by Lisa Sorbe
I don’t want to open it. And I so want to open it.
I pull off the wrapping. I pull off the wrapping and find exactly what I thought I’d find – a little square jewelry box. My breath catches in my throat as I lift the lid and find another little velvet box inside.
Now it’s my turn to be confused. I look at Miles, repeating the words he spoke when he opened my gift. “What’s this?” My voice sounds weird, all high-pitched and squeaky.
He makes his way toward me, his movements slow and gentle, and slides the box from my hands. When he pulls me down onto the couch and kneels in front of me, I feel like I’m in a dream. Like everything is happening in slow motion, and time is moving both backwards and forwards.
Because I’ve been in this position before. I’ve been in it before, and it didn’t turn out well. In fact, it almost ruined me.
And then I remember that, like me, Miles has been here before. He’s been here before, too. And, also liked me, it almost ruined him.
He clears his throat, but his voice is still deep, husky. “I never thought I’d do this again. I never wanted to do this again.” His eyes bore into mine, pinning me with his stare. I’ve never seen him look so serious. So vulnerable and strong, so determined and nervous – all at the same time. “But when I met you, I just...” He shakes his head, clucks his tongue and gives me a smartass smirk. “Still had no desire to do this ever again.”
He grins, and I smack his shoulder. My eyes are full of tears, and swoony doesn’t even begin to describe what’s happing to my body right now.
“But you surprised me. You surprised me all those months ago, and you’re still surprising me today. You’re nothing like I thought you were, yet you’re everything I thought you were, if that makes any sense.” He leans in close, cups the back of my neck with one of his strong hands and runs his thumb over my cheek, swiping away a tear. “Jenny. My Jenny. You brought the warmth back into my life. You told me before that I saved you. Remember?”
I nod, my ability to form even the simplest words gone. Just completely gone.
“But, sweetheart. You,” he says, kissing my forehead. “You saved me.”
And when he leans back and opens that velvet box, I lose it. I’m a wet, blubbery mess of runny mascara and red eyes and a snotty nose.
And yet Miles isn’t pulling away.
He’s not pulling away because doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that I look like a giant mess because he loves me. He loves me and he’d love me even if I gained a hundred pounds, lost all my hair, and spent the day in my pajamas serenading the refrigerator.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he says. “Will you marry me?”
I want to say yes. I need to say yes. But my throat is full of so many damn lumps I can’t choke out a response. So I nod. I nod and throw my arms around him and smear tears all over the shoulder of his flannel shirt. And when he slips the ring on my finger – a modest princess cut diamond in a sparkling halo setting – I love it a hundred times more than those stupid Tiffany bangles I wanted so badly last year at this time.
“So now,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “I have to ask. Is it still going to be just Lady and me moving into that house?”
I pull back, sniffle. “I… I have a kid.” I state lamely. And I know I sound stupid. But her own father didn’t want her. What if, somewhere along the line, Miles starts to feel the same way?
For some reason – a reason I don’t think I even realized until this very moment – that rejection would gut me even more than Julian’s.
Miles feigns shock. “Wow. You have a kid? I had no idea.”
I just fidget when he chuckles, rubbing my thumb against my new ring. “What I mean is, what if you get tired of her? Of us? She doesn’t remember Julian. I was the only one who had to bear the brunt of that… abandonment. But now that she’s older, I can’t – I won’t – put her in a situation where that could be even a remote possibility.”
“Jenny.” He slides closer, so that his body is between my legs, his chest flush against mine. He pulls me back to him, cups my face in his hands. “That is never gonna to happen. Okay? You know I want Emilia with us. I know you two are a package deal. And quite honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
My chest feels like there’s a balloon inside of it, blowing up, up, up. Expanding and lifting me to new heights.
And for the first time ever, I tell him I love him. And, for possibly the first time ever, I know exactly what that sentiment truly means.
We spend the rest of the night in bed. Talking, planning our future, making love, and talking some more. The last thought I have as I fall asleep in his arms, drowsy from the most perfect night of my life, is about magic.
Maybe I had it all wrong.
Perhaps not all magic fades. Maybe it just shifts, changing form, all the while evolving into something else.
Something better.
You just have to keep your eyes open so you don’t miss it.
It feels weird having a ring on my finger again. But a good weird, like the way your stomach drops when you’re riding a roller coaster or that fluttering feeling you get when a raindrop lands on your eyelashes. I keep finding reasons to look at my hand when I’m holding something so I can admire the way the diamond sparkles in the light, the warm contrast between the gold band and my skin.
“And this is my dress.”
I look up from the mail I’m sorting to see Betsy and Emilia huddled together on one of the bench seats at the shop, heads bent over a bridal magazine. Emilia is pointing at a dress (I’m pretty sure I know which one) and telling Betsy how she can’t wait to wear it.
I arch a brow. “Is she showing you the one with all the bows and a gigantic southern belle skirt? The one that comes with a matching parasol?”
Betsy nods. “Yeah.” She deepens her voice to reflect a southern drawl. “Why, my dear. I had no idea your weddin’ was gonna be such an affair! Emilia is gonna look like a mini Scarlett O’Hara.”
I roll my eyes while Emilia asks, “What’s a Scarlett Oh Hair?”
“A character from Gone with the Wind,” I say, dumping the majority of the mail (advertisements and parts magazines) into the recycle bin and rounding the counter. I lean against their seat, peering at the magazine over their shoulders.
“What’s Gone with the Wind?”
“A book that was turned into a movie.” I scrunch my nose. That dress is atrocious. “We’ve only been engaged for two days,” I tell Betsy. “And she’s already got our entire wedding planned.” I ruffle Emilia’s hair as she traces the gaudy dress with her fingertip.
Betsy looks up, rests her elbow on the back of the seat and leans her head against her knuckles. Her pastel pink hair is loose around her shoulders today and she’s wearing contacts instead of glasses. Despite her punk appearance, she’s a softy. A sweet person who, oddly enough, has become a good friend. Words alone can’t even describe how much I love her. In fact, I’d even go so far as saying we’ve become sort of like chick-flick soul sisters. And no, the irony is not lost on me.
“So, have you guys set a date yet?” she asks.
I shake my head, reaching down between them and turning the page. The model in this spread is wearing a black lace dress with long sleeves and a deep V-neck that dips almost to her waist. The skirt is layer upon layer of tulle and silk, and she’s standing in front of a what looks to be an abandoned stone church in the middle of a forest.
It’s dark and gothic and totally not my usual style. And I love it.
Betsy sees the look on my face and smiles. “That’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“It’d be perfect for a fall ceremony. I’ve always wanted to shoot a non-traditional wedding. Well,” she muses, “not that I’ve ever shot a real wedding before. Aside from that styled shoot for Justine’s Fashion and Bridal last fall, that is. But, when someone does actually hire me…” She laughs, but it rings hollow. There’s pain behind her joke, an a
che to her lilt.
“Well,” I say, “you’re shooting ours.” I’ve seen Betsy’s work. And it’s gorgeous. Her lens doesn’t just capture people’s outside. She somehow manages to photograph their insides, too. Her pictures are ripe with emotion.
She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “Are… Are you serious?”
I grin back at her. “Duh. I mean, who else would we get to do it?”
Betsy bites her lip. “You know I’ve never done an actual wedding before, right?”
I smirk. “I heard you the first time. So yes. But I trust you.” I nudge her shoulder. “I’ve seen your work. I stalked your website.”
She blushes. “Well, I’d absolutely love to photograph your wedding. And no charge. My gift to you.”
“No way. We’re paying you.” I give her a stern look, and she dips her head. “You need to start charging people, Bets. You’re good. Phenomenal, actually. There’s no reason for you to still be giving yourself away for free.”
“Yeah, well. If I didn’t give my photography away for free, no one would come to me for photos. And then I wouldn’t get to shoot. Ever.” She shrugs. “And I get cranky if I don’t get to use my camera.”
“Well, since we’re talking business and all… I want to hire you as an engagement present for my brother and Elise. They haven’t had pictures yet, and as far as I know they don’t have any plans to have them taken any time soon. So, since I was a total bit,” – I glance down at Emilia and bite my tongue – “bitter person,” I amend, “when they got engaged, I’d like to rectify that by surprising them with an engagement session. With you. They’re eloping in Iceland in June, so it’ll just need to be done before then.”
I think Betsy might just burst out of her skin.
“I want a full session, all out lifestyle experience. And,” I add, raising my brows, “I’m paying you.” When she opens her mouth to argue, I hold up a finger. “You either accept my check or I’ll find another photographer who will. Granted, the quality won’t be nearly as good…”
She nods, her face cherry tomato red. “Fine, okay. Yes, yes. Deal.” Her face takes on a shine. “This is going to be so great. They’re such a beautiful couple and I have so many ideas…” Betsy got to know Fox and Elise pretty well during their New Year’s party, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t have the entire shoot already planned out in her head.
I laugh, glad to see her so happy. “And when you’re done with them, Miles and I will need you to shoot…”
But the words die on my lips.
There’s a figure approaching the door.
Betsy frowns. “Jen?”
A dark person in a dark coat with dark hair and a dark beard.
No. It can’t be.
“To shoot…”
The bells over the door jingle as it opens.
My mouth works, but nothing’s coming out.
“Your engagement photos?” Betsy prompts. Then she looks over her shoulder to see what has me so shell shocked.
I finally find my voice, but it’s all croaky and deep. “Betsy,” I say, without taking my eyes off the man standing in the doorway. “Can you take Emilia upstairs for a bit?”
“Yeah, sure,” she says, looking at me carefully. Her confusion is obvious, but I don’t elaborate. “C’mon, Emilia.” She stands, pulling my daughter up with her. “I know for a fact that Miles has hot chocolate and marshmallows somewhere in his kitchen.”
Emilia’s eyes light up. She hugs the bridal magazine to her chest and gives the man a quick smile before following Betsy behind the counter and through the door to the garage.
I watch them go, and when the man takes a step toward me, I close my eyes because I can’t stand the sight of his face.
“What,” I say, my voice practically vibrating with anger, “the fuck are you doing here?”
“Jen.”
I haven’t heard his voice in well over five years, and I’m surprised to find that it still gives me chills. It’s one word. One simple word, but it’s deep and gruff and it wraps around me, plucking memories from my cells, my bones, my muscles.
Time is fucked.
There are all these scientists out there who are looking for ways to overcome it, travel it forwards and backwards and upside down and inside out. They have this outdated notion that all of life happens in one straight linear line, and if they can just physically step foot on and follow that invisible path they’ll be able to conquer it. But what they don’t realize is that time isn’t linear. And that humans are already equipped with the necessary stuff to travel through it.
Our memories.
It’s by way of our memories that we move forward or backward. It’s a chance meeting with an ex-husband that pulls you through the portal, backwards to a personality and feeling state you’ve long outgrown but comes rushing back anyway because suddenly it’s half a decade ago and you’re not really standing where you are now. You’re in your old loft, the last place you saw him, and feeling like you did then. Like you’re absolutely nothing.
I am beautiful, but I am nothing.
I open my eyes, drink him in. He’s every bit as handsome as he used to be, if not even more so. The pictures I googled all those months ago didn’t do him justice. He still carries with him a sultry charm and a brazen arrogance that probably gets him anything – anyone – he wants. He’s all man. All hard edges and rough planes. And he smells like rich sandalwood and sweet cigar smoke.
It’s a familiar scent, one I can smell from where I’m standing, and it makes my stomach churn.
“I said… What the fuck are you doing here?”
Julian shifts uncomfortably. Which, in turn, makes me stand a little taller. I slide my eyes over his appearance, noting his black peacoat, black slacks, black frame glasses, and (expensive, no doubt) distressed black leather boots. The heels and the bottom of his laces are encrusted with snow from the parking lot. We got hit with twelve inches last night and, while Miles shoveled the front walkway this morning, we’re still waiting for one of his friends to come by with a plow to shovel us out.
I cross my arms and frown at his feet, noting the mess he’s tracking in with him.
He clears his throat. Rubs the back of his neck with a leather-gloved hand. “I saw your painting.” He pauses, swallows. His voice dips even deeper when he continues. “The one you had at Mina Armani’s gallery.” He raises his brows. “I bought it.”
No. Just no.
“You what?” The question feathers from my lips in a whisper. A tiny, sad little whisper that I doubt he can even hear. My chest feels heavy and my throat thick, like it hurts to breath, much less speak. His words are invisible hands choking the life from mine.
Whether or not he heard me, he continues. “I saw her. I saw her and recognized her right away.” He smiles – the fucker has the audacity to smile at me – and takes a step closer. His voice is filled with wonder. “It was… It is amazing. She,” he shakes his head and chuckles. “She looks like me.”
All the strength leaves my body, and I sort of sit-fall into the bench that Emilia and Betsy just vacated. The seat is still warm from Emilia’s presence, and I use her leftover body heat to warm my frozen muscles, work life back into my dazed body. I’m still finding it hard to breath, hard to push words past my swollen throat. “She’s nothing like you,” I manage.
He takes my seated position as submission, as if I’m welcoming his presence here rather than damning it. But I’m not. I’m not open to his presence here. Not this place, this one place that isn’t tainted with his memory. Where I can finally be me, the me that Miles loves without condition.
The place where I fucking found myself.
He slides in to the spot beside me; the cushion sinks with his weight and my stomach goes along with it.
His chest is massive. Even under his coat I can tell he’s hard, not soft. All muscle and strength and pure raw power. And I used to eat that power up. If this were ten years ago, I’d crawl right into his lap and lic
k the spot under his ear – that one right there, right by that patch of freckles – and make him growl.
But it’s not ten years ago. It’s Now. And I’m not that same person.
He reaches out and grabs my hand – the bastard actually touches me – and dips his head, capturing my gaze. “Look. I know things ended badly.” He sighs. “We both fucked up. But I came here to apo…”
I want to scream.
My insides are sharp and edgy. Irritation courses through my system like needles, stabbing and sticking my insides over and over and over again. Little phantom pinches that poke and prod, building up, up, up until I feel like I’m going to lose my mind from the endlessness of it all.
Because this is never ending. Julian is trying to worm his way back into my life like he never left. All the years it took me to get over him and move on, and when I’ve finally done it the prick comes waltzing through the door of the one place the holds my heart, my soul. He’s here, igniting those emotions I thought I finally overcame. Coaxing them all back to the surface so they can go on and on and on, rubbing my insides raw and turning everything, all the momentum and peace I’ve finally found, into a ripped and bloody mess.
I feel like the only way to get any relief is to crawl right out of my skin, burst through the jumpy, twitchy mess of muscles and nerves so I can finally be free of this rage, this anger, this bitterness that makes me want to scream until my vocal chords snap.
“We both fucked up?”
I look at him like he’s crazy.
But he’s not staring at me anymore. He’s staring at the ring on my finger.
Miles’s ring.
Miles, who I love.
Who I love so much more than I’ve ever loved the man sitting before me.
He raises his eyes to mine, his expression darkening. His thumb makes a swipe over my ring. “What’s this?”
