Chapter 10
61 hours until the wedding
A bell jingles above the door and we are instantly welcomed by an overbearing aroma of rosemary and sage.
There’s no one behind the desk, but my eyes are instantly drawn to the large crucifix draped in rosary beads and a portrait of the Virgin Mary surrounded by flickering votive candles in the corner.
Jack and I both exchange looks.
“Hello?” I say into the vacant room, aware a second too late that I sound exactly like the girl in a horror film who asks, Who’s there? before being brutally murdered.
When there is no answer, Jack strides forward and rings the bell on the front desk.
A moment later, an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair appears.
“Hi,” Jack says. “We’re looking for a room.”
Her face breaks into a smile. “Yes, I have a room,” she says, nodding.
My chest loosens. “Great,” I tell her. “We’ll take it.”
Her eyes dart between us, narrowing. “And you are married?” she asks. She has an accent of some kind, but I can’t pinpoint it.
“Uh…” My gaze flickers uneasily to the rosary beads and the crucifix, then back to the woman.
Her expression sours. “I only rent rooms to married couple.”
I swallow. Is that even legal?
“Oh, we aren’t—” I start to say.
“We aren’t planning to stay in town long,” Jack finishes. “We are on our way to our honeymoon, actually,” he adds with a shameless grin.
My mouth parts, lips pinching into a surprised o shape. He said what ?
But it’s not his words, or even the cavalier way he says them that catches me most off guard, it’s the way Jack’s arm wraps around my waist, pulling me to his side.
Shock, followed by whooshes of awareness, shoots through my body, and for a moment I am unable to compute anything except the heat of Jack’s hand on the curve of my hip. Or the intimate way his fingers thread along the waistband of my jeans, dipping in and out of my belt loops like they have a right to be there.
Thankfully, my brain reboots just in time to realize that the woman is looking expectantly at me like I’ve been called on in class to answer a question. A question I clearly don’t know the answer to.
I try to catch Jack’s eye, but he shoots me a look that says, Just go with it .
I force a smile that I’m sure won’t earn me any Oscars. “Yup, just two…” I search for the words. “Two lovebirds here.” I give his chest an awkward pat. Damn, it’s hard.
Her face breaks into a Cheshire cat grin and she clasps her hands together. “Oh, how wonderful. Such a special time,” she adds with a knowing smile that makes my gut twist.
Ohmygod. This woman thinks we’re gonna be up all night making love like rabbits.
I look helplessly to Jack, but he gives me a discreet shake of the head, followed by another possessive squeeze that momentarily renders both my limbs and my thinking faculties useless.
“And how did you two meet?” the woman asks, eyes shining. “I just love a good love story.”
Yeah, me too. If only we had one to share.
“We met in church,” he says.
Church? I nearly choke.
The woman’s face stretches into a smile. “Good, good,” she says, patting Jack’s arm. “That is a good place to meet nice young girls.” She casts me a glowing smile like I’ve descended from Heaven itself. “I will set up our finest guest room for you. Follow me.” And with that, the woman waves for us to follow her as she waddles up a spindly staircase in the back of the room.
“ Church ?” I whisper once she’s out of earshot. “We met in church?”
“Seems like that’s what she wanted to hear,” he whispers back. “Besides, it was better than the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That we met in a bar where I tried to get in your pants.”
Something between a laugh and a choke catches in my throat and I cough.
“Everything okay, babe?” Jack asks, giving me a pat on the back.
I wince as I swallow. “Yup, babe .”
At the top of the landing the woman beckons us to a blue door with the number thirteen painted on it.
My stomach somersaults. Thirteen? As in unlucky number thirteen?
“Uh, is there possibly another roo—” I start to ask, but Jack gives me a small kick.
“Looks great,” Jack interrupts, forcing a smile.
She swings the door open and makes a sweeping gesture inside. “Our finest room. The honeymoon suite.”
If this is the honeymoon suite, I’m afraid to know what the other rooms look like.
There’s a questionable crack running the length of one of the walls and a single porthole window overlooking the dark street below. A naked bulb flickers angrily from the ceiling.
“You like?” she asks eagerly.
“Uh, yeah…it’s great.” If you like lighting that makes you feel like you’re in an interrogation cell.
I shoot Jack a look, wondering if he’ll say anything, but he loops his arm around my shoulder and says, “It’s perfect.”
The woman clasps her hands together, clearly delighted. “Wait here. I get special treat,” she says before rushing off.
As soon as she’s gone, I untangle my body from Jack’s. “Quit touching me,” I hiss. “You’re not going to win the Oscar for Best Actor if that’s what you’re thinking, babe .”
“I was trying to lean into the role, babe .”
“Your hand was too close to my ass, babe .”
The corners of his mouth pull up into the kind of grin that ought to be illegal. “Has it occurred to you that maybe I just like messing with you?” he asks.
“Hand. Off. Ass.”
Jack backs away, putting his hands in the air just as the woman reappears, quilt in hand.
“My grandmother made this,” she says, holding up an orange and brown chevron-patterned quilt.
I smile. That’s nice of her. It is a bit chilly in here.
“This has been in my family for generations,” she says, spreading it over the bed. “It will bless your union with many children. My husband and I sleep with this blanket, now we have fifty-two grandchildren.”
My mouth hangs open. “Fifty-two?”
She nods proudly.
My throat thickens. There is no way we are sleeping with a blanket. We may not be having sex, but with those kinds of fertility stats (and my bad luck), that’s a chance I’m simply not willing to take.
“Uh, no, thanks,” I tell her. “We don’t want any kids.”
Her mouth sinks into a frown. “No kids? But marriage is for making babies,” she insists. “It is the Lord’s plan.”
“Uh…I think He has a different plan for us,” I try.
She seems to consider this for a minute before her eyes widen, recognition sliding over her features. “You poor thing, you are barren?”
My cheeks crowd with heat. “Who, me? Nope. Very fertile. Super fertile . I’m practically a bag of fertilizer over here,” I say with an awkward laugh.
She places a hand on my stomach. “I will pray that you will be fruitful and multiply.”
“Uh, no need! Really, we are fine,” I say, moving to push her hand away just as Jack steps between us.
“You know, I think we are going to go to bed now,” he says, a finality to his tone that makes it clear it’s time for her to go. Thank you, Jack! Finally making yourself useful! “We have to get started on all that baby making,” he adds.
I don’t know much (anything) about black holes, but I’m fairly certain there’s one in the room with us right now, sucking up all the air, making every particle collapse in on itself.
I look to Jack, horrified, but he winks— winks!— and I’m not sure what’s worse: that Jack is totally fine with letting this woman believe we’re going to bone one another’s brains out tonight, or the insufferable, smug grin on his face that tells me he’s enjoying this.
The woman nods profusely. “Yes, of course. I will leave you alone,” she says, slowly backing toward the door. “Breakfast is at eight a.m. in the lobby, if you can manage to get out of bed,” she adds with a wink, and with that she shuts the door behind her and scurries away.
As soon as she’s gone, Jack is doubled over, fighting back shaky laughs. “You should see your face right now,” he gasps.
“It’s not funny!” I cry. “Why would you say that?”
“Me? You should have just taken the blanket!”
“I didn’t want the blanket! Didn’t you hear what she said? Fifty-two grandkids!”
He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “I don’t know if you know this, but you have to actually have sex to make a baby. And last I checked we’re not having sex.”
“Thanks for the biology lesson, but keep that thing away from me. I don’t know the last time it’s been washed,” I say, casting the blanket a suspicious glance.
Jack pushes it toward me, but I shove it right back.
“Don’t you dare!”
A low laugh rumbles in the back of his throat, deep and gravelly. “What do you think? Should I sleep with a condom on? Just in case?”
My cheeks heat up at the visual, and I look away, suddenly fascinated by the pile of old magazines on the bedside table.
When I look back at Jack, his eyes are trailing up and down my face, pausing, then starting again.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m trying to determine whether you look like you could be my wife.”
I frown, taken aback. “What is that supposed to mean? Does your wife have to look a certain way?”
His eyes sweep over me, mouth scrunched in concentration before he says, “You’re not really my type, you know.”
“Let me guess, your type is miniskirts and push-up bras?”
“I’m more of a leggings man myself,” he says. “Thank God for whoever decided leggings could be pants.”
I roll my eyes and flop backward on the bed (careful to keep my distance from the blanket ). My foot accidentally grazes his and I expect him to move, but he doesn’t.
“So what’s your type then?” I say to the ceiling. I don’t know what makes me ask it, but I find myself wanting to know.
“You really want to know?”
“ Yes, Jack . I think I can handle hearing about the other women you’ve lured to hotel rooms.”
“Oh, you know I only reserve that for you, babe .”
I place my hand over my heart. “I’m honored, really.”
A laugh breaks in the back of his throat and the sound crackles between us like an electric current.
I roll onto my side so I’m facing him and prop my head up on my elbow. “Just tell me. Or am I going to have to guess? Because I’m struggling with which Kardashian I’d pick for you.”
“Kris. Obviously.”
I give him a look and his grin stretches wider, consuming his whole face.
“Fine. You know The Addams Family ?”
“Yeah…?”
A streak of pink catches in his cheeks. “Well, I always had a thing for Morticia.”
My face breaks into an open-mouthed gawk. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. She was sexy without really trying, you know? And her long black hair.” A guttural groan forms in the back of his throat. “Oh my God, that hair . I think that was my sexual awakening.”
I burst into stomach-pinching laughter and the bed vibrates underneath us. “I’m honestly shocked. I never would have guessed you like witchy vibes.” I pause to shake my head in disbelief. “That’s sort of kinky, isn’t it?”
His brow lifts. “You’re not kink-shaming me, are you?”
My cheeks flush with heat at the thought of what kinds of kinks Jack might have. I wonder if—? Nope! Don’t go there!
“Of course not,” I tell him.
He chews on his bottom lip, gaze tracking my expression, before he asks, “What about you?”
A nervous laugh rattles in my throat. “You want to know my kinks?”
“As intrigued as I am to hear about you and Carter experimenting with butt plugs, I meant what’s your type? ”
I nearly choke. “Did you seriously just say butt plugs ?”
He shrugs. “I just thought that’s what couples did after they’ve been together forever and wanted to keep things spicy. Isn’t it usually around year three when those come into play?”
“And how would you know what year three of a relationship looks like?” I shoot back. “What’s your longest relationship? Seven to ten business days?”
He laughs—and maybe I imagine it—but behind his eyes there’s a shadow. It’s there for just a second. Then he blinks and it’s gone.
“So is that a yes or a no on the butt plugs?” he asks.
I give his arm a playful whack. “Like I’d tell you, perv.”
“So…? Your type?” he tries again. “Or are you going to make me guess? Because I’m definitely going to say a firefighter who not only rescues puppies from burning buildings and takes his grandmother to church on Sundays, but also isn’t afraid to cry at Marley & Me. ”
“That is oddly specific…but no. It’s Carter,” I say. “He’s perfect.” The words come out in a rush, almost like I’ve read them from a cue card for a speech I’ve been memorizing.
“Perfect?” Jack repeats as though unsure if I’m serious. “No guy is perfect. You know that, right?”
I sit back on my elbows, body sinking into the mattress. “I mean, obviously,” I say, making a big show of rolling my eyes. “Carter just…” But I let my words trail off, not sure how to finish that statement. Because as much as I miss the comfortable familiarity of our life together, I know things weren’t perfect. Hence I’m on my way to Ireland with Jack and not Carter right now. And yet, I don’t know who I am without Carter, without our life and our plans and the future I thought— hoped —was inevitable.
It’s not just the big things like marriage and family and the future. It’s all the tiny pieces that have made up the last eight years, pieces I expected to make up the rest of my life.
Without Carter, who will I spend Valentine’s and Christmas and New Year’s with? Who will I text, Want anything? when I’m at the grocery store. Who will binge-watch TV shows with me when I feel a cold coming on?
Our life might not have been perfect, but it was our life, and the thought of losing him feels a little bit like losing myself.
When I look back up, Jack’s gazing at me intently, like there’s some kind of puzzle on my face he’s trying to work out. “You all right?” he asks.
I force a tight smile. “Fine.” But the heat drains from my face as twin aches of confusion and anxiety flood my stomach. I try to shrug the feeling off, but the discomfort sits inside me, thick and heavy like undigested food.