Last Call (Cocktail #5) (7 page)

When Clive ran away last year, we had been devastated. He was lost for weeks, and while we had kept up the search, over time I had to admit that the chances of him ever returning were growing slimmer by the day. Until one night when he surprised us both by just waltzing into the backyard and back into our lives. And he wasn’t traveling alone. No sir, my boy had been busy squiring half the town. He’d brought home not one girlfriend, but three. And as ridiculous at it seemed at
the time, adopting three more cats into our household had proved to be a wonderful idea. Now Clive had his harem, and we had three more personalities to keep us entertained. And entertained we were, on the daily.

“Are you hungry? I can make you something,” I offered as we all headed into the kitchen. Clive in tow now as well, winding his way through my ankles in greeting.

“I don’t think so,” Simon replied, looking out the bay window, still holding Ella.

“Okay, I’m going to go run through the shower real quick then before bed.”

“Okay, babe,” he said, and before I went upstairs I went to him.

“Love you,” I whispered, planting a kiss on his neck.

“Love you,” he replied.

I left him standing by the window, thinking his thoughts, whatever they might be. In the time I’d been with Simon, I’d learned that sometimes he just went inside himself a little, needed a moment or two alone when something was particularly emotional. Like today had been. He’d talk when he was ready.

I dragged myself up the stairs, straightening a painting as I went. Living in Northern California, we might not feel
every
earthquake tremor, but I was constantly straightening frames. As I walked into our bedroom, I sighed as I always did at the sight of it. Soft area rugs laid over gorgeous deep-toned wood floors, puddles of linen hanging from the rods over the windows that
looked out over the bay and, in the distance, San Francisco. I kicked off my shoes, stripped off my clothes, and headed into the bathroom, where I flipped on the steam shower and let the glass begin to cloud. I yawned as I dragged a brush through my hair, trying to get most of the snarls out before getting it wet. I might have to take a personal day today, stay in bed. I was beat. I could hear Simon walking up the stairs, and I called out to him.

“I’m getting in, babe, if you want to join me. You know, for conservation’s sake only. No ulterior motive at all.” I laughed silently to myself as I heard his steps quicken, and I slipped in before he got to the bathroom. I stood under the spray, eyes closed, letting the warm water sweep down over my tired muscles. I heard him enter the room, heard the sound of his shoes kicking off, heard the sound of his belt buckle jingling, heard the slide of denim moving down down down and then hitting the floor. I heard the shower door creak open on the other side of the steam and I smiled underneath the spray, raising my hands to my hair and arching backward in a very specific way. I was tired, sure. But I was never too tired for his hands and his mouth and his everything else he had to offer. So I arched. And waited. And arched some more. And still, waited. I peeked out from underneath the water, and he stood there. His eyes poured over my skin, his mouth set . . . and tense.

“Babe?” I asked, leaning forward to wrap my hands
around the back of his neck, just as his hands slipped around my waist, fingers digging into my skin. “You okay?”

Water poured down over both of us, wetting his skin, sliding against mine as the steam created a little puffy cloud of our very own. The shower disappeared, the world disappeared, and in the middle of that world it was just me and my Simon. His lips parted, one stream of water trickling down, wetting his lips and making them irresistible to mine. But before I could bring my mouth to his, he spoke.

“Marry me.”

A statement. Not a question. It came again.

“Marry. Me.” His eyes burned into mine.

I breathed in, my ears ringing. My pulse sped up, my heart raced, I was trying to remember exactly what breathing meant. I was wet, and I was gasping.

“I want you. I want that, what they had today. I want it all, and I want it with you. I want you, want you to be my wife. I’ve got a ring, I’ll give it to you right now if you’ll say yes.” With every word, his hands tightened on my hips, desperate, crazy, longing. “I had this all planned out, so much smoother and romantic and everything you deserve. But my head’s been spinning since yesterday, when I saw my best friend steal a van to go meet his new family. And all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is exactly that. Exactly you. And when I walked up those stairs, and heard the shower go on, and knew you were in here
all naked and wet and waiting for me, I knew I couldn’t wait another day, another hour, another minute, without asking you to be my wife. So. Marry. Me.”

He knelt. Christ on a crutch, he knelt on the shower floor, where he had knelt countless times before . . . ahem . . . took my hand, and repeated those words again. Finally, with a question mark at the end.

“Marry me?”

And in that moment, I realized all the worrying, all the hand wringing and wonder ponder, all the thoughts about who says what’s right for a couple, and when is it too soon, and when is it the right time, and if it ain’t broke don’t blah blah blah. Fuck all that noise. It wasn’t about what was right for other couples, it was about what was right for us. Simon and me. Because when Wallbanger kneels down and asks you to be his wife, it’s not really something you need to think too long on.

Funny thing about getting proposed to in a shower. You can’t tell which is water and which is tears.

I said yes, and then he kissed me. I said yes, and then he touched me. I said yes, and then he slipped inside me. I said yes, yes, yes, and then he loved me.

Sometime later, he carried me to our bed, took a ring from his bedside table, and slid it onto the fourth finger of my left hand. It was shiny and sparkly and perfect and beautiful and looked amazing when I was clutching his backside as he pressed into me again.

“I can’t believe . . . you asked me . . . to marry you . . .” I panted as he thrust hard.

“Believe it, babe,” he murmured, rolling us both so that I was perched on top of him.

“I can’t believe . . . how lucky . . . I am . . .” I panted once more, getting into my rhythm.

“Wrong.” He sat up underneath me, driving deeper into my body. “I’m the lucky one.” I gasped, he groaned, and my hips went wild.

“I can’t believe . . . you’re going to be . . . Simon . . . Reynolds . . .”

Yeah, I got rolled over for that one.

I
made my fiancé scrambled eggs for breakfast. Can you believe that? Not the scrambled eggs part, although they were pretty unbelievable. Old Barefoot Contessa trick. Beat the eggs with a few tablespoons of cream, then gently pour into a buttered pan, stirring lightly over low heat. Perfect eggs, every time. À la Ina. À la sparkly ring. À la 2.5 carat cushion cut on a platinum band. I couldn’t stop looking at it. I added some kosher salt to the eggs. I marveled at my ring in front of the salt box, noting how nice it looked next to the Morton’s girl. I added a twist or two of freshly ground cracked pepper. I gazed at how my ring caught the light and made tiny rainbows on the countertop.

I opened every single cabinet and every single drawer in that kitchen, just to see how my ring looked against each panel. This was normal behavior, I mean, right?

“I can’t stop looking at my ring,” I confided to Simon
as I set a plate in front of him along with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The juice was freshly squeezed because I wanted to see how my ring looked while my hands were . . . turning on the juicer.

“I can’t stop looking at it either,” he admitted, pulling me onto his lap for a hug.

“That’s sweet, babe.”

“Of course, I’m usually looking at your tits, so this ring stuff is kind of cutting into that time.”

“That’s weird, babe.”

“Have you told anyone yet?”

“Hasn’t really been time. I’ve been too busy fucking my fiancé since it happened.”

“That’s literally the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Really? How about the time I told you to lick my sweet—”

The great thing about scrambled eggs is they’re so easy to make again when the first batch gets too cold to eat.

Moments later, as we lay on the kitchen table, we heard the sound of a plate crashing to the floor.

“You owe me for that plate,” I said.

“You owe me for that orgasm.”

There was another crash. “Oops. Sorry about that,” I said, not at all sorry.

“When I broke your plate it was accidental, in a fit of passion. Pushing plates off the table on purpose isn’t going to get you anywhere, Caroline.”

“I doubt that, Simon. Look how fantastic this ring looks on my hand while it’s holding your cock.”

“Jesus Christ, woman.”

Moments later . . .

“I heard you on the phone with Jillian earlier. You really didn’t tell her?”

“No, I told her I was taking a personal day but I didn’t say why.”

“Why are you taking a personal day?”

“To fuck your brains out underneath our kitchen table.”

“I see.”

“You have a problem with this?”

“It’s the best use of a personal day I can think of.”

“Agreed. Now, let’s get to it.”

“Are you going to be this bossy when we’re married?”

“You have no idea, Simon. You have no idea.”

Hours later
 . . .

“I’m seriously hungry.”

“Me too. Can you control yourself?”

“Me? You’re the one that was pushing plates off the table on purpose.”

“Don’t start that again. Let’s grab something on the way to the hospital.”

“Are you having a heart attack? I know that last round was pretty intense. Thanks for being so bendy, by the way.”

“You’re welcome, and no on the heart attack business. I told Sophia I’d stop by today, see how she and the little one are doing.”

“So we have to put on clothes now, I suppose.”

“If you want to make it past security, it’s a safe bet. Come on, I want to call my mom and tell her the good news.”

“What about your dad?”

“You get to call him, and explain why you didn’t talk to him first before asking me to be your lawfully wedded wifey.”

“Shit. I mean, yay.”

S
imon and I called my parents, who were ecstatic. My mom immediately shifted into wedding mode, asking me all kinds of questions about when and where and had I thought about colors and did I want my cousin Bernice to be a bridesmaid and made me tell her every detail about when he asked me to marry him. I left out the detail about us being naked at the time; that part was for me and me alone. I knew girls who’d been asked in a horse-drawn carriage, on the beach, at the top of the Eiffel Tower, even on the BART. But no one I knew had a naked engagement moment. Oh sure, afterward I assumed most were naked. But during the actual moment? I wanted to keep that to myself.

We got dressed, finally, piled into the car, and headed back into the city after stopping for cheeseburgers
and milkshakes. Did I show my ring to every person working the drive-thru that day? You bet your sweet bippy I did. Here’s me and my ring biting into a burger; here’s me and my ring drinking a milkshake. I even had Simon re-create the moment by sliding an onion ring down my finger. For someone who’d originally questioned the entire idea of getting married and whether it was necessary, I was sure turned around by a sparkly something.

When we got to the hospital, I turned the ring around, facing the diamond into the palm of my hand. I didn’t want Sophia to see it right away. I knew what Mimi was saying about the thunder stealing. I knew she’d be happy for me, but this was still very much about little Mary Jane, and I wanted to make sure we saw her first.

We knocked, and Sophia gave us the go-ahead to come in. Sitting up in her bed, makeup flawless and hair shining, she was eating take-out fried chicken while Neil sprawled on the couch, holding Mary Jane close to his chest.

“Hi!” Sophia called out, pausing from her chicken frenzy for only a moment to say hello. “Sorry, I’m starving and this hospital food was just not cutting it. I just pushed a baby out of my coochie, and all they want to give me is Jell-O? Fuck that, I needed something real.”

Every thought I’d had about Sophia softening into motherhood went right out the window. Thank goodness.

Mary Jane let out the tiniest gurgle and coo, and four pairs of eyes locked on the bundle in Neil’s arms. Sophia beamed. Okay, she’d softened a bit.

“How’re you feeling, Mama?” I asked, crossing over to her and smoothing her hair back. “You look fantastic.”

“I do, I really do. You should have seen me this morning though, I looked dreadful. Now I know why the Kardashians have the glam squad stop by after every birth; otherwise you look half dead in every picture with your newborn.”

“You look gorgeous,” Neil insisted. “Before or after any glam squad.”

Sophia beamed again. Simon had sat down next to Neil on the couch, and was examining the pink bundle.

“Dude, you can totally hold her, just ask.” Neil puffed out his chest, causing the bundle to rise up and out.

“I guess I could, just for a minute,” Simon replied, stealing a quick look at me. I grinned back, grateful to get another chance to watch Simon holding a baby. Hello, ovaries, I wondered when you were going to sit up straight.

Sophia and I watched the two guys transfer Mary Jane between them with all the precision of a tactical nuke team disarming a warhead. It took all I could not to giggle out loud, but it was incredibly sweet. “So how are you feeling? Like, for real how are you feeling?” I asked Sophia, once the transfer was complete.

“Like I just pushed a baby out of my coochie,” she
groaned, biting back into her chicken. “It hurt like a motherfucker. But totally worth it. Have you seen how freaking cute she is?”

“Pretty freaking cute I’d say,” I replied. “You up for some more good news?”

“Always,” she said through a mouthful. I turned the ring around. She screeched, showing me her chicken and waking her child.