Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(20)

I put down the pen. I knew my mouth was set because I felt the tension in my jaw. “What would be the point? To get my wife’s hopes up when it won’t work? Then I die anyway? The sooner she starts coping with it, the better.”

She pushed the pen toward me. “Finish up.”

I got back to signing at the tabs. Full signature for yellow. Initials at purple. “I have the Arts Foundation to run. That’ll keep me busy.”

“Yeah. And you don’t have to waste your time hoping for anything. You don’t have to build a future.”

“I’m the one who wants kids.”

“That’s not a future if you’re dead. That’s called a legacy.”

I checked the details and flopped the last contract closed. “Just like a lawyer to get hung up on semantics.”

“Just like a man.” She restacked her papers, clacking them against the counter. “You just want to piss on the world one last time like it’s a fire hydrant you’ll never see again. I don’t blame her for holding out on you.”

Coming from anyone else, I would have been enraged. But Margie’s love was so unconditional, I didn’t know if she could ever say anything to make me truly angry.

“You know this is not about legacy,” I said.

“Not consciously.”

“It’s about Monica.”

“The everlasting gift of your DNA? Way to woo a girl.”

I laughed. I had nothing else for her. I couldn’t even explain myself to myself.

“It’s nice to see you laugh, little brother. I thought they’d transplanted your sense of humor there for a while.”

“Are you staying for lunch? I could stand to be insulted for another hour.”

“Sorry.” She plopped the papers in her briefcase. “Some of us have to work.”

“I have a thing,” I said. “For the birthday dinner later. I need you and Sheila to help.”

She raised an eyebrow at me while she snapped the case closed. “A thing?”

“You’ll like it. It involves jewelry.”

“I hate jewelry.”

“You’ll like this.”

chapter 12.

MONICA

I exited the studio in the mid-afternoon, completely unsatisfied with my work. I went into the kitchen and, seeing as Jonathan wasn’t around, reached for his box of pills.

I didn’t know where I’d picked up the habit of thinking it was all right to count someone’s meds. From living with Gabby, maybe. Jonathan had Laurelin to monitor him, make sure his medication was taken, and help him mind his Ps and Qs. That didn’t stop me from peeking in his little plastic box with the days of the week on it.

Too many sets and subsets of pills. No wonder he needed a medical professional.

“Stop it¸” I told myself, snapping the box shut.

I pushed it back into the corner between the toaster and the fridge, but it was too late. The medicines had a smell, and they brought it all back. The inevitable images of him dying in that f*cking hospital, his heart breaking right out of his chest. The colors of the hospital lounge carpet, the paint, the cafeteria, the recovery room, all of it flashed before me. I closed my eyes as if that would block out the smells and colors of those weeks.

“He’s fine,” I said to myself. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Jonathan came in from the patio, slick with sweat and ocean water. He’d been jogging.

“Stop tracking sand all over the floor. Look at this mess!”

“Why?” He grabbed my waist and pulled me into him. “Afraid it’ll scratch your back?” He pushed me into the kitchen island and bit my neck at the curve.

“Don’t leave a mark!” I pushed him away, not that it did anything. “We’re going to Sheila’s and—” I couldn’t finish when he stuck his hand between my legs and yanked my pants down by the crotch. “We just did it,” I groaned. I could have ended the California drought with what flowed between my legs.

“Define ‘just.’” He unceremoniously pulled up my shirt and grabbed a nipple. My body went on high alert.

“I’m still sore.”

“That’s how I like you.”

I pushed him away for real. “I don’t want to use my safe word for stupid bullshit, Drazen, but back off. I’m making a snack. What do you want?”

He smiled, taking the hint but not believing me. “You, with butter and jelly.”

“I have a baguette left from last night.”

“Fine.” He pulled my shirt down.

“You should have protein. An egg or something.”

“There’s enough protein in my morning shake to create an entire mammalian species.”

I kissed him gently. “You should try the bread with the chimichuri.”

“Hell, no.” He opened the fridge and leaned into where the condiments hung out. His running pants hung low on his hips. “I see you looking at me,” he said, still rooting around the back.

“You’ve gained weight.”

“These are my fat pants.” He smiled, shutting the door and putting the goods on the counter.

I unscrewed the cap on the hot sauce and ripped off a piece of baguette. “Try.” I dipped the bread into the sauce, but I got as little as possible. I wanted my husband to get over the spicy food thing. I knew it embarrassed him. I held it up. “Come on, I made this with my own hands, with my mother. Think of the generations of women who have perfected it for the sake of this one moment in time.”