Chapter 28
“Blue cheese, baby!” I sing at the top of my lungs, after following the song’s intro on my invisible piano. “L.A. maybe!”
Jasper snaps his head around, eyes wide with shock. I pretend not to notice. The trip is ours, the road is ours, and it stretches ahead, long and winding for another twenty miles or so. I have the right to sing whatever I want.
He’s the one who tuned this radio station in the car, he can deal with it.
“Pretty flies, parrot style. You married a music van…” I continue, full of conviction.
“What was that, Julie?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed, barely moving his lips so as not to interrupt me.
“Ballerina, your master cleaned her…”
“You know that’s not the lyric, right?”
“Of course it is. What are you talking about?”
“You must have seen her,” he corrects, in a tired, hopeless tone.
But I ignore him, because Elton John, mixed with the beautiful sunset colors taking over the sky, just makes me want to vibe, not sing according to Mr. Assmann’s version, while he just rubs his face with his hand.
“You’ve got hearing problems!” he exclaims, but I can see the smile he’s trying to hide under his impatient expression.
“And you’re messing up the music.”
“I’m serious. You need to see a doctor.”
“My insurance doesn’t cover hearing issues, Jasper. If I can hear anything at all, I’m already winning!”
He opens his mouth to reply, but the chorus hits, so I throw my arms up, ready for the performance of a lifetime, and sing over his voice.
“Hold me closer, tiny dancer! Eating french fries on the highway!”
“Jesus Christ!”
I keep singing, loud and off-key, like my epic, drunken “Bleeding Love” karaoke performances with Mila. He looks completely shocked at every wrong line, but in the end, he’s shaking his head and laughing.
Jasper thanks God when Tiny Dancer ends, but I immediately recognize the first chords of the best song of all time starting to play.
It starts with I, ends with want it that way.
I let out a squeal of excitement.
“No way!” I hit the dashboard, almost jumping out of the seat. “You have to sing this one!”
He shakes his head with the same fake impatience. I clear my throat, wait for the moment, and start singing.
“You are, my fire!” I pause dramatically. “The one, desire!” I strum my imaginary guitar. “Believe, when I say…”
Jasper laughs as I hold my hand in front of his face like a microphone, waiting for him to finish the sentence.
“Stop being a party pooper, Jasper!” I complain, my microphone still awaiting his participation. “Don’t pretend you don’t know the lyrics!”
Because stupid Jasper isn’t singing, I grab the microphone back, improvise some choreography, and get ready for the chorus.
“Tell me why!” I push the mic back toward him.
Jasper rolls his eyes.
“Tell me why!” I repeat, even louder.
Nothing.
“Tell me why!”
Finally, he gives in and sings the next line. Of course he does! Not even Jasper Hassmann, attorney for the rich and powerful, can resist this pop masterpiece. I finish the chorus with my hand on my chest, giving it my all.
The music grows with more intensity, reaching the climax. I know what’s coming, so I call out, “Back to you, Jasper!”
He sings with a little more emotion this time, the way the song demands, his voice echoing inside the car, not a single note off-key.
“Ain’t nothing but a heartache!” We sing together. “Ain’t nothing but a mistake!”
“Now the drums!” I shout, playing my invisible drums, and the smile he gives makes my heart swell inside my chest. “Go, Jasper!”
This time, he follows my lead, our voices alternating through all the “Tell me wha-ah-ah-ah-y!” lines and backing vocals until the song ends, both of us laughing and out of breath. I know I need to treasure this moment because I’m sure it will never happen again.
One thing I need to mention is that the radio DJ is absolutely nailing it, because the next song is Livin’ la Vida Loca.
I widen my eyes in excitement, but Jasper cuts me off immediately, “Don’t look at me like that!”
“You can sing Backstreet Boys, but not Ricky Martin?” I complain. “That’s where you draw the line, Jasper?”
“I don’t even know the lyrics.”
“Liar! We met to this song !” He looks at me a bit suspicious. “What? You don’t remember?”
“I remember.”
“Do you really really?”
“Of course I do!” He emphasizes, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “I remember you were wearing sneakers and a tiny white dress even though it was freezing outside.”
This won’t be the first or last time Jasper comments on how tiny my dresses are. Usually, the comment comes with something about slutty clothes, so I kindly finish the sentence for him.
“Hot bitches don’t get cold,” is my only response.
“And I could tell you’d just cut your bangs, because you kept touching your hair like you were still getting used to it falling down your face,” he continues, seemingly describing anything at all.
But it’s not anything.
It’s far from that.
We look at each other for a fraction of a second. Then silence.
A silence so heavy it feels like it’s sucking all the air out of the car, and soon we’ll both be gasping for oxygen.
My throat tightens.
I cut my bangs for the first time that morning ten years ago.
Ten years ago, and he noticed.
The music keeps playing on the radio, but it sounds like distant noise by now.
Ten years ago, and he remembers.
Jasper sits rigid, focused on the road, nothing but his serious, thoughtful profile once again.
He knows what he said.
He knows what just happened.
Maybe he’s trying to find the right thing to say now, or thinking of best ways to justify himself, twist the argument, distort his own words or whatever, but nobody could escape this without consequences.
Not even him.
And me? What the hell am I supposed to do?
This isn’t a joke. I can’t laugh or tease or pretend it doesn’t mess everything up inside me that he just said exactly what I was wearing ten years ago.
That he paid enough attention to notice my hand in my hair.
Ten years ago.
He didn’t even know me.
Didn’t know my name, didn’t know who I was, didn’t know anything about Mila, didn’t even expect anything to happen between her and Robbie.
You can’t notice or remember this kind of thing if you’re not… damn it! I don’t want to think. I don’t think I can think about it right now. I can’t think about anything else either, because the world seems to dissolve into a haze, and from there, my day turns into a blur.
The end of the sunset drive, the exhausting moment in a dirty gas station bathroom where me and a bar of soap wrestled with a Tiffany’s diamond ring until it finally slid off my finger and back into its blue box.
The car stopping in the garage, Mila running toward us to argue about the cake, and Jasper’s voice responding, calm as ever, that she should be grateful he found a good enough mechanic to fix the car in record time so her cake arrived safely in the proper car.
Catrina, the wedding planner, running back and forth, the violinist rehearsing Everything for the thousandth time, the huge table on the deck with arrangements and a million types of different glasses and cutlery all ready for dinner.
The hot shower washing away the remnants of dirt, sweat and the slightly dicey water from the cenote.
Followed by drying my hair, putting on another pink dress (this time a shimmery Pepto Bismol with deep V cleavage) and doing the best makeup possible in the shortest time so I wouldn’t be late for the event.
And then the moment I open my bedroom door and realize it’s the exact moment Jasper opens his.
If I thought I had any control over myself or what’s happening, this is the moment it all goes down the drain.
I am completely and utterly lost.
Each of us with a hand on our respective doorknob, on opposite sides of the hallway. Me, hair half-up, curtain bangs framing my face, cascading mother-of-pearl earrings brushing my neck, the thin straps of my dress forming a deep line that makes my boobs look exceptional.
Him, in a light-colored suit and a faded dusty-pink shirt, completely contrasting with the all-black man who entered the room earlier. No tie, one button undone, suede loafers matching the exact tone of the shirt that were probably worth a fortune.
It doesn’t get more Jasper than this.
Stylish, elegant, breathtaking. So fucking handsome.
Like a model on some photoshoot, standing perfectly still since the moment he saw me in my doorway. Eyes on mine like the rest of the world just ceased to exist.
I don’t even know if I’ve ever seen a man look at me the way he is right now. I would have noticed. And certainly remembered.
It’s burning everything inside me. Turning my skin and everything on the way into pure fire.
My body and my soul.
Jasper takes a deep breath, letting out a hoarse sigh that scratches his throat, and I melt.
I have nothing left. No excuses, no lies, I can’t even do that anymore.
I melt, and the walls around crumble with me.
There’s nothing I want more than my body against his and his mouth on mine. A desperate urgency that doesn’t even allow me to wait for confirmation.
But when I fling my door open and dash across the hall, his body collides with mine, tongue immediately on my lips, making space to invade my mouth, his hand rough and heavy on the back of my neck, guiding me straight into the room.
He kisses me with the same ferocity, and part of me can breathe easy, because it’s the confirmation I needed.
He sees me.
Just like he did ten years ago.
He sees me. And he wants me anyway.
Jasper closes the door behind us as I slide his jacket down his shoulders, frantic, and hurry to undo his shirt buttons with trembling fingers.
It’s not calm, not magical, not pretty.
It’s rushed and messy, like a train off the rails, desperately searching for a place to hold onto before it plunges into the abyss.
For me, that place is with him inside me.
He seems to understand my urgency, because he helps me get his own clothes off as quickly as he can, all while kissing me. He doesn't stop kissing me for a second.