I'll Be Your Everything (31 page)

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Authors: J.J. Murray

BOOK: I'll Be Your Everything
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Tom looks at me, and I look at him.
“Wow,” he says. “If that isn’t sonic branding, I don’t know what is. Mr. Peterson needs to get exclusive rights to that song.”
And that would cost a mint! “We do good work here at Methuselah’s Breezy Hiccup.” I stretch, yearning for a pillow. “We’re the junk.”
“And that can be our slogan. Methuselah’s Breezy Hiccup—We’re the junk.”
I laugh, resting my head on Tom’s shoulder. “Man, it’s getting dark out.” We’ve been working for nearly eight hours, and I never even considered it to be work at all. Mrs. Collier was right. Working with the one you love is the absolute best. “What time is it?”
He looks at his watch. “A little after six.” He sighs. “I’ll bet Bryan’s standing outside your door by now.”
Not this again. “No, he isn’t.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
And I don’t. “He isn’t coming.”
“Why don’t you call him and find out for sure?” He picks me up, stands, turns, and sets me gently into the chair. “I’ll want your undivided attention later.” He kisses me. “I’ll give you your privacy.”
And then he leaves the room! The nerve!
“I don’t want to call him, Tom!” I call out.
Tom comes into the room with my cell phone, turns it on, hands it to me, and leaves again, shutting the door behind him.
“I’m not calling him,” I whisper.
But he could be out there right now looking for you, Shari.
All right, all right.
I dial Bryan’s cell.
Chapter 29
 
“H
ello?”
Now I’m nervous. He answered on the first ring. “Hi, Bryan. How are you?”
“How do you think I am?”
I don’t want to ask the next question. “Where are you?”
Silence.
Oh no. “You didn’t come up to Brooklyn, did you?”
More silence.
“Bryan, are you in New York? Are you at the airport?”
Silence.
“Bryan, answer me. Are you at my apartment?”
Even more silence.
“Bryan, I’m ... I’m at his place right now, and it’s twenty miles from my apartment. Where exactly are you?”
“Where I’m supposed to be, Share. Back home in Virginia, where we drink lots of beer before going to high school football games and, how’d you say it? Oh yeah. Reliving our glory days.”
“Oh.” Where’s the relief I should be feeling? “Why didn’t you answer me?”
“I was finishing my beer. State semifinals tonight. We’re gonna win state again.”
At least he’s going on with his normal routine. “What did you do with the plane ticket?”
“I gave it to my sister. She’ll be shopping tomorrow up there or something. Maybe you’ll see her.”
Not a chance.
“So you’re at his place,” he says.
I just want this phone call to end. “Yes.”
“What’s it like?”
“Um, Bryan, I’m sure you have to be getting ready to go to the game, so I won’t keep you any longer.” And I don’t want to torture him anymore.
“What’s it like? I’m your friend. You’re supposed to tell friends stuff.”
He’s pretty drunk already. Geez. “How drunk are you, Bryan?”
“Pretty stinking drunk. So what, does he live in a mansion?”
Not drunk enough to forget his question. “No. It’s a house.”
“Big?”
The man, his package, his potential, or his house? “Not particularly.” For Great Neck.
“What’s he drive?”
Bryan is a car jock’s jock. He fixed my car for free so many times. “A Mustang. A sixty-five. A classic.”
“Good car, great car.”
I have to steer him back to something safe. “Are you at home?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s driving you to the game?” This is crucial. Salem cops don’t play.
“Nobody.”
Oh man. “Bryan, please don’t drive. Call Tony or Rich to come get you.”
“Who said I was driving? Might not even make it out the door. Think it’s in that direction.”
He always was a funny drunk. “Just promise me you won’t drive.”
“All right, I promise.”
Silence.
“Bryan?”
Silence.
“Bryan?”
“Yep. Just killed another one.”
He was always a thirsty drunk, too. “Please go on with your life.”
“I plan to. Gonna find me a honey tonight.”
I blame rap music for his transformation from a quiet, ordinary white kid to a tattooed homeboy with an earring. “I hope you do. I know you will. You ... you deserve someone special.”
“Thought I had someone special.”
Here we go again. “I’m not that special, Bryan. You deserve someone better than me.”
“What’s he got that I don’t got, Share? Huh?”
A future ... and I’m an integral part of that future.
“Money? He got money?”
When drunk Bryan gets going, there’s no stopping him. I’ve learned it’s best just to let him rant.
“House, great ass car, money. He as good-looking as me?”
I have to step in here. “No one is as good-looking as you are, Bryan.” And he was pretty cute, especially when he grew his moustache.
“That’s right. I’m a certified honey heartbreaker. You said so yourself.”
Once. “You’re right. I bet you find a hot, horny honey tonight.” I’m hoping he’ll laugh.
He doesn’t laugh. “Won’t be you.”
Ouch. “I know.”
“Won’t be the same.”
More ouch. “I know that, too.”
“Well, I gotta go.” He sighs heavily. “Sorry, Share.”
Most ouch. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Bryan.”
“Yeah, I do. I’m just ... sorry. I should have followed your dreams.”
Click.
I turn off my phone.
I feel like crap.
But what if Bryan had followed me up here five years ago? Would I be as happy as I am now? Would I even be trying to do what I’m trying to do? I guess I’ll never know.
And that’s kind of what hurts.
I wander to the bedroom. No Tom. I check the workout room. I go downstairs and don’t find him anywhere. I hear a car start up. He’s leaving?
I run into the garage and see him revving the engine with the hood up, and for an instant, I see Bryan doing the same thing with my car. I was just a passenger in Bryan’s car.
I know I will be driving this car.
Tom drops the hood and turns off the car. “Still works,” he says. “Everything okay?”
I nod. “He’s not in New York. He gave the plane ticket to his sister.”
He wipes his hands on a paper towel. “You okay?”
“Yeah. A little ... sad.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I take his hand. “No.”
“Well,” he says, “we have a few more things to do upstairs.”
He says the right thing every time.
But when we get upstairs, he leads me into the studio.
“I thought we were done,” I say.
“We need to make backups of everything,” he says.
I slump into a chair. “You’re so thorough.”
He kneels in front of me. “I can do it some other time.”
Yes. Some other time. “Tom, I’m cold.”
“Then I’ll just have to warm you up.”
I look at my hands in his. “I ... I just need to be held.”
“I can do that.”
He carries me to the bed, pulls back the covers, and sets me down. He slides in next to me and begins rubbing my back and massaging my neck and shoulders. I pull his arm around me, and we just snuggle for a while.
“We both still have our clothes on,” I say.
“I know.”
“Seems like old times,” I say.
“It’s nice.”
“But it’s not a first anymore. Like our little photography session yesterday. That was a first. We need to make a list of things neither of us has ever done. A list of firsts. I want to share a lot of firsts with you.” I put his hand over my heart. “I want to share the
rest
of my firsts with you.”
“Me, too, but it’s going to be a long list. We’re both small-town kids.”
“But you’ve gotten to travel all over the world. You’ve been places that are only names on a map to me.”
He hugs me tight. “There are still plenty of places I’d like to go. Like Alaska.”
I shiver.
“Wild, untamed, rugged. I want to give my boots a real workout. And keeping you warm will be my biggest priority.”
That might be fun. “I guess I’d go, as long as keeping me
hot
would be your biggest priority. How about some place warm like ... Tahiti. For after I freeze my booty off in Alaska.”
“Agreed. I’d have to keep you cool there.”
“I like to sweat.” I turn to him and drink in his eyes. “I’ve never ... been married.”
“That will be at the top of our list.” He kisses me.
This feels so right. Hear that, God? “And I’ve ... I’ve never been ... somebody’s mama.”
“Second on our list.”
This
has
to be love. “In that order.”
“Yes.”
This
is
love. “And I’ve never ...” There are so many things I’ve never done! “I’ve never gotten a tattoo.” I know, from becoming a parent to getting a tattoo. I am wasted tired. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo. And maybe a piercing somewhere dangerous. I’ve just been too chicken.”
“What and where?” he asks.
I feel his warmth envelope me. “Nothing crazy and no place too kinky. Just a ... heart ... somewhere.” I am drifting off so smoothly, so peacefully.
“We’ll do that tomorrow. Get some sleep, Shari.”
“Good night, Tom.”
And the last thing I remember is a single kiss on my lips.
Chapter 30
 
O
n Saturday, three days to go before the big meeting, Tom serves me breakfast in bed, a first for both of us.
We eat frosted brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts and split an apple, and the two of us decide to stay in bed and work, mainly because this bed is the warmest place in the house. Tom brings in several legal pads, and we get hard to work on the false information we’re going to feed to Corrine. We try not to make it too ridiculous, but it is so much fun! We list incorrect sales numbers and revenues. We rewrite Mr. Peterson’s bio to include several marriages and make him sound like an aristocratic playboy who lives in a mansion. Tom creates a carefully constructed demographics analysis that focuses solely on single men between fifty and fifty-five. I throw in a few recalls. We suggest that Peterson leave the under-thirty crowd entirely and focus only on the wealthy 1 percent in this country. We even make a final suggestion, based allegedly on Mrs. Peterson’s demands, that Peterson
raise
the price of their bicycles and take the company public.
After showering together in the puke green tub, we dress and take the Mustang—such power!—a few miles to Flushing and Murder Ink. While I get a simple, tiny red heart on my right shoulder, Tom hands the tattoo artist a picture of my face to put on his right arm!
“When did you draw that?” I ask, wincing a little as the heart takes shape. I am such a lightweight when it comes to pain.
“Last night,” he says.
“But my eyes are closed,” I say. Ouch ... ouch.
“Because you’re peacefully dreaming,” he says.
And I don’t remember my dream again. Oh. There he is. “But you won’t be able to see me on your arm.”
“I’ll be able to see it in a mirror,” he says. “But that’s really not the point, is it?”
I smile—and wince. Yeah, other women will see me. Ow! That tattoo is more proof of permanence. Yeah. That’s me on my man’s arm. Back off, wenches! I will have to buy him some wife-beaters.
Even though I have a smallish face, his tattoo takes such a long time to do! Once I’m done, I am so bored. I look at some pictures of where other women have gotten tattoos. I’m pretty adventurous and I am actively looking for more firsts in my life, but I don’t want tattoos down there.
Or do I?
I pull my tattoo artist back into action, and she and I create a road map of where I like to be kissed most. We go into a little booth to do them. She puts another tiny red heart on the back of my neck under my hair, another just above my left breast, and one just above my panty line in front. I turn over and she adds one just above my right hip. I turn over again so she can put one on the inside of my right thigh about three inches from my stuff. Including the one on my shoulder, that’s six hearts for Tom to kiss.
And his tattoo still isn’t done!
I go back to the booth. “One more makes seven.”
My ankle? Not very erogenous. Below my belly button? Ouch. I shrug and drop my drawers, roll over, and point to my right cheek. My booty doesn’t like me very much, but I’m hoping Tom will kiss it and make it better.
I take a look at Tom’s tattoo before they cover it up, and I can’t believe what I see! My eyes are open behind my sexy glasses. That has to be a first for Planet Earth. Who puts librarian glasses on the face of a hot female on a man’s arm? That tattoo can only be me.
Only me. Yeah, this is permanent.
Walking afterward is a bit of a chore, but I manage, especially when Tom opens the door to Alicia’s Jewelers.
At first I don’t want to go in. “Tom?” I say in the tiniest voice.
“C’mon,” he says.
He didn’t have to twist my arm at all.
We browse the engagement rings and bridal sets. So many beautiful rings, and such ridiculously high prices!
“Do you believe in long engagements, Shari?” he whispers.
My legs become jelly. “No.” Where is this small voice coming from? And why can’t I stand still?
“So we can skip the engagement ring and go straight to the wedding band,” he says.
If it weren’t for the glass case I’m leaning on, I’d be on the ground. “Sounds ... sounds like a plan,” I whisper.
Tom walks past the gold wedding bands and looks down on the platinum rings. Platinum? Oh man. The only tag I can see says “$18,000”! Even with 50 percent off, that’s still nine grand!
He points at a ring. “That’s the one.” He looks around the store. “I need some help here.”
So do I. All Bryan and I ever did was
look
. I never even tried one on.
A sales associate takes the ring from the case and hands it to Tom.
Give it to me.
He analyzes it carefully.
My finger.
Now.
He turns to me and slides it on my left ring finger, but he doesn’t let go!
Let go.
Mine.
He holds it there, squinting. “A little loose. Hmm.”
Let go of the ring, Tom. It’s not yours.
He slides it off my finger! “I like it,” he says. Only then does he check the tag. “Reasonable.”
What’s reasonable about $13,000? At half off, that’s still ... four months’ rent and the entire cost of what’s in my closet!
He smiles at me. “Did you ever try on a wedding band before?”
I shake my head. “But technically, I didn’t actually try it on. You didn’t let go of it.”
“I know.” He nods to the associate. “We’ll take this one.” He hands her
my
ring, and she boxes it up.
I grab his right arm, and he winces a little. “Oh, sorry.” I grab his other arm and whisper, “Um, Tom, you haven’t even asked me to marry you yet.”
He shrugs. “So you’ll get the ring before the proposal. Another first. Not exactly the best spot to propose.” He looks down. “Floor’s clean, but ...”
“But Tom,” I whisper with more authority, because I
know
these things, “it is customary to ask
before
you buy, especially if it’s a wedding band.”
He starts to put his hands on my shoulders and ends up holding my hands instead. “This is no ordinary love, Shari. There is nothing customary about it at all. And when I do propose, aren’t I supposed to have a ring to put on your finger?”
“Well, yes, but ...”
“Isn’t that the custom?”
“Sure, but ...”
“You said we could skip the engagement ring. So this will have to suffice.”
He hands the associate his debit card, they complete the transaction, and she hands him a little bag, a bag full of my dreams. He pulls the fuzzy box out of the bag and hands the bag to the associate. “I won’t need this.” He holds the box out to me, my eyes get as big as Jupiter, and then he tucks the box into his back pocket! “Come on,” he says.
I don’t move. “Where are we going now?” And it had better be a place where he can propose to me immediately!
He rubs his stomach. “I’m hungry. Pop-Tarts and half an apple aren’t enough to satisfy a growing boy. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Yes, but not for food, Tom.”
He smiles. “You’ll need your strength. Let’s go eat.”
We stop at the Terrace Diner a block away, and I decide this, too, is part of Tom’s diabolical plan. He’s going to squirrel the ring away in something I’m eating. Or maybe he’ll drop it in my drink when I’m not looking.
“You ever have a buffalo burger?” he asks.
“No.” But for him to do that, I have to be away from the table or totally oblivious. My ring is being crushed against his booty right now!
“Me neither,” he says.
We order two buffalo burgers, and Tom makes a Dagwood Bumstead sandwich out of his, adding cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato, sautéed onions, mushrooms, bacon, and even a fried egg. I just get cheddar cheese and bacon. After his first bite, he can’t let go of his sandwich, and he goes through half a dozen napkins.
“How about here?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“No, no, you’re right,” he says. “Not while we’re eating. That’s been played out. I’m supposed to put the ring in something you’re eating or drinking. So overdone. Besides, you never left the table for me to do that. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“First we have to get the car.”
We walk back to Murder Ink, get in the Mustang, and drive over to the Long Island City Marina. Okay. Water. A view. Few people. An isolated, sort of natural spot. We walk out onto the pier and look at boats in Little Neck Bay, most of the boats moored, some sailboats zipping by, lots of seagulls hovering and swooping.
He pulls me to him. “Look straight across ... there.” He points to a spot on the opposite shore.
I look and don’t see anything worthy of my looking.
“You see it?” he asks.
I don’t.
“Our house.”
Oh. I’d need binoculars. I turn to him. I guess here is as good as anyplace else. I mean, except for the guy fishing over there, the rainbow of gas films around the pier, the seagull poo on the railing, it’s, um, perfect.
“So ... how about here?” he asks.
I cannot speak!
“You’re right,” he says, shaking his head. “A guy gives his girl a ring by the water. Something organic and universal about that. But it’s too trendy in this environmental age. Let’s go.”
I take his left arm and squeeze it. “Tom, you’re ... you’re going to entirely too much trouble here.”
He smiles. “I know. I want it to be perfect.”
“But I just want it,” I whine.
“Hmm. That was a first.”
“What was?”
“That little whine,” he says. “Kinda sexy.”
We go to the car again, and before he can pull out of the lot, I reach over and keep his hand from shifting into reverse.
“Tom, really. You could give it to me now.” In a ’65 Mustang? Well, it is a classic. “That’s a first for both of us, right?”
“In a car?” he says. “I’m sure it’s been done a million times. I want this to be so original that no one can top it ever. A
world
first.”
I let go of his hand. “How can you be sure of that?”
He backs us out. “Let’s go to ... an arcade. No. How about ... oh, I know.”
We drive a while this time, and my feet can’t stay still. Because the Mustang only has an
AM
radio, we listen to Caribbean music on WPAT, and my feet are practically running by the time we get to Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” he says.
He parks near Spoonbill & Sugartown, Booksellers. “You know this place?”
Wow. I only told him
once
that this was my favorite bookstore. And I thought that
I
had a good memory. This man, this man. He’s been hanging on my every word for five years! “This is my favorite bookstore.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You mentioned it a few years ago during one of our little meaningless chats.”
Chats will never be meaningless for me again. “You’re going to propose to me inside a bookstore? I’m sure it’s been done.” But right now, I don’t care if a billion people have done it. I want that ring.
“Ah, but
where
in the bookstore?” he asks. “In what section? Mmm?”
Sometimes this man and his details drive me crazy!
We go in, my heart pounding like a
djembe
drum. He pauses in front of the new books on the tables. I hold my breath. New books for a new life. A new beginning. It makes sense. Gimme!
He moves on.
He pauses in front of the lighted glass cases containing rarer books. I hold my breath. Rare books for a rare relationship. We are so rare we’re practically raw! Yes. I’ll take that ring now.
He moves on.
He comes to a complete stop next to an old radiator beneath a stack of Asian art books. I hold my breath. Art books for our artistic future. I am the yin to his yang. I get it. Give me the ring.
He shakes his head ... and then continues right on out the door! He stands in front of a table full of used paperbacks and smiles while browsing. Here? Okay, I mean, these are used books, heavily thumbed, ripped, worn out. We’re not any of those things!
“Look at the title of this one,” he says, pointing to a book with a black cover.
Will Happiness Find Me?
Happiness is sure taking her freaking time!
“I might get this one,” he says. “I want to know how it ends.”

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