Oh dear. I can only imagine bringing a man named Jonesie to my parents’ house for them to meet. That probably wouldn’t go over well, especially with my picky mother.
“I cannot go on a date with a man who goes by that name,” I tell Candice.
“Can you imagine screaming it out loud, right in the middle of sex?” Stella asks with a laugh, just before she raises her voice. “Yes, Jonesie! Right there! No, a little to the left! Oh God, Jonesie!”
We’re all in near hysterics by now, leaning on each other as we collapse into laughter. Candice at first appears offended, but her lips start twitching and she eventually gives into the mood that’s swept the table, covering her mouth as she giggles continuously.
Ah, that feels good. I haven’t laughed like this in a long time.
Thank goodness for friends.
“I’m being serious,” Candice says once we’ve all calmed down. “I want to set you two up for my wedding.”
“And how are you going to do that? You’re going to be a little preoccupied tomorrow,” I remind her.
“You two will be seated at the same table at the reception,” Candice says, her eyes dancing as she leans in close to me. “Hopefully right next to each other.”
I raise my brows. There are no guarantees in life. I’ve realized this over the years. “What if we’re not?”
“What do you mean?” Canice appears confused. “Everyone has an assigned table, and you two are at the same one.”
“But what if this Jonesie is a rebel and sits wherever he wants?” I ask.
“That’s not proper etiquette,” Candice says, who certainly knows her way around etiquette. Probably better than I do.
“Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he doesn’t understand the basic rules of etiquette.” I tip my head to the side. “You never know what you’re dealing with. He could go rogue.”
“Perhaps.” Candice taps her finger against her pursed lips. “But I’m willing to take the chance. You should be too. I think he’d be good for you. A breath of fresh air, and we all know you need it.”
My friends chime in with their agreement, which makes me feel good but also…
Makes me feel down and out too. I was on such a roller coaster in my relationship with my ex. The ups were far fewer than the downs near the end, and I was constantly threatening to break up with him, yet I never did. Or I always forgave him and took him back.
I stuck by his side far longer than I should’ve. And that’s on me.
I think of Candice’s suggestion long after I’ve come home from the bar. I ponder the possibilities as I straighten up around my already tidy apartment. While I take a shower. Afterwards, as I lather on my special face cream that keeps my skin glowing. While I brush my teeth.
I’m so wrapped up in thoughts of the mysterious Jonesie, I even dream about him, though I have no clue what he actually looks like. In my dream though, he’s short and very hairy, and he chases me around the tree farm like some sort of deranged psychopath. I keep screaming, Jonesie! Jonesie!
As I try to flee, I fall straight into the arms of the man who ran into me at the tree lot. He grabs hold of me, but this time he doesn’t let go. He’s got that baseball cap on, wearing it backwards, which I found oddly appealing when he did that at the store; and when he leans down and whispers close to my ear, “You’re safe.”
…I nearly melt.
I wake up with a startled gasp, my body drenched with sweat, and I almost laugh at myself.
Clearly Stella’s joke about having ridiculous sex with someone named Jonesie seeped into my subconscious, and popped into my dream in a completely different way. Let’s just face facts.
Stella’s right. I can’t be with a man named Jonesie, even if it is something casual. Besides, I don’t do casual. That word isn’t a part of my vocabulary. I’m a serious girl, living in a material world.
Great, and now I’m quoting Madonna songs wrong.
With a huff, I roll over on my side and close my eyes, desperate to go back to sleep. I have to wake up in less than three hours. Work will be busy today. People shop earlier for Christmas every single year, and this one is no exception. And while we don’t have as much foot traffic as we used to, my older brother Palmer has been in charge of working on our website and our social media presence. Something he most definitely excels at, thank goodness. Business has picked up online almost fifty percent over last year.
The family business is doing well. Life is good. My ex—no name mentioned so I don’t spiral out of control and start thinking about him again, never a good idea at four in the morning—is out of my life forever. He’s moved on. I think.
God, I hope.
I hope I’ve moved on too.
Four
Amelia
“Amelia. Darling. Please pass me the green beans.” My mother smiles at me. “Perhaps you should have some more as well, and less mashed potatoes?”
I glance down at my plate, where I have a proportional amount of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and green beans doled out. “I’m good,” I tell her as I grab the bowl of green beans and pass it to her. “But thanks for the suggestion.”
Mother snaps her mouth shut, though I know she’s dying to correct me for saying good instead of well. Guess she’s cutting me a break since it’s a holiday.
My parents for whatever reason love to host Thanksgiving for the family. Even though it’s our busiest time of year, business-wise. I’m always the designated assistant, the one my mother enlists to help her in the kitchen Thanksgiving Day. I can’t even call myself a sous chef. It’s not like I’m preparing any dish. More like I’m running around grabbing this ingredient or that. Monitoring whatever is simmering on the stove. Checking whatever’s in the oven and making sure it’s coming along in a timely manner. Chopping up vegetables, peeling potatoes, putting together the appetizers.
It’s never-ending tedious work. A complete drag. At least she’s somehow convinced my father and brother to help clean up and wash the dishes afterward.
Every year for the holiday we end up with a swarm of people in the house I grew up in, and while most of the time I’m exhausted, it’s also fun, hanging out with my cousins and my aunts and uncles.
Well, not my aunts so much. They tend to gang up on me and put the pressure on.
When is he going to give you a ring?
Are you engaged yet?
You two make such a beautiful couple!
When are you getting married?
You’re not getting any younger…
Babies! We love babies. When are YOU having a baby?
They would ask these questions with my ex present, which was mortifying. We would nod and smile at each other as if we were keeping a big secret and make up vague excuses. Or offer up simple answers before changing the subject. I could never miss the looks my aunts sent each other, or the comments they made to my mother.
In their traditional way of thinking, I was a disappointment. You’d think we’re living in a modern world, but the women in my family are firm believers in getting married and raising a family, all before the age of thirty. And thirty is absolutely pushing it.