The Good Widow(40)
Now was the time to tell him. Especially after what Isabella had implied at the reception. The house. The honeymoon. It was only a matter of time before she’d start putting more pressure on him. That’d she want to be paid back in the form of a grandchild.
But I couldn’t find the words. I wanted to savor every minute of our honeymoon, not taint it with bad news. That could wait until we got back. “You’re right,” I whispered as I stood up and guided him away from the cabana and toward the hotel room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JACKS—AFTER
My mom likes to check boxes. Dry cleaning, check. Pick up prescriptions, check. Jacks is okay, check.
She’s called me twice today—trying her best to tick that box next to my name. I’m not sure if it’s because Beth told her where I am (even though I asked her not to) or if her mother’s intuition is kicking in and she knows I’m somewhere she wouldn’t approve of. Doing something she might classify as crazy. But either way, it’s just another thing I’m going to have to deal with if I answer her call. Manage her needs. She needs me to tell her I’m fine. That I’m getting through it. She wants me to say something I may never say again: that I’m “back to normal.”
Because the thing is, my mom doesn’t do well when things don’t go as expected. She’s always needed Beth and me to dot our i’s and cross our t’s, to pay our bills, to be good daughters and wives. If she knew I have a therapist, she’d flip her lid. Why on God’s green earth would you do that? Just like how she reacted when I told her I was engaged to James after just three months.
“Hmm.” My mom pinched the fabric of her canary-yellow cardigan sweater just below her neck. Someone looking on would think she had a chill, but I knew better. She was pissed.
“Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.” I poured a glass of iced tea and sat on one of the barstools by the kitchen counter, waiting.
“What did you think I was going to say?” Her voice was light, but her eyes told the real story: I’d rocked the boat. And that she didn’t like. “I’ve never even met this man.” She started to pace the room.
“I know. And you will. Tonight.” My voice came out sounding needy, desperate. James and I had planned for him to come over, to bring her roses and my dad a bottle of his favorite whiskey. I knew once they met him, he’d charm the shit out of them. Because that’s what he did.
My mom started to lap the kitchen island. I knew what she was thinking. How could I go off script? This wasn’t how we did things in the Conner family.
“I need to process this.” She stopped and pressed her palms into the counter.
“I know it’s fast. We’ve only been dating a few months, but he’s—” I had planned to list my favorite things about him. He was smart, he was a gentleman, he was close with his own mom. But she cut me off.
“Are you pregnant?”
“What? No!” Our eyes locked. “Don’t you think I would have led with that?” I finally said, then started to pick at a hangnail on my thumb. My mom began walking again. I could be five, fifteen, or my current age, twenty-five. It didn’t matter. This was how conflict between us looked. I presented my case weakly. My mom wouldn’t listen, her disappointment dripping from her, so palpable I could almost reach out and touch it. I’d usually start to backpedal, my mom’s approval suddenly meaning more to me than what I’d wanted her to approve of. But something had shifted in me this time. I wanted James more than my mom’s blessing.
“How can you know someone well enough to agree to marry them after just three months?”
She was right, of course. It was probably intellectually impossible to know someone that well in ninety days. But I didn’t care. Because I knew how James made me feel. Like the most beautiful woman in the room. Like he loved me more than anything. He made me feel desired.
I recounted to my mother the story of how I met James in the wine aisle at the supermarket, and she wasn’t nearly as charmed by it. What I didn’t tell her was what had happened next.
He’d taken me out for sushi at a little hole-in-the-wall that didn’t even have a menu—the chef just whipped up whatever was fresh. The salmon sashimi had melted in my mouth, and the wine had slid smoothly down my throat. James had this way of putting me at ease—unlike on other first dates, I didn’t feel awkward or grapple with words.
That’s probably why I’d let him take me to back to his apartment and fuck me in a very ungentlemanlike way on the floor as soon as his front door closed. I’d woken the next morning as the sun streamed in through the brown-and-orange plaid sheets he was using as curtains in his bedroom. I’d propped myself up on one elbow on his futon. (Yes, futon.)
“What is that thing men say to each other?” I’d laughed as I pulled the blanket over my chest for warmth, not discretion. James had allowed me an instant comfort about my body I’d never felt before. Not with words, but with his eyes, the way they drank me in. Suddenly the smallish breasts I’d always despised were perfect. The ass I constantly tried to cover up was juicy. And my face, the same one I’d dissected from every angle, was beautiful. That was James’s superpower—he could make you addicted to the way he saw you. Probably because it was so much more flattering than how you viewed yourself.