Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
JC
Easter
Vancouver, B.C.
At the dining room table that heaves with enough food to feed Bolivia, David Barlow says the evening prayer.
Gia squeezes my left hand, Antonia Barlow holding my right.
I poke an eye open to keep watch on Gia, head bowed, grateful for the meal.
Saying grace is still new for me, but I have many things to be thankful for.
David’s acceptance of me, for one.
He’s a guy’s guy. A hearty beer drinker in plaid shirts who watches Hockey Night in Canada and smells overwhelmingly of drugstore aftershave whenever he bear-hugs me. Cranks Rush and Genesis while he cooks. Twenty years married, likely another forty to come.
We’re tight.
Antonia? Slightly different story.
The initial shock of Gia moving out to live in sin with her recently scandalized failed chaperone gave rise to stern questions about my intentions.
To me, loving Gia is the most natural thing in the world.
My now and forever. But our age gap (or rather, her social circle’s view of it) remains a point of contention. Plenty of opinions, shared weekly.
Funny, considering she was barefoot and pregnant at nineteen with Gia.
Still, if Gia in my bed means Sunday dinners deep in Burnaby, praying to a god I don’t believe in, that’s a sacrifice I’ll make ten times over. Whatever we have together, it’s going to outlast all the noise.
Prayers done, Antonia hands me a platter of eggplant parmesan. “So,” she says. “Any progress to report?”
Gia rolls her eyes. “I told you, kids are in the five-year plan. Not the five-month plan.”
“Toni,” David warns. “Let them be.”
Antonia purses her lips, retreats. Unchecked, she’d rant and rage, maybe ground Gia if she still could.
And as she silently piles food onto my plate, doing what moms do best, I understand.
This shift in dynamic must be tough to swallow.
She held the upper hand before the tour.
Now her daughter is a bona fide star—not a cabaret casualty like Mama, but a headliner, living debt-free and in luxury with a handsome, rich boyfriend.
Ha.
“It would be better if you were married.” Antonia throws a look at me, then at David, who, best guess, is concentrating on pouring wine to avoid eye contact and the ruin of the world. “I only want the best for Gia."
“Wow!” Gia exclaims. “You said my name right.”
I nudge her under the table—a gesture of don’t push it.
Their relationship has slowly inched toward improvement, with Gia stepping up and asking her mother’s opinion on songs, and Antonia holding back her criticism.
At times, both still circle each other like alpha wolves, waiting for the other to strike.
When we moved Gia out in February, Antonia stood like a sentry in the bedroom, eyeing me like some no-good pirate whisking her daughter into sin.
Not the smoothest start.
Anything to keep the peace is the name of the game, and I get the sense that an extravagant wedding is the only thing that will put me firmly in her good books.
I found out from David their shotgun vows at City Hall with Antonia pregnant did not go over well with her family. The expectations are high for Gia.
“My mom is keen for us to get married, too,” I say, the first thing all evening that elicits a small hum of approval. The moms have met twice and hit it off. Ideally, their budding friendship fast-tracks my welcome into Antonia’s still-wary heart.
“First, we need to record our next album,” Gia explains for the tenth time, or so it feels. “Then we tour again. Then maybe, after that…”
Antonia silently does the math. “At least two years until I see a grandchild?”
Gia shuts her eyes with a helpless-sounding sigh.
She prefers her mother hiding out in the kitchen, rustling up meals, and not rehashing the same topic, week after week.
Me? I can live with the parental pressure because I’m dying for us to get pregnant.
Until then, the greatest gig I could ask for: all the practice.
My blushing virgin has overcome her initial shy debut, and she makes love to me like a dream.
Sometimes rough, always deep and messy.
She’s my favorite song on heavy rotation.
I take a swallow of pinot grigio, Italian, of course, and smile. “I’m trying my best to move things along, Antonia. Rest assured.”
Grinning, Gia leans over and kisses my cheek. “Every day you try. Sometimes twice. You work so hard.”
Dave chokes on a laugh while Antonia falls silent, scrambling for something to say.
Did we just drop a reminder in her G-rated imagination on how babies get made?
Should I tell her how I was making omelets this morning when Gia wandered in without panties and draped herself over the butcher’s block?
How wrapped up we were in each other, we didn’t notice the kitchen smoking until the fire alarm went off.
I don’t. No need to stoke her fire.
She fizzles out on her own, and we enjoy Easter dinner in peace.
By the time we pull into Coal Harbour, the city’s bathed in soft twilight. The days are getting longer. Spring is around the corner. Everything feels a little magical.
Our new home. Our new life together.
Not even a minute inside the condo, and Gia flings her leather jacket onto the couch, oblivious to the fact that some mystery man keeps hanging it in the closet.
I won’t lie—there’s been a few hiccups to navigate, the usual new-couple stuff.
I like my private time in the bathroom, unlike Gia, who barges in to take a whiz and chatters away while I floss.
She insisted on cooking dinner last month, but after Mom gamely ate the crunchy rice cooked in a frying pan with no lid, a box full of cookbooks arrived.
To her credit, Gia has made great progress. I’m confident our kitchen won’t blow up anytime soon. Because, let’s face it, if Gia can love me, she’s capable of anything.
A wild, natural woman with a soul as big as Texas.
Gia throws her arms around me and mutters, “Sweet Jesus. Thank you for your endless patience with Mama.”
“I’m just a king serving his queen.”
“I think you mean servicing.”
Her laughing grin widens as Gia grinds her body up and down my zipper. All the low-level gray frustration inside me turns golden bright. Our bedroom is a quick walk down the hall, no stairways to navigate. I scoop my bundle of sexual magnetism into my arms, pitying any man who isn’t me.
Her eyes bright with joy, she looks up and asks, “What are you doing?”
“A little of this, a little of that.”
“Nothing you do qualifies as little.”
I smile back, informing her, “We have four other frying pans to destroy.”
Gia snuggles into my chest, cheeks flushing an adorable pink. “I owe you for that.”
I nudge open the bedroom door and gently lay her down on the soft silk duvet. Our eyes meet, and I feel the blood rush south.
“Do tell.”
“You like it when I’m on top, right?”
The sight of her sly grin makes me laugh. “That, my love, is a throwaway question.”
Her hand finds mine, and she places both between her legs, putting her whole life into my hands. I’m getting used to having to think about exactly nothing to keep up with her.
Before the sparkle gets too bright, I murmur, “I bought more condoms. They’re in the bathroom.”
“We ran out already?” Gia laughs and rolls off the bed, me starting the silent countdown in my head. I figure nine seconds and just hit seven when she returns.
“What’s this?” She shakes the gold-wrapped box that most definitely is not condoms.
My voice turns soft. “I got you something.”
Her eyes very wide, she lowers herself onto the side of the bed. Something is up. But what? We agreed to wait a year before I officially asked for her hand, and the gift is bigger than a ring box.
“It’s a gigantic pair of toenail clippers, in case you’re wondering.”
She elbows me hard in the ribs. “It better not be!”
“Open it and find out.”
Very carefully, very unlike Gia, she undoes the red velvet bow. Unsticks the tape from the golden paper. Spins the plain cardboard box in one hand, looking for any identifying mark. In the meantime, I’ve settled beside her. Thighs touching. Lightning inside of me.
Gia opens the lid, her mouth forming an "o" of shock. “Oh my god! What?”
She lifts the custom-made tiara into the light. Weighing the heft of the twenty-four-karat gold in her palm, she admires the centerpiece jewel, an enameled skull and crossbones with two shining red eyes.
“Are those real rubies?” she whispers.
“Red, to match your lipstick.”
She turns the tiara over in her hands. Watching her, I realize maybe this is what it means to love someone truly; to overcome the complexity of opening your damaged heart and brave the unknown, guns blazing.
“JC,” she says, all choked up. “This is beyond beautiful.”
“That represents part one of my two-part commitment. If you’ll be my spicy baby mama, I’ll be your Mr. Mom.”
Gia looks at me, smiling, so happy in her bubble. “We need to agree on one thing, though. We have to name our kids something cool. That they won’t have to shorten.”
I trace the fine structure of her jaw with my finger. “Like Vladimir?”
She laughs. “No. A pretty name for a girl, like Lily or Georgina. Maybe Randall for a boy. It sounds strong.”
“Randall?” I exaggerate a shudder. “That sounds like a tech geek or a McDonald’s manager.”
“Hardly. He’ll be the spitting image of you. Are you ready to be the proud father of a male model?”
A thrill shivers down my spine: Father.
In another life, that word would be unbearably heartbreaking. But it’s like I survived the biggest test of spirit and soul and was blessed with a prize worth more than gold.
The moment swells my heart.
“I have a couple of names to run past you.”
Gia sets down the tiara and runs her hands through my hair. “Lay them on me.”
I take a breath. This is big. Not having Gia prod things out from the depths of me. That I can be vulnerable without needing a crisis to force it.