Chapter 19
Now
After leaving the hospital, I make another run to the grocery store.
I’m unsure if I have all the ingredients for the seven-layer salad to bring to Jordan and Monica’s.
I’m so excited to see her and can’t wait to put my arms around her and Jordan.
I hope she has lots of pictures of Paris.
I’m shaking. I’m so excited.
I park and sprint to the doors as heavy rain falls and splashes from below.
I’m soaked and breaking my rule—never wear scrubs in public.
But I wasn’t expecting the dinner invitation, or I would have packed clothes.
Oh, well.
Anything for Monica.
Grabbing a basket instead of a cart, I head to produce and slip on the wet floor. “Jill?”
I look up, and there is Michael, standing in the wine section, holding a bottle of red.
He returns the wine on the shelf, runs over, and helps me.
“Are you okay?”
Dammit! “Yes.
My shoes are wet from the rain.
I’m fine.”
His arms are still around me, and I look around to see who else witnessed my embarrassment.
“I shouldn’t have been running.”
Still in his arms, he retrieves the basket from the floor.
“Was anything in it?”
he asks, looking around the floor.
“No.
I just got here.
I was heading to pick up some fresh lettuce for dinner.”
“To Monica and Jordan’s?”
What? Don’t tell me he knows about it.
“Yes, she called this morning—invited me for spaghetti.”
“Me too.
I’m bringing wine.
Isn’t it red that goes with pasta?”
I stare at him incredulously. “Yes,”
I say, and my demeanor sounds broken.
“We can go together.
I’ll pick you up.”
“No, Michael.”
I regain composure from my silly slip and rip the basket from his hand.
“Excuse me.”
I’m cautious about taking my first step and then gradually working up to a swift pace.
“It’s not a problem.
I’d think it’d be great to go together…Jill,”
he hollers as I carefully flee away.
I need to find another grocery store.
However, Martins is the only one in this town.
And dammit.
What’s Monica trying to pull? I shouldn’t go. But I want to see her. Well, shoot. Maybe he will be different with Monica and Jordan around. Michael will have to put his emotions on hold. It was never a problem when we were married. And besides, he’ll have to feel like a complete outsider during the conversation—knowing nothing about our last twenty years.
I squeak through the aisles—wet shoes and gather the rest of my items.
I don’t spot Michael at any checkout.
So, hopefully, he’s left, and I run through the U-scan and back out the door.
The rain is still coming down in sheets, but I run for it, only to stop as soon as I get to my car.
Or what used to be my car.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.
Is this your car?”
“Ah…yes.
Oh, my God!”
The front end of my car is smashed and mangled, with one headlight hanging out and the other down on the ground.
But the jacked-up 4x4 pulling away from my car is just fine.
“What the hell happened?”
“I’m really sorry, Miss.
I didn’t see your car back there.”
“Well, of course not.
Why in the hell do you have to have such a big truck? It’s Michigan, for peat’s sake.
Not the Alaskan Tundra.”
“Can we exchange insurance cards?” he asks.
“Why would you need mine? Your truck is fine.”
He pulls a small piece of paper from his wallet, now drenched from the rain.
I reach for it, and my groceries spill out of my bag. “Dammit.”
“What’s happened?”
I’m covered with an umbrella and look to find Michael.
“He totaled my car. Oh, God!”
“I’ll take care of this, Jill.
Go sit inside my car.”
His Toyota runs beside us while he picks up the fallen groceries and then leads me around the other side.
“Are you okay?”
“I am.
My car’s not.”
He gives an understanding smile and wipes the wetness from my face.
“Stay here,”
he says and closes the door.
Before walking back, he pulls out his cell.
A police car arrives in less than five minutes and takes down the report.
Michael returns to get my license and the information needed for the report.
And then, a tow truck shows up. Like he said, he took care of it.
“Your car is being towed to Stafford’s Body Shop.
Not sure if they’ll total it.”
I lay my head against the window and cover my face.
“Oh, God.
Now, what am I going to do?”
“You can use my car.”
I give him a look that says, ‘Are you serious?’.
“Or, I can take you everywhere.”
“Oh.
You would love that,”
I say condescendingly.
“I definitely would.”
His smile is genuine.
“You caused this to happen.”
“What? I made that truck back into your car?”
I eye him suspiciously.
“I can’t prove it.
But somehow, you’re involved.”
He laughs.
“Jill, you’re too cute.
You know that?”
I’m soaked to the bone; my hair is wet, and I’m still in scrubs.
And Michael says I’m cute? Now he sounds like high school Michael.
“Just take me home,”
I sigh and lean my head against the window.
We pull into my drive, and he says, “I can just stay here while you get ready to go to Monica’s.”
“No.
Why would you?”
“Because you don’t have a car.”
Great.
I have no choice now other than to ride together. “Fine,”
I say, remembering I forgot the garage door opener. “Shit.”
“What?”
“My…”
I’m about to say when my garage door begins to open.
“Here.
I grabbed it when getting your registration.”
“And when were you going to tell me? Never mind.”
I reach for the groceries in the back and run into the garage.
And when I do, he pulls his Toyota inside.”
“Why didn’t you wait?”
he says, getting out of the car.
I don’t answer and go inside, dropping my groceries on the counter.
I quickly shower, change into a blue tunic T-shirt dress, and run some gel through my hair.
It will be curly tonight—no time for a blow-dry and flat iron.
Michael semi-prepared the salad with a large bowl of lettuce, with the other ingredients neatly set on the counter.
“I started it for you.
Wasn’t sure of the rest,”
he says with his head in the fridge.
“Just make yourself at home in my kitchen, why don’t you?”
Shutting the refrigerator door, he glances up to say something but then stops.
“Wow! I like that dress on you.”
I should thank him, but don’t and begin with the salad.
While I’m chopping this and mixing that, he continually wraps me in his arms and whispers sweet sentiments in my ear.
It’s weird and uncomfortable.
I turn around with the knife.
“Watch it.”
He smiles and backs up with his hands in the air.
“Can’t help it,” he says.
He winks, and before he can catch me smiling, I turn around and say, “Be useful and wash the dishes.
No woman ever shot a man in the back for doing dishes.”
“Yes, Ma’am,”
he says in my ear and kisses my neck.
It’s all too weird.
. . . . .
Monica’s smile is all too diabolic as Michael and I walk through the door together.
“My car was totaled,”
I say, walking straight to the kitchen with the salad.
“Oh my God.
Mom, were you hurt?”
“No.
I wasn’t even in it.
Come here,”
I say, taking Monica in a big hug and repeatedly kissing her cheeks.
“I don’t want to talk about me.
I want to know all about Paris.”
Michael walks in behind me, and Monica breaks our embrace and runs to hug…him.
I feel a bit resentment.
But wait until there’s nothing he can join in with the conversation.
“Hi, Dad.
Paris was wonderful. Thank you for everything. Jordan and I loved it.”
What I’m feeling inside is torn.
I’ve always wished Michael had a relationship with his daughter.
But it’s also hurtful how he dropped in after all these years and trumped me.
But, like I said—just wait.
We have our dinner, and afterward, we take our wine out on the patio.
Monica says she has something for each of us.
She leaves and returns with two Shutterfly albums.
“I had these made,”
she says with the most wishful smile.
I open the book, and my heart melts seeing her wedding pictures.
It stops short when I come to the pictures of Michael and me together.
To anyone else, we look like a couple in love—held in his arms, his lips resting on my head.
I turn the page, and we are holding each other on the dance floor. I look up and spot him looking at me with the warmest smile I’ve ever seen. I close the book and say, “Monica, these are…very thoughtful of you. You and Jordan look beautiful.”
“And so, in love,”
Michael says but looks at me.
“I hope you like them.”
“I do,”
I say and reach to kiss her cheek.
I get up to refill my wine, but Michael intervenes and tops off my glass.
I look up and catch his eyes.
“Thank you.”
“Mom, what are you going to do about your car?”
“I can pick you up tomorrow for work, Jill,”
Michael says.
“Oh, Mom doesn’t work on Fridays,”
Monica informs him, and his eyes show a bit of disappointment.
“I don’t know if they’ll total it.
But I need to get a rental by tomorrow.”
“I can take you wherever you need to go,”
Michael says.
“I’m sure you could.
But I wouldn’t want to interfere with your plans.”
He only smiles at me.
I want to ask more about Paris, but that only involves Michael.
So, I bring up another topic.
“Your old piano teacher was at the wedding.
Did you notice her?”
Michael has no idea how beautifully Monica plays the piano.
“Mrs.
Reese? No, I didn’t see her.”
My eyes slide to Michael as I take another sip of wine.
“She didn’t know who Michael was. Sorry,”
I say, looking at Michael.
“I’m not used to you being in the room.”
Bam! Take that.
“I’d love to hear you play, sweetheart,”
he says.
“I’ve listened to a few of your recitals on Facebook.
You’re very talented.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
Daddy? How long have they been corresponding?
Throughout the rest of the evening, the conversation is surprisingly comfortable, and Michael is fully engaged.
He doesn’t seem lost on any topic and appears genuinely interested.
He’s…happy.
Involved, and it’s…weird.
I don’t know what I’m feeling or how to feel.
I’m ready to go and tell Monica and Jordan thank you for dinner and that everything was beautiful.
Michael does the same.
We kiss our daughter goodbye and leave for Michael’s car.
He smiles when we get into the car, and I give him a polite smile his way.
Then, I fake a fuss with the seatbelt. That only backfires when he comes to my rescue and buckles my belt. “That was wonderful. Wasn’t it?”
he says, inches from my face.
“Yes…I suppose it was.”
I try desperately to ignore him, but he remains with us face-to-face.
I have no choice but to say, “Michael, what are you doing?”
“Gazing into the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen.”
Again, I’m speechless and search for another tactic.
“I need to get home.”
“Which home? Mine or yours?”
“Mine.”
“Then I’ll stay with you.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Then you stay with me.”
Before I can say no, his lips are on mine.
I don’t move and let him kiss me.
I don’t know what has come over me.
But I must make it stop.
“Please, Michael. Stop.”
But that only makes his kiss more intense.
For a second, I’m back in high school, feeling that lightheadedness and heaviness in my chest.
Without a thought, my hands are in his hair, and I hear that moan from deep down inside him, like I heard when we first kissed on his couch.
“Come home with me, Jill,”
he says without leaving my lips.
“Michael, I can’t.”
I’m losing air, and my lungs are about to crash.
“Please.
I love you, Jill.”
Why is he doing this? But better yet, why am I letting him affect me this way? “If I do, will you promise to stop this?”
“Maybe I’ll stop pressuring you, but I’ll never stop loving you.
Just come home with me.
And let’s see what happens.
If it all goes bad, I promise to take you home. Please?”
The kissing hasn’t stopped, and the conversation is spoken on our lips.
I can’t reason with Michael’s lips all over me for a second.
“Yes. Fine.”
“Thank you,”
he says and gives a few more reassuring kisses before starting the car and leaving.
I hope Monica and Jordan weren’t watching.
But then I remember the dark tint on his windows.
He holds my hand tightly in his and drives with the other, glancing over every so often with lovesick eyes.
He hasn’t said a word, lifts to kiss my hand repeatedly, and rubs his face with it.
The rain is still beating on the windows, and the wipers screeching across the window is the only indication that this is not a dream.
I should stop this.
I need to stop this. But somehow, breaking this silence would almost be like purposely destroying art. Something is building and driving this moment. It’s scary, exciting, and beautiful.
He pulls into a drive that must be his and doesn’t even bother with the garage.
He races over, pulling me out of the car.
He doesn’t yet set me down—carries me to the door.
We are soaked, and as he fumbles with the lock, we kiss like it’s our last day to be alive.
The door opens, and he carries me in, kicking the door shut with his foot.
Setting me to my feet, I grope with the buttons of his shirt as he lifts my hair and kisses my neck.
My dress is pulled over my head, and I’m grabbed firmly in his arms.
Neither of us wants to break this moment.
I fumble with the belt of his pants. He picks me up and carries me to his bedroom. Once there, I must stop. But once he starts kissing and massaging my breasts, I can’t.
Somehow, he has removed his pants, and I’m too drunk on lust to have even noticed as he pulls my panties down off my legs.
Within seconds, he’s on me, and I feel his swollen erection that I couldn’t see in the dark.
“I love you, Jill.
I love you, Jill,”
he says over and over.
It’s like he’s still trying to convince me.
I can’t stop it.
I’m too far in and feel him enter me.
“Ah, Michael,”
I cry out.
I say it without thought.
I say it with pain and anger and…love.
But it can’t be love.
“Come first, Jill.
Please, come for me,”
he begs, almost demands.
“I’ve missed you so much.”
He’s crying.
He thrusts into me hard, and he’s…crying.
“I’m so sorry for everything.
I need you, Jill.
I need you to forgive me. Please.”
His chest heaves with each thrust and each sob.
It’s the strangest thing and yet the most erotic.
I’m about to come and force myself to say the word.
“I…forgive you, Michael.”
“Ah, yes,”
he breathes into my ear.
His hot breath runs down into my being.
I come and strangle out his name.
“Michael.”
He knows I’m coming.
He knows the sound I make and the way I move.
He knows because he taught me.
He loses himself and comes hard like it was our first time again.
He rides his orgasm out slowly as he kisses me tenderly.
“That’s not how I had it planned, but I’m not sorry,”
he says as we both come up for air and slowly come down.
And when we do…where do we go from here?