“Maybe you should,
Rach,” he suggested quietly. “Because I
gotta tell ya… I’m done playing house.”
Jon’s words hung in the air like the smothering cloud of
extravagant perfume that pervaded Macy’s while Rachel was timelessly trapped in
a stunned fog. ‘Playing house’ had
wounded her to the core, because it was an utter insult to how she perceived
their relationship. She couldn’t
disagree that it was bi-coastal, but – in Rachel’s mind – it was simply an
extension of those times when Jon was on tour.
Of course, now that she took a moment to think back, she
recalled that he didn’t like the separation then either.
Maybe it’s time to
decide whether your marriage ‘principles’ are really worth all this, Rachel.
Beautiful blue eyes stayed pinned on her face, teeming
with an odd yin-yang of sadness and antagonism that was no doubt the product of
too much alcohol combined with a sensitive topic. It set Rachel on edge, making her the tiniest
bit defensive since she was unsure which way this tête-à-tête was going to
swing.
Regardless, she wasn’t particularly inclined to embark on
a conversation of this magnitude in a public place. Wisdom dictated that it
would be best kept on ice until they were safely cocooned in the boat’s
relative privacy.
To that end, she scooted her chair back and began to
stand, reaching for her purse as she did so.
“Sit down.” Jon’s
soft words were infused with titanium steel, with no room for negotiation. The balance of the yin-yang had obviously
shifted in favor of antagonism, and it didn’t sit well with Rachel’s own
alcohol soaked attitude.
She froze mid-rise and met Jon’s gaze with an icy-steel
one of her own. “You really think I’m
going to have this conversation here?’
“Yeah. I do.”
She stood fully erect and squared her shoulders, looking
down at the top of his tousled head.
After delivering his directive, it seemed Jon was more interested in the
dregs of his cocktail than looking at her.
That was fine. She
didn’t have to see his face to make her point.
“Well, I don’t. We’ve both been
drinking and I don’t want to have a scene that could end up on the Enquirer’s
next cover. Let’s go back to the boat
where we’ve got some privacy.”
It was then that Jon lifted his eyes to Rachel’s and
glared at her. “No. We’re gonna have this talk right here, right fucking
now. You don’t get another chance to
avoid the topic, so sit yourself down before I sit you down.” He gave her a smug, close-lipped smile. “And if I do it, you can guaran-damn-tee
there will be a tabloid cover.”
Rachel hated being told what to do, and her first
inclination was to tell him to go fuck himself and find her way back to the
boat. The only problem with that
scenario was that he knew she hated being told what to
do. He was trying to exert his dominance
in this relationship and, if she wasn’t careful, he’d follow through on that
stupid threat, landing them both in an embarrassingly awkward situation.
So she exercised her only viable option.
She slipped back into her seat with the hope that, if
nothing else, her man would behave reasonably to protect the sanctity of his
public image.
“Alright, Jon.”
She dipped her chin in acquiescence and folded her hands on the
tabletop. “Have it your way. As usual.”
“As usual?” He
quirked one eyebrow and cocked his head ever so slightly to the side. “Are you actually implying I get MY way in
this relationship?” A rude snort ripped
through the tropical hair. “You’ve lost
your mind, woman, because I’ve not had anything my way since the damn day I MET
you!”
Flattening her lips into a tight line, she just barely
kept from calling bullshit.
“I have panted after you from the minute I saw you with
your skirt hiked up, trying to push those suitcases through the gates of the
house.” Jon leaned forward on his elbows
so that he was in her personal space. “You
know the house, I’m talking about right, Rach?
The one I paid a stupid amount of money for – ten percent OVER the
asking price – just because I was too pussy whipped to stand the thought of somebody
else living there…?”
The server chose that opportune moment to approach the
table, both inquiring about drink refills and unknowingly keeping her
customers’ conversation from deteriorating into a shouting match. Thankful for the interruption, yet uninterested
in dulling her faculties any further, Rachel smiled with a declining shake of
her head.
Jon, however, propped his elbows on the table and offered
the waitress his very practiced ‘panty melting’ smile. He was clearly determined to take the
opportunity to get his own way in something, and firmly disagreed with Rachel’s
decision. “Your timing couldn’t be more
perfect! We’re on vacation so bring
another round and give my girl here a little extra something in hers.”
Oh for God’s sake.
Rachel suddenly found herself drained. Whether he believed it or not, her sole
purpose in life wasn’t to thwart his wishes.
“Come on, Jon,” she breathed wearily, as the waitress
sashayed away to do his bidding. “Enough
is enough. Can we finish this
conversation on the boat? Please?”
Maybe he took pity on her. Maybe common sense finally came into
play. She may never know, but something
in him softened, Rachel thought. His
body relaxed. Rigid shoulders and spine
lost some of their stiffness and the eyes that had been brimming with anger
moments ago were now softer. The love he
had for her had found its way to the surface again.
He loved her. She
never doubted that, even in times like this, when he was being
argumentative.
Then again, was he really being argumentative just
because he was half-drunk and in a mood?
Or did he have a valid question?
“Gimme the bottom
line here, Rach. Do you ever intend to
move back to Jersey with me? I mean, I
understood in the beginning you were a little gun shy, but are you planning to
just live apart the rest of our lives?”
God knew her reasons behind shirking marriage had made
complete sense to her at some point, but when it was shot back her in stark,
simple terms it made her question what in the hell she was doing.
“Rach?”
His voice summoned her from her own thoughts, and she
found concern swimming in those beautiful blue eyes. It was enough to drain any remaining fight
right out of her.
“What?” She
reached her hand across the table and knotted their hands together. “I’m sorry honey, I didn’t hear you.”
“I was just sayin’ that I’d like to finish this sooner
rather than later. Don’t you think it’s about time?”
His strong fingers flexed around hers, silently suffusing
her with his strength. The strength to
put his wants before hers. What
difference did it make, anyway? It was
just a piece of paper, right?
“Yes, it is.” She
inhaled deeply through her nose. “So
that’s what you want? To get married?”
“Yes.”
It gave her a measure of comfort that he didn’t have to
think before responding. A small
measure, since he asked her to marry him every night before they went to sleep,
but she’d take it.
He asks you every
night, Rachel. Every. Single. Night. Who are you to say his reasons for wanting to
get married aren’t the right ones? Who
made you the authority on marriage, anyway?
“Okay.”
Sandy eyebrows winged up on his forehead. “What the…?
Did you just agree to marry me?”
A melancholy smile curled her lips upward. “I did.”
“What’s the catch?”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “No catch.
You want to get married, so we’ll get married.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”
One of her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Because you want to.”
“And you still don’t.”
He was something close to adorable when he was confused,
but, as cute as she found him. It wasn’t
her intent to confuse him.
“Funny thing about relationships is that it’s not all
about one person or the other,” she explained with a gentle squeeze of his
hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize I was
making it all about me, Jon. If you want
to get married, then we will.”
His mouth turned down into a petulant frown. “I hate you.”
“What?” she laughed, knowing he didn’t mean the
words. There simply wasn’t enough venom
in them to warrant a three-hundred-sixty degree turnaround from love to hate.
“I said I hate you,” he repeated with annoyance, shaking
his head. “Because, even though you said
the right words, you don’t really mean them.
That made me feel like shit because I don’t want to marry you if you
don’t really want to, because it would make you feel like shit.”
“I’m not going to feel like shit, you silly man.”
“Whatever,” he sighed.
“For the first time, I think I actually understand why you’ve refused so
long.”
Rachel’s eyes went wide.
“You do?”
“Don’t look so fuckin’ happy about it,” he grumbled. “Because all that means is that we’re back to
goddamn, mother fuckin’ square one. You
don’t wanna marry me because you don’t think I need you or what the fuck ever,
and now I don’t want to marry you because I don’t want you feeling like you
were forced into it.”
She chuckled, not having any idea that this would be the
turn of events to take place. “I said
I’d marry you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe when you can say it with a smile on
your face, then I’ll believe you.”
Really? This was
what it had taken to get him to see her point of view? If she’d known that, Rachel would’ve done
this months ago. She didn’t necessarily
think it would’ve solved all of his discontent, but at least it would’ve been a
mutual decision instead of her fault.
“I love you, yanno,” she murmured, leaning in to touch
her lips to his.
“You goddamn well better.
I wouldn’t put up with this shit from anybody else.”
She giggled against his lips. How many women would find him amusing even
when he was sulky? Not many, she’d
wager. Good thing he had her.
“Hey Jon?”
“What?”
Her ankle hooked around his and Rachel rubbed up the back
of his calf. “This doesn’t mean you’re
going to stop proposing every night in bed, does it?”
“Damn straight it does!
I’m not a masochist.”
It was Rachel’s turn to sulk. “But, Jon…
I can’t sleep unless you ask me to marry you. It’s part of my night time routine, just like
putting on my lotion.”
His scowl was meant to be dark and menacing, but the
light in his eyes belied the crabby shell.
“Depending on how well you put on the lotion, we’ll see.”
That meant it was a done deal, as far as Rachel was
concerned. Because, a modesty aside, she
could put on lotion better than a professional stripper could work a greased
pole in a room full of the world’s wealthiest men.
She could also work a different kind of greased pole….and,
that night, she worked it well.
