Someday You'll Laugh (9 page)

“Your mom hosting this year?”

“No, remember it was here last year. It’s Doris’ turn.”
Why did I have to remind him of last year? When we were together and happy?

“Oh.”

Silence.

I became annoyed. Why had he called me? So we could listen to each other breathe?

“Did you want something?” My voice was cool, impatient. I bit my lip hard and tasted metal. What was
wrong
with me?

“Can I see you sometime?”

I stretched up to my full height, hardness in my spine. “If I have the time.”

There was a pause, and I knew it was not the answer he’d expected.

“Oh, okay. Of course. Uh, will you have time this evening?”

“I might. Come by at eight and if I’m here, I’m here.” I hung up the phone. Confusion swirled through my mind. I leaned against the back door and let our conversation sink in.

Why had I spoken with such detachment when my heart hammered out possibilities inside of me? Why was I playing hard to get?

And why did I feel like punching him?

It made no sense.

Mom had been hovering inside the kitchen doorway and now she ambushed me. “What did he want? Is he at home? Why did he call?”

“He wants to come over.”

“So we need to have you home by eight?”

“Mother, if you were listening to the whole conversation, why play dumb?”

“Sorry. I always did like that guy.” She grinned at me and went back into the kitchen.

“So did I,” I whispered. “So did I.”

****

Aunt Doris always put on a huge spread. With every leaf added, her table would stretch from the dining area into the living room. She didn’t have enough chairs, so we’d sit on piano benches, stools, and even lawn chairs. The banter and joking around the table would drown anyone’s worries. But I sat balancing on a rickety stool and worried anyway.

Why did Paul want to come over?

Thanksgiving dinner always went on for at least four hours. Of course we didn’t eat the whole time, but with preparation, the watching of football games, and clean-up, it was a forever deal.

I tried not to, but I checked the time every five minutes, and it was after seven. I’d played it cool on the phone, but now I burned with impatience to get in the car and be home before Paul arrived.

Mom sneaked peeks at me all day. At seven-thirty, she tossed me the keys. “Go on home. Uncle Lloyd will drive the rest of us back.”

I sprang from the couch and rushed for my coat. “Thanks, Mom,” I said as I passed her. “Doris, thank you. It was delicious,” I hollered toward the kitchen, hoping she heard me.

I burst out the front door and ran down the drive to the car. Thankfully, Dad had parked in the street instead of the driveway or I’d have been boxed in. The streets were deserted as I sped home. Instead of the usual twenty minutes, the drive took thirteen. I parked in the garage, raced inside, and vaulted up the steps to my room. It would only take a second to change into my jeans and sweatshirt. For some perverse reason, I didn’t want to look dressed up when he came. Halfway through changing, the doorbell rang.

He was early.

I struggled into the sleeves of my hoodie and pulled it over my head. My hair only needed a quick run-through with a comb before I hurried downstairs to the door. I paused and took a deep breath. My heart squeezed up inside me.

I pulled the door open with a whoosh. Even through his jacket, I could see the tension in Paul’s body. His blue eyes probed my face like he was testing a patch of ice before walking on it.

With a resolve of steel, I controlled the urge to melt into his arms. I took a measured step backward. “Come in,” I said, my voice cool.

His eyes didn’t leave my face. He stepped closer.

I turned away and walked in front of him to the living room. He shut the door and followed me. I perched on the end of the couch and watched him cross the room and join me, sitting closer than I would have thought.

We stared at each other.

“Did you want something?” I asked, drawing my hands into my lap and clasping them together as if I were clinging to a lifeboat.

He wet his lips with his tongue, and I followed the movement. When I realized I was staring at his mouth, I quickly looked out the front window.

“Are you all right?” he finally asked.

I stiffened and glared at him. “I’m sick of people asking if I’m okay. Why on earth wouldn’t I be okay? So, once and for all, I’m fine, do you hear me? Fine.”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment then looked at me again. “I deserved that. I won’t ask again.”

My insides relaxed a bit and I attempted to smile, but my lips wouldn’t cooperate.

“Aren’t you going to ask how I am?” His question surprised me.

I narrowed my eyes. Was this some kind of trick? And besides, did I want to hear how wonderful and free and unattached he felt?

“No, I don’t think I will,” I answered.

He got up and started pacing. His agitation filled the room. I craned my neck to see his expression, but he kept his face averted.

When I could bear it no longer, I stood and planted myself in front of him. “Stop. What are you doing? Why are you here?”

He halted, and moved so close there weren’t two inches between us. His eyes searched mine. Their intensity sent shivers through me. I smelled the musk of his cologne and was magnetized. I couldn’t move.

“You won’t ask me how I am, but I’m going to tell you anyway.”

The blue of his eyes deepened and he reached up to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. His fingers trailed down the side of my face. My skin tingled and burned at his touch.

“Brenda.” He spoke in a whisper. Tears blurred my vision.

He leaned close and touched his lips to mine.

“I’m not good.” He pulled away and put his hand to my cheek. “I haven’t been good at all.”

“But, but you’re the one who… you said…” I blubbered like a child.

He shook his head. “I know, I know.” He kissed me again, harder, longer. Then he put his arms around me and pulled me tight.

My heart swirled. I breathed in his familiarity, his dearness. He loosened his grip and looked into my eyes. “I was a blazing idiot,” he said. “I don’t want to take a break.”

I sank onto his shoulder, weeks of tension unwinding. “I don’t want a break either.”

He led me to the couch and pulled me into his lap. “Then we won’t take one,” he said into my hair. “We won’t.”

He nuzzled my neck, and I held him against me.

****

I jabbered all the way back to school, and I figured Scott would never recover from the shock. When we finally pulled up to my dorm, he almost shoved me out of the car. I grabbed my bag, gave him a cheery wave, and ran inside — through the front entrance right by the mailboxes.

Colleen was already back and at her desk studying. I threw my bag across the room where it landed my bed. I plopped down beside it. I turned to my empty wall and ran my hand over the spot where all Paul’s notes had been.

“I want them back. What did I do with them? Did I throw them away? I must have been nuts.”

Colleen’s eyes grew big as sunflowers. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“If you think I’m saying Paul and I are back together, then yes! Yes! Yes!” I rushed over to her, grabbed her hands, and pulled her up into a silly dance. “We’re back together!”

She leaned back and howled at the ceiling. “My perfect couple is back!”

We continued our jig until I fell onto my bed panting. Colleen breathed heavily as she knelt on the floor and pulled out the drawer under her mattress. She grabbed something, and then held out her hand.

“I hid them from you. I knew someday you’d want them back.”

My mouth dropped open as I took all of Paul’s notes from her. “You kept them. They’re all here.”

She grinned and nodded. “Even the two you half-ripped apart.”

I hugged the scraggly stack of cards to my chest. “Colleen, you are far and away the best roommate in the history of forever.”

****

During the last few weeks of the semester, I was buried in projects, papers, and finals. I’d never worked so hard in school, but I didn’t care. Each day that passed brought me closer to seeing Paul again. Both of us had nearly three weeks off at Christmas, and we planned to spend every one of them together.

I promised Scott I’d keep my mouth shut if he gave me a ride home again, so he agreed. I dutifully didn’t say one word until we got to Longview and then it was only to make arrangements for the trip back to Ellensburg in early January.

On Christmas Eve, Paul and I celebrated with a walking date around the lake. We planned to feed the ducks. The cold air bit at us as we tore up chunks of French bread and threw them into the water. The ducks rushed toward each piece with a quacking flurry. Paul kept rubbing his hand over his coat pocket, circling and circling like a hawk over its prey.

“What’s with you?” I asked. “You have a crick in your hip or something?”

His hand froze mid-cycle. “No, why would you ask?”

I nodded my head toward his pocket. “You’re giving yourself a non-stop mini-massage.”

He laughed, but his eye twitched as if he were nervous.

We stood next to the lake, and the icy edges of the water crackled and popped with the wind. I pulled my collar up higher, and tucked it under my chin.

“It’s freezing out here. Let’s go back to my house,” I suggested.

Paul stiffened. “Not yet. Don’t you want to swing?” He pointed to the industrial-sized swing-set crouched like a spider over the circle of gravel.

“In this cold?”

“Come on,” he said and grabbed my hand. I tossed the last hunk of bread at the ducks as he pulled me toward the swings. “Let’s sit together.”

We sat on the two swings in the middle of a set of four. My hands cramped around the cold metal of the swing’s heavy chains. “You’re going to have to peel me off of here,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home already?”

He was back to circling his pocket. “I’m sure. I have a Christmas card for you.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is that what you’ve got in there?”

He pulled off his glove and reached into his pocket to extract a green envelope. “Here you go.”

Chapter Eight

A strange tension filled the air, making me hesitant to take the card. No, no, no. Was this another break up? I couldn’t go through that again. Paul’s eyes were glued to the envelope like it was alive, and even in the frigid air a thin layer of moisture glistened on his forehead. He thrust the envelope closer to me. “Open it.”

He raised his eyes to mine and the agitation there increased the anxiety in my stomach. I stared down at the envelope but made no move to take it.

“Brenda, it’s a card. It’s okay.”

I took a deep breath, snatched it from him, and ripped it open. Sure enough, it was a Christmas card. On the cover was a fancy tree dripping with decorations and a big star super-imposed over everything. The caption read:
For My Wife
.

I read it, and then did a double-take. Was this some kind of sick joke? What kind of ignoramus would make such a dumb mistake? I swallowed my confusion and opened it. My eyes zipped to his closing signature:
How about it? I love you.
Paul
. Whoa. Wait a minute:
For My Wife…
How about it?

Paul was off the swing and stood at my shoulder as I read. My eyes flew over and over his words. I was afraid to look at him — what if I was wrong? I’d been an idiot before.

“Brenda?” he said, and the way he said my name covered me with a warm caress.

“But you aren’t ready. You said you weren’t ready.”

“Are you going to argue with me or are you going to answer me?”

That was it! I jumped up and threw my arms around his neck. He tightened his hold on me, and I buried my face in his collar. I was crying and my tears were hot on my cheeks.

He pulled me away to look at me. “Is that a yes?”

I nodded and wiped my eyes. I dove back into him, and we stood hugging in the brittle air. “It’s a yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

He smiled against my mouth and then kissed me. His lips were cool, gentle, and full of promise.

****

The months passed, and every weekend I was home, Paul and I worked on our wedding plans. We tackled all the ceremonial details like it was some kind of competition. We obsessed over everything, working toward the traditional marriage script but with a twist. We searched through volumes of books until we found the perfect poems and prose to be read during the ceremony, and one of Paul’s friends agreed to play the flute during the readings.

There would be no mere twenty-minute service for us. By the time we’d finished all the arrangements, the ceremony was over an hour long.

Two weeks before the big day, Paul got another idea. “Hey, since we both sing, how about singing to each other during the wedding?”

“Um, in case you didn’t know, I’m a crybaby at weddings. Not so excited about bawling through my own.”

“You wouldn’t cry.”

“Yes, I would. I’d start singing, look into your eyes, get overwhelmed by your love, choke up, and wail my way through the rest of the song.”

Paul laughed. “You’re crazy — you’d be fine.”

“Nope. I know myself.”

“Then how about we record the song and play it during the wedding.”

I liked the idea. I smiled to think there would be one more unique aspect to our ceremony.

Unique aspect.
At that moment, I had no idea just how unique my wedding was going to be. I thought the worst thing to happen would be me crying through a song.

I was wrong.

Oh, was I wrong.

****

The Wednesday before our wedding, I crawled into bed exhausted. I snuggled down under the light cotton spread and felt a strange twinge in my stomach. I turned on my side and tried to get comfortable. The twinge grew into a cramp. My head ached too, and I reached up and felt my forehead. It was warm.

I fell into a restless sleep only to jerk awake a few hours later. I checked my clock and saw it was two in the morning. My throat felt tight, and my stomach was doing gymnastics. I was surprised its gurgling hadn’t alarmed the entire family. I lay completely still willing the nausea away.