Page 30 of When There Was You
I peel away the paper, revealing a black velvet box and my fool heart beats wildly against my ribs. I sneak a quick peek at Mick—his lopsided smile lighting up his face as he watches me—then return my focus to the box. I lift the lid and the air whooshes from my lungs. Inside are delicate, diamond-shaped earrings a nearly translucent shade of aquamarine. Are they stones? Gems? Whatever’s hanging from these stainless hooks isstunning.
“It’s sea glass,” he explains. “It’s been broken, weathered, and worn smooth by the ocean. It starts out a jagged shard and after years of turbulence and basically, abuse, it becomes beautiful. Like you, baby.”
Wow.“Like us,” I gently correct, staring into his eyes. We’ve both suffered at the hands of our parents.
He gives me his lopsided smile. “It’s rarer than you might think. The real stuff is old glassware, the kind noone makes anymore, and it takes decades, sometimes even centuries, of tumbling through the sea to buff all the rough edges. It’s special—even more so because of what it’s been through.”
The sentiment is raw and poetic, and once again, he knocks my socks off with the thoughtful, wise, and profound way his mind works. “They’re gorgeous, Mick.” I swallow to dislodge the knot in my throat. “And capture us completely.”
I pluck them from the velvet box and loop them through my earlobes. He shifts my hair to admire them, humming appreciatively when he sees them in place, and I’m treated to another potent version of my ocean and how he looks right now, in this moment. It’s breathtaking.
Our gaze collides and holds. “I love them. And you.”
Before I’m tempted to chicken out, I hand him my final gift. My nerves tangle as he examines the wrapping. An eternity seems to pass as he carefully opens it, running his finger under each section of tape.
“Jacqui…” He stops speaking.
“It’s a short story. It’s…about us,” I blurt, as I drown in embarrassment, wondering how I ever deemed this worthy of jack shit.
Mick lifts it from the tissue holding it snug in the box. I painstakingly typed it on my typewriter, managing not to blotch it with egregious amounts of Wite-Out, then copied and bound it between two thick covers at Kinko’s.
“Ocean Deep, a Love Story, by Jacqueline Hall,” he murmurs. He flips through it, not saying a goddamned word, and my confidence plummets further.
I’m such an idiot.What was I thinking?
His reverent gaze captures mine. “I’m honored...and speechless. I’ve never received a more personal, thoughtful gift.” He stares back at the story, essentially my heart on a platter, the most vulnerable piece I’ve ever written. He sets it gingerly back in the box and onto the coffee table. “Come here,” he whispers, his voice raspy.
Is he...emotional?
I crawl into his lap, and he holds me tightly. I grip him back, my head landing between his shoulder and neck, lost in his familiar essence, enveloped by everything Mick. We’re quiet, saying volumes without uttering a word.
Mick crashes outon the couch, giving me more time with his mom. We nibble on appetizers and talk about her upcoming travels, her work, her favorite projects. I praise her for creating a fine man in Mick and ask about his brothers, what they’re like, how their personalities differ, why she chose to name her sons after musicians. She confesses she’s never seen her son as smitten with a girl as he is with me. With zero hesitation, I profess him the love of my life, which makes her smile knowingly.
My boyfriend wakes and we share another precious hour together. When I can’t put it off any longer, I bid his mom goodbye, and Mick walks me to my car.
“You’re headed to San Jose tonight?” he asks.
I nod. “I have work in the morning. What about you?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’ve been summoned for a meeting at the Remingtons’ tomorrow afternoon, then I plan to head home.”
“Any idea what about?”
He shrugs. “Not sure, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of intervention.”
“Call me?”
“Of course, baby.”
We share another forceful hug. But I can’t stop the premonition everything is about to go sideways.
My parents are done in by the time I return, their eyes glazed from their drugs of choice. It’s a good thing I’m there to make the bulk of our Christmas dinner, or it might go to the wayside. Ditto on cleaning up, which reminds me hownothing changes here; any glimmers of it are phantoms, mirages, wishful thinking. My thoughts churn uneasily over more pressing topics, and it takes genuine effort to join my parental units in faking it—a family hallmark—until it’s time to leave.
Relief at getting out of there floods when I settle into the Bug, my breath visible in the cool air. I crank the heater and steer for San Jose, fighting every urge to return to Mick’s for one more kiss, hug, and some kind of reassurance that everything is going to be alright.
Fifteen
It’s a long, wearisome day—I work eight hours at the salon then head straight to Original Joe’s to hostess, arriving in time to scarf a plate of spaghetti and meatballs before starting my shift.
