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I deleted the message thread, turned my phone off, took a deep breath, splashed some warm water on my face, and went back to bed. The bed, expensive and luxuriant, was one of the most uncomfortable in which I’d ever slept.
Chapter 6
MY HEAD WAS pounding the next morning when I woke up—too much wine, too little sleep. Rob lay still, the bedclothes barely disturbed, as I kicked my feet out, trying not to bother him. The tip of my nose was freezing, and I shivered as I reached across to the bedside table for a tissue. The ring was still there.
I sat up to open the box and look more closely at it now that I was sober. It was platinum, with a pear-shaped diamond in the middle and three rows of smaller stones coming up to meet in the middle and encircle the main rock. If you werethatkind of girl—no, if you were any kind ofgirl—it would take your breath away.
As I slipped it on my finger, it felt heavy and uncomfortable. Every part of me wanted to be with Rob. But no part of me wanted this ring. I was still seething that he’d put me in the position of choosing between him and exactly what he knew I didn’t want. The logic of his argument settled in my mind—maybe it would be nice to be what connected our families. Maybe it would be hilarious to see what Camille would do when faced with Annie.
At Queen’s, school had been important to me. I had loved every minute of the learning part of university. The social bits? Well, I wasn’t as good at those. Knowing whose father did what or what kind of family business was funding cab rides and train tickets home versus taking the bus (city or Greyhound) was never something I paid attention to. I had found Rob without knowing where he came from or what his father did, and I was completely naïve. Foolishly, I had thought that if you were a nice person, if you were open, honest, and kind, you could get along with anyone. Rob’s mother had proven to be the exception to this rule. And just like I was in first year all over again, here I was surrounded by people who had a common language, whether it was about their social graces or their prep school, and my choice was to either give in completely or to lose the one person who had loved me unconditionally for the last eight years. Where was the choice in that?
Asleep, Rob looked young and peaceful, and the desperate tenderness I felt for him threatened to overtake my senses. Would it be all that wrong to get married? People grew up and out of their hard-won opinions all the time. Was I just afraid of the commitment? Surely, if I did say yes, Rob could prevent Camille from bullying us into having an elaborate ceremony and expensive celebration. Maybe if I could do it my own way, quick and dirty, on a beach somewhere with just us, my family, and his family, that would be tolerable. There was nothing I liked more than a vacation. The South of France? Getting married in a vintage Chanel suit carrying another vintage, Louis, on my arm sounded perfect. It also sounded unreal, impractical, and unmanageable. The fact remained that I didn’t want to be married. It had nothing to do with a wedding. I didn’t want the band of gold and all it represented weighing down my finger.
I slipped farther under the covers and curled up tight into Rob, hoping he didn’t wake up, feeling secure with the weight of his body next to mine. Our relationship worked because our falling (and staying) asleep together worked. I slept better beside him than I ever had growing up and with a bed to myself. Even with his legs sprawled all over my side of the bed, I could drop off the minute I laid my head on the pillow, as long as he was there. Rob felt comfortable in his skin, comfortable in his life, in the love he felt for me. And I did my best to hold tight to him however and whenever I could, no matter how restless my legs were. Sleep came at last, thankfully.
When we woke up about an hour later, Rob squeezed me tight. “Merry Christmas. Man, I hope my mother has cinnamon buns.”
“Doesn’t she always?” I yawned. The late night, the wine, the weight of it all had caught up with me. I was up but didn’t want to get out of bed or engage in any form of active communication. “If your house wasn’t so huge, I bet you could smell them.”
“Our house isn’t that big.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you want your present now?”
I sat up quickly and shouted, “You didn’t! We said no presents this year! We’re saving for our trip to Germany this summer—you promised!”
“It’s not a big deal, I promise.” Rob got up and pulled his duffel bag off the chair beside the bed. He handed me a small, square package, neatly wrapped. I had nothing for him. Not even a card. I had taken our no-presents rule seriously. We were planning an amazing trip for the summer. I was saving my measly two weeks’ vacation and we were going to the Alps. I’d always wanted to go, and Rob’s parents had so many frequent flyer points that they’d offered to cover as much of the airfare as we could claim with the program.
“Trust me,” he said, “it’s second hand, and I bought it before we decided about Germany, so you can’t be mad.”
It was too large to be another sparkly surprise, which calmed me down. Carefully pulling at the edges of the paper revealed an old box. It took me a minute to figure out what it was. The pictures on the front were of a happy-looking family, like the kind you’d see in an old ’60s-era school primer with boys in red sweaters and short pants and mothers dressed like June Cleaver. I opened the box to find an old handheld 16-mm camera. It was a complete vintage kit with undeveloped film and everything.
“Where did you find this?” I ran my hands along the smooth casing. The camera looked brand new, and it was surprisingly light in my hands.
“Last summer, at one of those strange garage sales out by my parents’ cottage. You remember, the September long weekend that you had to work? I spent the afternoon rambling around the back roads. It’s boring as hell up there with them, without you.” Rob laughed to himself. “They’re drunk by two and fighting over Yahtzee, or who last washed out the dog’s bowl, or anything else they can think of.” He yawned. “Anyway, I thought it might be fun for you to shoot stuff around the city.”
“Look at you, using the lingo. ‘Shoot stuff around the city.’” I laughed. “Thank you. I feel terrible that I have nothing for you. Nothing.”
“I don’t need anything. I never do. Plus, you know I’m stoked about our trip. I’m planning to use some of our savings to buytotally radskis that will cost me an arm and a leg to fly home.” He stretched, revealing the tender part of his stomach that I adored. “Oh, your hands are cold,” he said, shivering.
“It’s not my fault. Your parents’ house is bloody freezing. It’s too big for the heat to circulate.”
Rob pulled the duvet tight around us as we lay back down, the camera and its box stowed on the night table beside the bed. His hands felt familiar, their touch comfortable, and we fell into our pattern, not careful or cautious, but easygoing and relaxed—exactly what you would expect after years of having sex together. Did I long for something more passionate? I didn’t know—I was still so attracted to him, the way he managed to make me feel attractive, sexy even, despite the extra cushion around my middle and my often unshaved legs. None of it mattered. He told me he loved me all the time, and I knew he even found my toes sexy, even if my pedicure was three weeks past its expiry date.
There was a slow, easy spirit to the sex we had—it was that kind of a morning. Neither of us had to be at work, and it was Christmas. The guest bedroom was far away from Rob’s parents’ room, so there was no fear they’d overhear us. But as comfortable, as nice as it was—Rob on top, me holding him tight, both of us relaxed—I couldn’t quite settle.
“Did you finish?” Rob asked quietly, collapsed on top of me.
“No,” I said. “But that’s okay. I’m a bit out of it. I’m going to pee.”
When I came back into the room from the en suite, I was wearing one of the luxurious white robes his mother always kept in the closet. “I’m going to grab a shower. I don’t want to smell like sex at the breakfast table. It might negate the delicious scent of the cinnamon buns.”
“You’ll take forever. Let me go before you. I’ll be two minutes in the shower and then I’m downstairs and out of your way.”
He leaped out of bed and muscled his way past me into the bathroom. I went in behind him and sat on the toilet. The two of us chitchatted through the hiss and steam, and two minutes later he was out of the tub (Rob was nothing if not true to his word) and getting dressed. “I’ll see you downstairs. Don’t take too long or my mother will come up to get you. And please wear the ring. For me. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Okay?”
The shower was hot and had amazing water pressure. I stood there for a while in that exquisite enamel bathtub, leaning against the wall and letting the heat relax me, feeling guilty for wasting so much energy. I could only procrastinate for so long, only stretch out this bit of time to myself before the hectic nature of the holiday descended. I didn’t want to go downstairs. I didn’t want to be a part of Rob’s family’s happy rituals. The longer I stayed with Rob, though, the more his family would become my family. I’d have to live with the formality of Camille for the rest of my life. Not to mention the fact that if I hadn’t won her over by now, there was little chance I ever would. All these years in and I still had a feeling she thought I was just Rob’s passing fancy. A penultimate stop before he arrived at his Grand Central Station in the map of marriage.
