with defining terms for divorce now so that our future break will be as seamless and painless as possible.”
Quinn spun on me, backed me into his dresser, and everything about him looked furious. “There isn’t going to be a future break.”
“You don’t know….”
“Yes, Janie, I do know. And the fact that you even brought it up…are you trying to hurt me?”
My mouth dropped open and I flinched, because I was completely astonished by his accusation. “What? No! No, Quinn, I’m doing this because I care about you.”
“Are you going to leave me?”
“What? No…!”
“Then drop it.” His eyes sliced through me, and he turned toward the closet, moving like a panther.
I gathered a deep breath and glanced at the ceiling for help. Unsurprisingly, it offered none. Since I couldn’t bring up any of the other very important issues until he calmed down—as they would likely be tainted by association—I decided to take a different approach.
“It occurs to me….” I inhaled another steadying breath, hoped it would even my tone so I didn’t sound quite so shaken. “It occurs to me that this is our first fight. How we move forward from here, what we learn from this interaction, how to talk to each other in particular, is very important. Therefore, it would be really great if we could discuss this calmly.”
I couldn’t see him because he was inside the walk-in closet, but I heard him huff an extremely bitter laugh just before three drawers slammed. An instant later, he was standing in the doorway, his arms braced on the trim, his large body filling the entire space.
“You’re driving me fucking crazy,” he said.
My eyelashes fluttered due to his bluntly spoken proclamation and his use of the f-word—since he rarely cursed, at least in front of me—and I instinctively crossed my arms over my chest.
“Well, if you’re expecting me to apologize for doing absolutely nothing wrong, then you’ll be waiting for a very long time. I honestly have no idea why you’re so upset.”
“Doing nothing wrong?” His usual outward façade of indifference was completely shattered. I was having difficulty adjusting to all the emotions twisting his features. “You’re planning the end of our marriage.”
“I am doing nothing of the sort!”
“Do you not trust me? Is this what this is about? How long is it going to take? What do I have to do?” Quinn’s voice rose with every question until he was full-on shouting at me. “Just tell me what to do, Janie. What other tests are required?”
I sighed and my eyes stung because his words hurt. In fact, my chin wobbled and I couldn’t stop it. It made my words come out as watery and strained. “None of this is about testing you, Quinn.”
“That is complete bullshit! That’s what all of this is about.”
I stepped toward him, surprised that my voice also arrived as a shout. “Can’t you understand that I want to protect you? Even from my future self, I want you to be safe. I come from a long line of crazy women. We cheat on our husbands, abandon our families, use our sisters’ boyfriends as ashtrays and toilets. I started therapy before I was a teenager.”
He winced, his hands dropping from the closet frame, and I noted that his expression had softened, but I wasn’t finished.
“I’m a ticking time bomb of crazy—you just said so! I drive you crazy. Maybe it’ll never happen—maybe I won’t go nuts; I’d like to think I won’t. But I’d feel a lot better if I knew you were protected. You know I like labels. I like clarity and defined expectations, because without them I’m lost. It’s your money. I don’t want it. A prenup for you isn’t about me not believing in you. It’s about….”
“Shh, Janie, that’s enough.” Quinn’s voice was soft as he crossed to me in four steps and wrapped me in his arms—which were now bare along with his chest. He’d removed his shirt while in the closet.
I gripped his biceps and snuggled against the warmth of his skin, pressing my cheek to his chest so that I could feel his heartbeat.
“I don’t want a prenup,” he said, giving me a squeeze. “I don’t want it, and just thinking about it makes me….” I felt him swallow before he finished his thought. “It pisses me off.”
I nodded, pressed closer. “I trust you. You have to know that. None of this—the wedding and related tribulations—none of this is about not trusting you. It’s about us repeating vows with certainty and knowledge of what we’re promising. Love through suffering.”
I felt his chest rise and fall before he answered. “I know.”
“And the questions I have abou
t the private clients aren’t about not trusting you; it’s just that I’d like to understand better what your past involvement means for your safety and for us moving forward.”
He nodded. “That makes sense.”
I was on a roll, so I moved my hands from his arms to the hard plane of his back. “Your safety is going to be my safety and our children’s safety—and speaking of children, I’d like at least two with an option for more.”
Quinn’s light laugh dispelled some of my lingering anxiousness. “Well, I want more than two. I was thinking four or six.”
I stiffened and lifted my head to catch his eyes, to gauge whether or not he was serious.
He was serious.
“Four or six?”
“I like even numbers. Growing up it was always Shelly and me against Des. This way our kids can pair off to torture each other in teams.”
“Hmm….” My mouth twisted to the side as I considered this. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure. But for now, I think your plan—two then reevaluate after we have them—makes a lot of sense. And I’d like to wait a few years before we start our family.”
“How many?”
“Three or four, but start before you turn thirty.”
“I can agree to those terms.”
His mouth hooked to the side, and his expression was now the polar opposite of the glacial inferno from just minutes prior. I marveled at how quickly the discussion had escalated, reached volcanic, then subsequently plummeted back to baseline.
“This was our first fight,” I said.
He nodded, his eyes searching my face. “It was.”
“I don’t like fighting with you.”
“I don’t like fighting with you either.”
“Good.” I kissed his chest. “We should try to figure out how to avoid fighting in the future.”
“It’s going to happen. We can’t avoid it completely.”
“I know. But if we can decrease the number of incidences, I think that would be ideal. It seems like the key is to assume the best of each other. To…not assume that the other has malicious intent.”
