Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(21)

“Not to be dramatic.”

“I’ll get a samba band in here if you like. Cha cha chadda.” I swung my hips to the rhythm, with my piece of bread out.

He grabbed my wrist and held it still. I froze. Had I insulted his masculinity or something?

He locked eyes with me then tore them away. He kissed down the inside of my arm, my wrist, and took the bread in his mouth. He chewed. I waited. He had zero change of expression, and I smiled a little.

He swallowed. “I feel like my face is burning from the inside.”

“Well, you look gorgeous.”

He let my hand go and screwed the top back on the chimichuri. “You’re just seeing a free man.”

“Oh, right, Margie came today. Did you get rid of everything?”

“I gave up every hotel from A to J. I kept the one where I met you. I’m sentimental like that.”

“Did she tell you about the Swiss thing?”

He froze. I swallowed. Was it more complicated than I thought? Was it too expensive an investment?

“Yes,” he said.

“And?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Really?”

“I—”

I had an explosion I couldn’t control or foresee. All my pent-up feelings went off like controlled detonation, except the building didn’t collapse but took off like a rocket. I threw my arms around his neck, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He was thrown back a step catching me. “Jesus, Monica.”

“Happy birthday, baby.” I kissed him seven times. I couldn’t stop, but then I had to talk. “They’re so close they just need a push. I know it’s a lot of money but it’s worth it when they figure out the rejection thing it needs its own special rejection meds which they’re also developing and then a healthy testsubjectwhois—”

“Whoa whoa.”

“Young, with no secondary problems.”

“Monica.”

“It’s you. You. Especially if you fund it, then they have to make it you. And it lasts forever. You’ll have to get hit by a bus when you’re a hundred and ten.”

He loosened his grip until my feet hit the floor. “Do you know what the odds are of it working?”

“Great!” I stuffed the bread back into the bag. “The odds are great. I mean, I don’t know. I didn’t ask. But the odds of the one you have lasting even twenty years are worse, since they’re, like, zero.”

I felt like a giddy schoolgirl. I wanted to sing and dance, and my smile was totally involuntary. I could barely contain myself. I felt as if the past seven months might be erased, put away in some jar in the china cabinet where we could ogle how cute and silly it all had been.

Jonathan leaned against the counter, clicking the ice in his water glass and staring into it as if it were a problem. I felt crazy and childish in comparison. I cleared my throat, choking back the relief and trying to find that worry again. But it wouldn’t go away. I was over the moon, and he was still on the earth.

I breathed deeply, trying to calm down. I was overreacting for sure, but it was his heart, his life, his chest. If he was somber over it, then I could take it down a notch. I moved the bread bag three inches. I touched a pan, shifting it on the stove. I smiled as I turned a knickknack a quarter way around. My mother had given it to me. It said BELIZE.

“I thought you were going to eat something,” Jonathan said.

“Fuck it.” I stood in front of him. “I want you for a snack.” I dropped to my knees and yanked down his sweatpants.

“Okay, Monica—”

I gave him big eyes from below. “You don't want me to suck your cock?” I felt him harden in my hand.

“I’d love a blowjob, thank you. I have to take a handful of pills. Then I’m going to shower. So I need you to go upstairs, take your clothes off, and be ready for a quick go before we leave. And when I say ready, I mean mouth open and hands behind your back.”

“Yes, sir,” I said through a smile.

“Your legs should be open all the way this time. I mean it. We’re on a tight clock.”

“Yes.”

“Have I mentioned how much I love being married to you?”

“Not today.”

“Let me finish up here, and I’ll show you.”

chapter 13.

JONATHAN

I loved being married to Monica—at least, I did once we had reestablished full participation by both parties. The weeks following my visit to the studio, minus the constant medication, had been exactly what I’d wanted from the honeymoon we never had.

Things would get back to normal soon, whatever that was. I still couldn’t find a taste for the food I used to like. Anything spicy tasted like poison, and I craved sour foods as if I were pregnant. I thought less and less about having a strange piece of meat inside me. My chest didn’t feel as heavy with attention as often. I was in a routine with Laurelin, the medicine, the nutrition, and my odd addiction to jogging which made the team of doctors happy.

Normal. For somebody.

But at least I could still make plans for Monica’s body and execute them. If I couldn’t eat the spicy chimichuri, which we apparently had a never-ending supply of, at least I could spoon-feed her while she was on her hands and knees.