Jonathan followed me, flipping his keys in his palm, spinning them around a finger, flipping again. Spin. Flip. Spin. Flip. All in the rhythm of his gait, like a perfectly tuned instrument of movement and sound. He wore a white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and jeans that fit as if custom built for him. Jogging miles every morning had toned his legs and added grace to his gait.
I rang Sheila’s bell. The door was wide enough to fit two adults walking abreast, so I didn’t know how he was supposed to get in without seeing everyone. But it hadn’t been my job to hide everyone. It had been my job to get him there on time.
He slipped his hand across my bare shoulder and grasped me by the back of the neck, saying nothing and owning me completely. I relaxed right into the warmth of his hand.
The door opened. Sheila wore a pair of skinny jeans and a lavender hoodie. Bare feet. Hair brushed for a change. “Happy birthday!”
“Thanks.” He kissed her on the cheek, leaving his other hand on me as if I’d run away.
Was the party off? Had something happened? Where was the big opening salvo? Sheila stepped out of the way. Jonathan guided me in the door, and I greeted her. Looking over her shoulder, I caught sight of the buffet and felt more than saw the presence of other people.
After Jonathan stepped in and the door closed behind him, the shout of “Surprise!” came all at once, at incredible volume, from an impossible number of people. They appeared from the hall, behind the couch, the patio, as if a switch had been flicked.
Jonathan stood in the doorway a second then clutched his chest and stepped back. Mouth open, eyes wide, as if in shock and surprise at the pain.
I went blind, reaching for him, everything shut out but the sounds of the beeping machines, the stench of alcohol, the shadowed lines of the blinds falling across his white face in the afternoon.
Hands on me. Strong arms, and the sounds of the room pierced the veil of terror.
Laughter. A few dozen people laughing hysterically, and a collective awwww.
Jonathan held me up, looking at me with a smile.
“You asshole!” I said.
“Come on,” he said. “It was funny.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I whispered softly so he’d know I was serious. I dropped my register and changed my inflection to sound like him when he didn’t want an argument. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“I think it was that bite of chimichuri.” He rubbed his stomach and smiled.
I didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t give him anything but ice cold anger.
He looked pensively at me, pressing his lips together, before he said, “I’m sorry.”
I was still shaken. I couldn’t forgive him. Not yet, and luckily I didn’t have to, because Leanne put a drink in my hand.
“Thanks,” I said.
“He’s a fucker.” For a fashion designer, Leanne usually dressed in clothes that were no more exciting than the average plain Jane’s, and to be honest, she was kind of a slob. But that day, her jeans were rippling with shades of blue and the creases in her hands were deep indigo.
I swished the drink. It was a yellow, juicy thing with ice. Behind me, Jonathan gladhanded and laughed.
“What happened to your hands?” I asked.
“We’re doing denim tie-dye in India.” She indicated her jeans, which went from deepest indigo to pale sky in irregular patterns.
“Hm,” was all I said.
“Not perfected yet, obviously. And it’s messing with the sideseams.” She grabbed her belt loops and yanked up her pants.
“God, I wish you’d brush your hair,” Margie said to Leanne from behind me.
Leanne’s bracelets jangled when she extended her silver-ringed middle finger at her sister. They tormented each other for a few more seconds, Drazen-style, and I twisted around to look for Jonathan. I found him chatting with Eddie and another guy, perfectly happy, no chest pain, arms gesturing without stiffness. He wasn’t having a heart attack.
As if summoned by my attention, he looked at me through the crowd and winked.
Asshole.
Gorgeous asshole.
I excused myself and went to the kitchen. Staff buzzed around, slapping the oven open and shut, speaking the language of waitstaff I knew all too well. Eileen Drazen stood by the sink in sensible tan pants and a jacket, throwing her head back as if she’d just taken a pill. She sipped whiskey and turned around.
“Hey,” I said. “How are you doing?”
I reached in the cabinet for a glass. She and I had met under terrible circumstances, and once I understood that, and she understood that I wasn’t after her son’s money, she was still made of ice. But at least she was only cold, rather than cold and dismissive.
“Fine. You?”
“I’m getting over the psychotic break I nearly had a few minutes ago.” I filled the glass from the fridge door.
“Yes. On the scale of inappropriate jokes, that was deep in the red. You should make him suffer for it.”
“Where’s Declan?” I wanted to avoid him. He’d laughed off the three-doctors incident as simple misinformation, and I didn’t have a fact to hold against him. Sure, he could have innocently told me three doctors exiting the operating room meant the patient had died because he’d thought it was the case. To a certain extent, it was true. But it had been two doctors and a patient advocate. So that was explainable. And he might have not known that the anesthesiologist was expected to sit through the entire transplant to manage the induced coma and, thus, would exit with the other doctors. Sure. It was all plausible. But his smile of satisfaction when I dropped? That was totally subjective and completely real.
So like the rest of his children, I simply didn’t trust him.
“My husband’s around.” Eileen waved her ring-thick hand. “Everyone is here somewhere. I lose count of all of them.”
“Have you seen Leanne’s jeans?”
I said it to get a reaction, and she shuddered as if it was scandalous. My mother-in-law was such a backward prude that sometimes I wondered if it was all an act to protect a burning sexuality.
“I think they’re cute,” I said, sipping my water.
“You would,” she said without reproach. “I’ve learned to stop concerning myself with my children’s tastes. They get away, and then, poof, they’re not your responsibility. They’re just people who invite you over for holidays.”
I nodded.
“How many does he want?” Eileen asked.
“Ten or more,” I said, putting my empty glass in the grey bus pan.
Eileen barked a little laugh. “Men.”
“Yeah.”
“They figure if they have the money for a staff, they can breed to their heart’s content.”
“You didn’t want eight kids?”
“I wanted seven. Though the eighth?” She shrugged with a smile. “He’ll do. It was nice to have a boy. Broke up the catfights over who used the last of the conditioner.”
I laughed. “Really? With all your staff? You ran out of conditioner?”
“Your husband was pouring it down the sink,” she said. “The joker. No matter how much Delilah bought, he dumped it or hid it.”
I caught sight of Eddie in a tan suit and red tie.
“Ed,” Eileen said. “Nice to see you.” They double-kissed.
“You too, Mrs. Drazen.”
I rarely saw Eddie Milpas in his social setting. He knew Jonathan from college, but to me, he was the guy in the engineering room who made everyone else nervous. So I nearly burst out laughing when he called Eileen Mrs. Drazen.
“Come to check on the catering?” Eileen asked.
“Came to steal away this lady,” he replied, cocking his head toward me.
“Do we have to talk about business?” I asked.
“If you’d call me back—”
“My cue to leave,” Eileen said. Without another word, she was gone, leaving me with Eddie and the constantly moving catering staff.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was going to call you on Monday.”
“Which Monday, exactly?”
“This coming—”
“Look, I know you have other things on your mind. So I’m not going to sit here and watch you fidget.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m not fidgeting.”
“Can I give you a piece of friendly advice?”
“No.”
“Professional advice then. One hundred percent free. Get yourself an agent to filter your damn calls.”
I laughed softly at the irony. That was exactly what I’d been trying to do when I met Jonathan.
Eddie continued, “If I wasn’t friends with your boyfriend—”
“Husband.”
“You’d miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime if I didn’t happen to be at this party.”
“Okay, you’ve got my attention.”
“Your EP is releasing in a few weeks. Right about then, Quentin Marshall is doing another charity song. Single cut. Wide distribution. Like the Christmas one for the drought in Australia. Everyone’s on it.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone. Omar. Brad Frasier. The Glocks. Benita. The list will knock you over. They have a space for a girl act like you, but here’s the thing.”
My heart pounded. That did sound like something groundbreaking for my career. Being associated with big names like that could get my name out to people who had never heard of me. It could give me credibility and standing. And if it was a little after the EP came out, even better.
“Okay,” I said. “Tell me the thing.”
“They have to herd all these cats, and that means it could record on a dime any time between the fifteenth and the thirtieth, and the big names? Well, they call the shots. They get there when they get there. The less-established artists have to be ready to go.”
“I’m ready.”
“Can you fly to New York tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? New York?”
“Quentin Marshall? Hello?”
My throat went dry. I wanted to go. I wanted to get on a plane immediately and sit in the studio waiting for The Glocks to show up. I wanted to hear Omar sing in a studio. I could learn so much from that guy. He had a sound no one could emulate. If I could watch him, I was sure I’d pick up some tips.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t know?”
“I have to ask Jonathan.”
He put up his hands. “Fine. You have until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday.”
“Music doesn’t take the weekend off.”
“Okay. I’ll call you by tomorrow night.”
“Noon. That’s the best you get. I have a line of people who would scratch your eyes out for this opportunity.”
“Monica,” Margie said, poking her head in. “We need you at the piano.”
I glanced at the counter before following Margie. The catering staff hovered over a cake, lighting thirty-three candles. It seemed like enough fire to burn the house down, but that was the point. A man who almost died at thirty-two deserved every single flame.
Stop.
I needed to stop obsessing over the transplant. I’d given my worry a wide berth, as if it was insurance against something bad happening, but I’d let a healthy concern metastasize into a cancer. I had been perfectly happy letting it take over my life until I dreaded singing “Happy Birthday” because it sounded like a dirge.
I knew where the piano was from my last visit, when Sheila had insisted I play. I’d thought she was trotting me out like a trained monkey, which I resented for a few seconds, but once my fingers hit the keys, I realized what she’d done. I’d played “Wade in the Water” for his family, and music did what music does: it brought us together and gave us something to talk about. It was a way into our shared humanity. I’d loved music before I loved my husband, and it would outlast the two of us.
As I stroked out a scale in the parlor with thirty people in attendance, I let myself love it again. I caught Jonathan’s eye across the room. He was fingering an apple with his nephew David. I knew the positioning. Split-fingered fastball. David, at ten, was too young for that. I shook my head at Jonathan and took my hand from the keys long enough to wave my finger “no no” at him. He smiled, winked, and showed David the whipping motion that would get the ball to split, along with his nephew’s young tendons.
He’s not teaching our kids that.
“Up tempo, people!” I cried just as the cake appeared.
“Happy Birthday”—well, there’s not much you can do with it when everyone’s singing and not listening to the piano. I smiled. Fuck it. I gleefully let everyone else set the tempo, and I sang along in the dragged out rhythm. No one knew why I was smiling, not even Jonathan, who came up and leaned on the piano.
Sheila brought out the blazing white confection and placed it on the piano as we sang, “yoooooooouuuu!”
His face lit golden and his smile a true thing, from his beautiful candlelit green eyes to his borrowed heart, he blew out his candles. Or tried. No one could blow out thirty-three candles (and one for good luck) in one breath.
“Nice effort,” I said, standing.
He put his arm around me, and we blew together. I clapped and faced him. I wanted a kiss, but he glanced at the cake, then at me, then back at the cake, then at me, as if he was trying to tell me something. I looked down at it, thinking we’d missed a candle.
And we had. One little bugger was still bopping along, but I didn’t blow it, because inside the ring of candles sat an open, frosting-caked velvet box, and inside the box was a ring.
“Jonathan?”
He plucked the candle out of the cake. “That was the candle I hold for you.” He blew it, and the flame popped up again.
Thirty people and ten kids said, “Awwww.”
He pursed his lips in a smile. “I didn’t know there would be so many people here.”
Margie took the candle from his fingers. It still burned. It must have been one of those parlor trick candles, and it was sweet.
“What are you doing?” I asked, still confused. He guided me back onto the piano stool, and I sat. “We’re already married.”
“Not properly,” he said, picking the ring out of the box. “Not on my own power and not for the right reasons.”
Were there dozens of people in the room? I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t see them. Only this man, this king, getting on his knee in front of me.
“Jonathan, you don’t have to. I…”
“You going to give me your hand or not?”
“I can’t.” I put them in the corners of my eyes as if to press the tears away. “I’m using them. Hang on.”
“Get on with it!” a male voice called from the crowd.
“Shut the fuck up, Pat!” someone else said.
Jonathan touched my left wrist, and I brought my hand down. I didn’t wear the borrowed diamond anymore. Just the key ring wedding band.
“Will you marry me, Monica?” I sniffed back a bunch of tears, and before I could answer, he continued, looking at me. “Will you have a normal engagement with me? Will you get to know me on any given Tuesday?” He shook his head quickly, as if making it all up on the spot and discarding an idea. “Can we plan a real wedding and argue over seating arrangements? Can we find the things we agree on naturally? Flowers. Invitations. Whatever is important to us. I want us to be right with the world. I want us to take our time, because you’re worth it. We are worth it. Nothing skimped or rushed. You deserve all of it. Everything.”
Doing it all over. A second chance at a mask of normalcy. He wasn’t rethinking or going backward. He was giving me a gift.
“I love you,” I whispered through my tears. “I want you. Everything.”
He slipped the ring on my finger. The diamond was huge and the color of sunshine.
“A canary diamond,” he said. “For my songbird.”
“Gross, Uncle Jon!”
Jonathan turned around toward David, who had a face like kneaded dough at the thought of icky grown-up love.
“Yeah, gross,” a laughing, adult voice called out.
Jonathan glanced at me for half a second, and I saw mischief in those eyes. I didn’t have a moment to tell him not to do whatever it was he was about to do, before he scooped up a swipe of white frosting from his cake and flung it at his tormentor.
“Quiet, Patrick!” Jonathan said.
Impulse moved my arm. I scooped up another bunch of frosting and flung it at my husband and fiancé, coating the bottom half of his face in a buttercream goatee. “Be nice to the guests!”
He blew, spraying me in vanilla, and everyone laughed and clapped. David, seeing the world as only a ten-year-old could, recognized an opportunity when he saw one. He mashed his hand in the cake then flung it at both of us. Jonathan, not to be out-immatured by a ten-year-old, whipped around and threw a mess of it at his nephew, with half of it getting on Eddie.
“Hey, asshole!” Eddie shouted.
“Language!” Sheila called, too late.
Her son threw another handful of cake at her. The young pitcher had great aim, getting his mother in the face with white confection.
“You!” Sheila said with a pointed finger.
I shut the cover over the piano keys just in time, because all hell broke loose. Cake flew everywhere. Laughter. Squeals. My god, the cake must have been huge. I was covered. Jonathan was covered. Everyone I could hit with a lump of cake was covered, and we were all laughing through beards of white frosting and fruit filling. The kids were licking the floor. Eileen slipped on a wad of cake and laughed, and her granddaughter put a handful down Eileen’s shirt. Leanne fell when she tried to help Eileen up, and Jonathan, my beautiful king, put his arms around me and kissed cake off my lips.
“Goddess,” he whispered, even though in the chaos, he didn’t have to. No one was paying attention to us.
“Yes, Jonathan. Yes. I’ll marry you.”
“Let’s take our time.” He kissed my cheek, sucking frosting off.
Our time.
He was giving me permission to stop counting the months and years. Permission to let it happen as it would, to stop using worry as a paper-thin bulwark against the tides of fate. This was our time. However long it was, it belonged to us.
The staff had made short work of the mess. Clothing had been stripped off, some laundered, some left in bags, some rinsed and worn wet. Sheila had loaned me a pair of pale blue velour sweatpants and a white shirt with a neck so wide it fell off my shoulder. It was probably the best party I’d been to in my life.
“I love this on you,” Jonathan said, pressing his lips to my bare shoulder. We sat at the piano in the empty parlor as I played a soft jazzy thing.
“It doesn’t go with the ring.”
“I can’t wait to see how that looks on you naked.”
“It’s beautiful. I love it.” I did. I had a hard time keeping my eyes off it.
“I’m not trying to take away our marriage, goddess. You need to know that.”
“I know.”
“But it was hasty.”
I sighed. Yes, it had been hasty, and for all the wrong reasons, but I hadn’t thought about it that deeply. I hadn’t thought about anything deeply in the past six months, because it hurt. I had the feeling I wouldn’t be able to avoid it anymore.
“I got you a birthday present,” I said.
“What do you get the guy who has everything?” He brushed his lips on my shoulder and drew his fingertips along the back of my neck.
I smiled, and a ball of hitched breaths gathered in my throat. He thought he had everything. I had no idea I’d married such an optimist. “I was supposed to play this for you in front of everyone, but you stole my limelight with this big stinking rock.”
“They had a bigger one, but it was imperfect.”
“It’s not the size of the boat.”
“Yes, it is. It’s a buoyancy thing, see.” He motioned with the flat of his hand, swaying it. “Too small and it sinks.”
I laughed, and he laughed with me.
“Do you want to hear your song or not?”
“More than anything.”
I took a deep breath. “I want you to know, I wrote one before, and it was all about what we’ve been through in the past six months. And I hate it. It was… I don’t know. It was ugly, and it dwelled on things that weren’t important.”
“Can I hear it?”
“No.” I hit the first notes definitively and found my opening tempo. “It’s short.”
“Sing it twice.”
“You ready, Drazen?”
“I’m ready, Drazen.”
I sang it quietly for an audience of one. I wasn’t confident enough that it would survive me belting it out. Not until I did a few hundred rewrites.
How fragile it is
And how real it all feels
I can touch it, taste it
Hold it like a baby forever
But that’s not the deal
I am your ever
You are my after
I am your altar
You are my prayer
Where do I end
And you begin
Because I’m untied sometimes
And we’re a dandelion seed in the wind
I’m a seed or a flower.
Or I’m a breath or a wish
I am your heart
You are my beat
And I am your voice
And you are my song
“Happy birthday,” I said, letting my hands slip off the keys. “Many more. Many, many more.”
He kissed me, then I kissed him. His skin smelled like cake, and his tongue tasted of salt water. We wrapped our arms around each other, connected at the mouth, as if we were passing a common soul between us.