Geek Groom (Forever Geek Trilogy #2) (5 page)

E: Tell them to be careful. They’re sharp.

J: They are so funny. Your mom is using it like a light saber.

J: Yup. For sure. She’s doing sounds.

J: Mixed sci-fi metaphors though. She says she’s doing a Jedi mind meld. Clearly she’s been paying attention to her boys over the years.

2:32

E: What’s up? Haven’t heard from you lately. Are you eating?

E: Text me when you’re in bed. Everyone here is loaded except me and Dad. I’m going to try to sneak away soon.

2:38

E: In bed yet?

J: Where’s the first aid kit?

E: Should be in the bathroom cupboard. Why?

J: My mom stabbed your mother.

E: WTF!

J: Not seriously. She’s just got a small cut. I don’t think she needs stitches.

J: It’s okay. Mom’s going to get her bag out of the car.

E: Jillian. What the hell?

Yea. The what-the-hell part. Everything after that was covered verbally on the phone. That’s when I told Evan how they were having a mock sword fight when Cory from downstairs knocked on the door with the food.

Mary turned to look. Mom didn’t hear, or notice, or something, and when Mary should have moved to dodge the “attack,” she didn’t. That’s when Mom sliced the edge of my future mother-in-law’s upper arm.

So picture this. The delivery guy with the food is standing in the doorway, as is Cory, slack-jawed as they see two women in their sixties wielding swords, one muttering in shock, “I’m bleeding,” the other commanding in her best calm surgeon’s tone directions for Ingrid and me to fetch towels and a first aid kit.

“Should we call the police?” Cory says.

“We definitely call the cops,” the delivery driver replies, pulling out his cell phone.

“No!” Mary says. “This was an accident. Honestly. We were fooling around.”

“No!” Mom says at almost the same time.

You can see the wheels at work in their heads. For both of them the idea of the police getting involved is a level of scandal that neither can bear.

“Are you sure?” the driver says, looking uncertain.

“Absolutely,” Mom says. “I’m a doctor. This is just a minor cut.”

Now Ingrid gets involved. But what happens there I have no idea of because by now I’m trying to find the damn first aid kit to no avail.

The end result is two stitches, a lot of “I’m sorry” and “No, I’m sorry” and the notion that the stabbing was the final thing to cement their bond as fast friends.

As for me, I managed to spend an entire weekend—two whole nights—with my mom and rather than feeling threatened, harassed and manipulated, I’ve instead come away from it feeling that she’s not nearly as tedious as I’ve imagined. Thanks, Mom, for the most surprising of weekends.

G
eorge Street is one of the most famous streets in Canada. It’s a little street, only a couple of blocks long, and there are bars and pubs and clubs and dinky booze dens heaped on top of one another. It’s a rite of passage to try to get into a bar on George Street before you turn the legal age of nineteen. And it’s a place where once you’re happily in love, you only visit on rare occasions. Unless you’re happily in love with a bartender, musician or party animal. Luckily, I am in love with none of the above.

Anyhow, the last time I was on George Street was about three years ago. By on, I mean visiting. Not literally on the street, like that poor girl over there, who just wiped out trying to navigate stilettos over the cobblestones. One good thing about being in a long-term, committed relationship is that you don’t have to dress to impress when you go downtown. Not that I’m dressed like a slouch, mind you. I just know that four-inch heels and booze do not mix. But who am I to criticize someone’s fashion choices? Here I am wearing a bright pink and bedazzled sash proclaiming for all to see
Bride-to-be
.

Yup. It’s my turn at the stag party. And it seems to be going similarly to Evan’s the week prior. Except I doubt that somewhere out there my father will stab Evan’s. All night long I’ve been dragged from the poshest of clubs to the dingiest of pubs. My initial plan of a steady consumption of gin and tonics was replaced by water about an hour ago when I felt my head start to get that tell-tale wooziness that I hate. And much like this time last week, there are a flurry of texts with Evan, although not nearly as entertaining.

Around eleven, I started begging him to come dance with me. And then maybe around one I was taking pictures of all the guys who wanted to dance with me, trying to entice him to give up the game of War in the Pacific he was playing with the guys and come take me home. I’m not sure what caused him to relent in the end and come pick me up. I’d like to think it was the promise of drunken sex, but it might also be the pizza I’m now holding.

There. Down at the end of George Street, I can see him making his way up the road. I feel a perverse sense of glee as I watch him stroll past a couple of guys that were hitting on Ingrid earlier in the night. They weren’t bad looking. But they’re certainly no match for Evan. A couple of girls are with them, and I see the looks they cast at my geek god as he passes them by. I know, girls. I know all too well that feeling that hits you in the stomach the first time you lay eyes on him. It doesn’t go away. Sometimes he’ll be putting milk in the fridge and I’ll look at the way his shirt pulls taut across his back. It’s swoon-worthy. But nothing, not his arms, his face, his hair—not even his ass—is as remarkable as the man he is inside. And he’s all mine.

“Hello, drunk boots,” he says and kisses me on the forehead.

“I’m not drunk. And you didn’t have to walk to the bar to get me. I could have made my way to Water Street.”

“But you wanted to dance. And how can I deny a bride-to-be of her heart’s desire?”

A minute ago I was shivering and wanting nothing more than to stick my cold feet between his warm legs and fall into a slightly spin-laden sleep. Now I’m following him back into the club as he scarfs down the pizza.

I can count on one hand the times we have danced together. There’s been a shortage of weddings in our two years together, which is my primary dancing location. But every time he takes me in his arms, it’s pure dancing magic.

You know that scene in Dirty Dancing? You know the one, when Baby/Frances goes to Johnny’s cabin and pours her heart out to him. For years that scene lived in my brain as the most romantic movie kiss ever. It wasn’t until recently that I watched it again and realized that what makes that scene so hot is the dancing. The intimacy. Makes sense for a movie about sexy dancing. Well, that’s what I feel like every single time I dance with Evan. The world around me disappears and if it wasn’t for his good judgment, I’d have my way with him right here on the dance floor.

It’s a good thing too, because we’ve bickered all week. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. That it’s all me again. Nagging and overreacting, but I swear to God he’s just as cantankerous with me.

Maybe it’s pre-wedding jitters? Or maybe it’s the effect of the two of us being home together all day long for the entire week. Evan just finished up the last of his jobs and has nothing planned until we come back from Ireland. And I’m not teaching or researching or anything. All we’ve done is putter around the house, nitpicking about everything from laundry to seating charts.

It’s good to get out of the house and be together. And dance. To be held in these arms and look in his eyes and see the reminder of how deep our connection is.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?”

His voice is deep and quiet, and yet it’s all I seem to hear, regardless of the music.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I don’t want to talk about it here.”

“It’s about what I said today, isn’t it?”

I suppose he’s right. It’s the only thing we haven’t fought about this week. And if I’m honest, it’s what we should be fighting about.

Ugh. I didn’t want to get into it. I don’t want to get into it. Not here. Not at home. I just don’t want to say things that I can’t take back. Not yet. Not before we’re married. I don’t know why I feel this way. That I have to save this particular fight until after we’ve said our vows. As if once he vows to be with me for the rest of our lives that it will make it okay for me to say the things I’m afraid would prevent our wedding if I were to say them right now.

“Jill, you can’t just not respond whenever I try to bring this up. We are going to talk about it. Maybe not tonight, when you’re tipsy, but tomorrow.” He pulls me tighter as we dance and I’m so confused. I want to be nowhere but here in this moment, and yet he seems determined to lead me somewhere else.

You don’t know, do you? I didn’t tell you about those simple little words that he threw at me on Tuesday. Only a dozen words or so. But when he uttered them my first reaction was to laugh.

“Maybe your dad is right. Maybe I should go to law school.”

Instead of responding, I just stared at him. Let him continue.

“He called me today and said if I wanted to come hang around his firm for a while and see what goes on all day, I was welcome. What do you think?”

What do I think? That’s what I can’t tell him. Because what I think is that he’s nuts. He’s expressed zero interest in the legal profession in two years, and after an ambush supper, and clearly prodding calls, instead of simply shutting my father down with a firm “Sorry Bruce, not my cup of tea,” he’s letting Dad get into his head and make him feel inferior.

What I want to say is “Can’t you see that they are trying to manipulate you?”

What I want to freaking yell at him is “Get a backbone and tell them to stop trying to plan your life.”

I’ve got real life experience that makes me the foremost expert on recognizing the career manipulations of Bruce and Laura Carew.

I bit my tongue on Tuesday because I didn’t want to fight with him about my parents. I want him to fight back.

On Wednesday we were reviewing the guest list and checking out the seating charts and it came up again. “There are a lot of lawyers in your family,” he said as he looked at the list of Carews.

“More lawyers than doctors,” I agreed. In fact, I’d listened to Mom and Dad once work out a ratio on that very statistic. It was nine to two or something. But that included the Shea side and everyone from great uncles to third or fourth cousins.

“I suppose if I did go to law school, you could say I was part of the family business.”

“I suppose you could,” I said and changed the conversation to suit fittings and groomsmen duties.

Thursday, he didn’t say a word.

And then this morning when we were in the shower together, he kissed my neck and said, “You’ve never not spoken your mind to me. So why are you chickening out on this law school debate?”

By now you have a pretty good idea of the things that drive me nuts, and the way I can snap. I’ve worked diligently to try to be more rational, to think things through, to not overreact and come off as an immature brat (yea, some people have called me that.) Do you know how difficult it was to not freak out at the love of my life, who for all intents and purposes just called me a coward?

“Later,” I said and kissed him. Oh how I kissed him. I kissed him in a way that begged him to just not force this issue. Kissed him in places that brokered no room for any talk other than those words we whisper, sometimes moan, oft-times yell, in the pursuit of pleasure.

And now, here I am, in his arms, wishing we were alone so I could do the things my mind had wandered to when we first started dancing, instead of having to deal with the thoughts he’s forced to mind.

The song is ending. I kiss him right there on the dance floor. And when I pull away, I make him a promise.

“Okay. Tomorrow. Not tonight. But tomorrow. I promise.”

H
ere’s a list of all the reasons why I don’t want to get out of bed.

1. I’m hung-over like a dog. For the second Sunday in a row. Who knew planning a wedding could turn you into an alcoholic.

2. I have to go to Mass. Yea. I’ve been doing this for the past couple of months. Not Evan. Just me. Mom and Dad swing by and get me on their way. It ruins their Sunday tradition of walking to the Basilica, but they’re a little insistent that if I’m getting married in the church that I at least make an appearance in the lead-up. Oddly, I don’t mind once I’m there. It’s given me a chance to catch up on my reading.

3. I’m having brunch with my bridal party. Or at least the ones who are in town. And I’m honestly sick of all the wedding-related events. I just want to get married and be done with it. Plus, with all the food and drink in this wedding lead-up, how the hell am I supposed to fit into my dress?

4. Evan. Before Mass, before brunch, before the arse potentially falls out of my relationship and there’s no wedding to worry about, we have to talk about this bloody law school nonsense.

Time to be like Daniel and walk bravely into the lion’s den. I toss the duvet off and head to the shower. After I’ve washed the lingering stench of downtown off me, I dry off and apply my makeup as if I’m donning battle armour. Dress in my Sunday best (for this Sunday at least) in the soft yellow and pink dress I picked out months ago specifically to wear to my shower. Early June was so cold I never did wear it. But today the sun is teeming in the window and it might be safe to say double-digit temperatures are here to stay.

There. I look fresh and happy and not at all scared to go talk to my fiancé. I am going to have a calm, rational conversation, let him say what he wants to say, and not jump down his throat or project all my issues with Mom and Dad onto him. I will be the mature, responsible, thoughtful academic the world expects me to be. To hell with my emotions and natural inclinations. This is a new leaf for me.

It’s only as I leave the bedroom that I realize how quiet the house is. Evan got up about an hour ago. Kissed me. Told me to go back to sleep, which I promptly did.

Visions of him sitting on the sofa reading are quickly dashed. He’s not in the office working, nor is he downstairs watching the never-ending game of Warhammer, although I doubted the guys who live downstairs would be up this early either.