40. Jonny
Chapter forty
Jonny
We’re lying naked, side by side, in our bed.
The studio is littered with clothes discarded too hastily.
If I ever wanted proof that Lance loves me, it’s in the fact that the uniform he treats like a holy relic is currently lying rumpled on the floor.
I have the feeling this might be the only time in my life I ever see it in this state.
I’m trying to record my new voicemail greeting, but I keep getting derailed by my new husband.
“This is Jonny Bish—hey! What the fuck, Lance?” He’s just tweaked my nipple. Although, looking at me through his annoyingly perfect lashes, he could not look more pleased with himself if he tried.
“You gave the wrong name! I’m not letting you record a brand new greeting with the old one.”
I huff. “It was force of habit. No more distractions.”
“Go on, then,” he says. He laces his hands behind his head and looks up at the ceiling.
I hit the button to re-record. “You’ve reached the voicemail of Jonathan Broussard. I—”
“Are you a Jonathan now?”
I stop the recording. “Seriously? That was take seven and it was flawless.”
“Yeah, but. Jonathan?”
“Doesn’t it sound good? Jonathan Broussard?”
“I guess,” he says, with a look that says he’s not sold.
“Take number eight.” I punch in the number seven to retry. “This is Jonny Broussard. I can’t—”
Lance sneezes so loudly I check the wall to make sure there aren’t bits of his brain splattered on it.
I stop the recording. “What the hell was that?”
“Sorry!” He smiles. “It just snuck up on me.”
“That was the fakest-ass sneeze I’ve ever heard!” I hit seven again. “This is Jonny Broussard and I can’t keep up with this if you’re smiling at me like that!”
“Oh, so now I’m not allowed to smile. At my husband. On our wedding night. Good to know.”
I sigh and hit the button to try again. “This is Jonny B. Leave a message.”
“What the fuck? No. Do that again,” Lance says.
“Jonny Bishop, Jonny Broussard. No confusion.”
“Actually, there is a lot of confusion. For a second there I thought I married a middle-aged deejay from Oceanside.”
I abandon the voicemail system and turn on my voice recorder instead. “Okay, get all the weird, toxic, possessive stuff out of your system. What would you like my voicemail message to say?” I put the phone between us.
“Ooh. Let me think. You could say: ‘This is Jonny Bishop. I’m underneath my husband right now, so I’ll call you when he lets me.’”
I tilt the phone toward my lips. “Translation: ‘My husband wants you to know that he’s nailing me so you have no doubt you have no chance.’ There, I fixed it for you.” I tilt the phone back to him.
“Fine. How about this: ‘This is Lance Broussard, Jonny’s husband. He’s lost phone privileges until at least the New Year for trying to run away too many times.’”
I pivot the phone back to me. “Translation: ‘My husband is so insecure that he thinks I’ll disappear, but I’ll sneak out when I can, and no, I’m not being held against my will.’”
He takes my phone. “Jonny’s not allowed outside the house, because I have him chained in the attic until our third anniversary, when he’ll have living room privileges restored.”
“Well, for that, you’d need a house with an attic, wouldn’t you?” I take the phone back. “Translation: ‘My husband is a desperate psychopath who would be willing to hold me captive in our own home to ensure that I never leave him and I’m supposed to find that sweet and adorable.’”
“Don’t you?” he growls.
“Meh. I’m about fifty-fifty,” I say.
He narrows his eyes. “Okay, how about this one: ‘This is Jonny Broussard. I am desperately, unspeakably in love with my husband. You can leave me a message, but don’t take it personally if I never notice.’”
“I just threw up in my mouth.”
“Well, you didn’t like the alpha-male bit, so I thought, let’s try the other way.”
I reach up and touch his hair. “I am desperately and unspeakably in love with my husband,” I say.
He smiles. “Really?”
“But I’ll be damned if I’m saying that in my voicemail message. Come on.”
He stops my recorder and looks down at me. He’s quiet for a second, which is unusual for Lance.
“What did my dad say to you?” he asks. “At the wedding. You were looking at the ground when you came out.”
I feel my chest tighten. “He said he’d always hoped to welcome me to the family. And that if it wasn’t too much to ask, given the circumstances, he’d very much like it if I called him Dad.” My voice catches. “He said he’d had two sons for ten years now, and he wanted to make it official.”
Lance is very still.
“Nobody has ever said that to me,” I say. “My mother never let me forget that I didn’t have a father. And then your dad just offered. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.”
“That’s because to him, it is.”
I stroke his hair and something settles inside me—something that has been restless for a decade. I grab my phone and dial into my voicemail again, and hit the option to record.
“What are you doing?”
“I finally know the right message.”
I look into his eyes while the automated voice tells me to begin recording after the tone.
“This is Parker Broussard,” I say. “I can’t get to the phone. Please leave me a message.”
I save it and put the phone down. He stares at me, his eyes shining.
“Parker Broussard,” he repeats. He closes his eyes and the tears leak out. “I’m really glad to have you back again.”