“Oh yeah, what did he say?”
“He told me about something that happened a long time ago when you were little. When your mom and dad were divorced and shared custody… on the weekends your mom used to tell your dad that you didn’t want to see him. Right before your dad would show up she would tell you your dad wasn’t coming because he didn’t love you and put you in your room before he arrived. He ended up having to arrive with the police for assistance.”
His face is blank. The back of his heads drops further into the pillow, his eyes roll back and then they close. He takes a deep breath and then it happens, a single tear rolls down his cheek. This is bad! Jameson doesn’t cry!
“Jameson—” I say softly.
“Don’t… Just stop… I don’t want to talk about this… Not now.”
Oh shit! What have I done? Why did I tell him? Why now? He rolls on his side away from me, takes a deep breath and then nothing. Not a single word for the rest of the night. He’s never not said “goodnight” to me.
There’s no way he wouldn’t marry me over this… right?
“You won’t win this fight.”
July 4, 2003
THE DAY BEFORE THE WEDDING.
I’ve been tossing and turning for hours, so has Jameson. I turn to look at the clock for what feels like the ten millionth time. It says 3:07 a.m. I think it’s time to give up on getting any sleep tonight. I hear a light snore come from Jameson.
I decide to go downstairs and go through the final wedding checklist. After foolishly dropping that bomb on Jameson last night, I hope he still wants to marry me. I decide to keep myself busy with some light housework, emailing the wedding coordinator at the Marriott for the reception details one last time, and coffee. I will need lots of coffee at this point.
In between, I hop back and forth to my computer checking my work email. I want to make sure my out of office assistant message is working. Scrolling through, I see multiple contractors mentioning voicemails they have left me. I know for certain I changed my voicemail message letting them know I would be out of the office for over a week and to contact my salesperson Marianne. I grab a pen and a piece of paper so I can take notes and forward them to Marianne if necessary.
I hear my computer make a dinging sound and it jostles me awake. I hadn’t even realized I fell asleep face down in paperwork. I look at the time on my computer screen, it says 7:14 a.m. My computer dings again. I look up and see Marianne is responding to my emails I forwarded her. The first one I open I notice has no subject.
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
July 4, 2003 07:11 a.m.
Good Morning Hillary,
You are such an awesome sales coordinator but why the hell are you working? Tomorrow is your wedding day! Stop it!
-Marianne
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
July 4, 2003 07:21 a.m.
Good morning to you too!
If people knew how to listen to my voicemail or read my out of office assistant I wouldn’t have to be working the day before my wedding. I don’t want anything to slip through the cracks. Plus I couldn’t sleep anyway. Only a few more things and I’ll stop. I promise!
See you tomorrow!
-Hillary
DOING LAUNDRY, PACKING CLOTHES and makeup, responding to emails, forwarding emails and I hear footsteps above my head. He’s awake. Will he talk to me or ignore me? My heart is racing like it’s at the Talladega Super Speedway. I decide to keep my head down, finish up my work and let him make the first move. His normal morning routine is pee, coffee, outside for a smoke and then it depends on the day. So, let’s see what today brings. I try to concentrate on work and keep a close ear on what Jameson is doing.
Toilet flush! Yes! Now wait… Reply to the damn email, Hillary. Focus.
I heard a coffee cup come off the shelf! Yes! Calm down.
What’s he going to do next? He’s not a morning person until at least thirty minutes after he’s woken up. Add the shit I threw at him last night, no sleep and we’re getting married tomorrow, I’m royally fucked! I’m not saying a fucking word. I’ll sit here like a good girl and wait until he approaches me.
I can hear him stirring his coffee. Where he goes next is what scares me, because if he goes outside for a cigarette he has to walk past me. If he ignores me I might just fall to pieces. I decide to type my emails like a mad woman and hold my breath until I either hear or see his next move.
Typing diligently, I hear his footsteps getting closer and closer. Out of the corner of my eye I see him standing next to the dining room table; he’s reaching for his cigarettes. I focus my eyes back on the computer screen. He takes three steps and he’s standing behind me.