That’s why it’s so disheartening when he turns to me tonight after we’ve finished watching a movie at my place (on my bed!) and says, “So, when do I get to meet your parents?”
My heart races, but I manage to calmly toss out this rejoinder: “When do I get to meet yours?”
He acts like he’s jumping from the bed. “Let’s go. I’ll meet you at O’Hare in one hour. Maybe they can get more information from you than I’ve been able to get.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask incredulously, pulling him back down next to me. “I tell you everything!”
“Liar.” His tone is light, but I can tell he’s serious. “I know all sorts of things that anyone who sends out those ridiculous ‘get-to-know-me’ email forwards can find out: your favorite color, athlete, song, wintertime activity, the name of your first pet, who you think is most likely to keep the forward going, etcetera, but do I really know anything deeper than that?”
“You know one thing deeper than that, that’s for sure,” I point out and add under my breath, “not that it matters or that you care.”
“Not fair!” He props himself on his elbow, trapping Sandberg’s tail under his arm in the process. The cat yowls at him and jumps down with an indignant hiss. “Sorry, mate!” he says, leaning over the edge of the bed to try to make amends. “Your mum made me do it.” When he sees the cat’s forgiveness is a hopeless cause, he returns his attention to me. “Anyway, you know I care, so don’t play that tired card.”
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re so damn virtuous?” I turn it around on him, expecting him to dodge the question and give me a bunch of crap about not wanting to cheapen the experience for me.
He sighs. “We’ve already been through this.”
“Lie to me again, then. Or tell me half-truths. Same thing.”
The irony of my statement isn’t lost on either of us, but he’s gracious enough not to call me on it. Instead, he sighs and says, “Fine. I’ll give you the whole reason. Because I think you deserve that after all this time. And then I don’t want you to accuse me of holding back anything ever again.”
I give him a look that lets him know I’m not impressed with his big talk.
He chuckles at himself but makes good on his offer. “I really don’t like talking about this, because I hate even thinking about her, but my first wife, Kiersten, was a very secretive person. About big things, little things, every thing. It didn’t matter if she had nothing to gain by keeping something from me; she did it for the sake of having secrets. And it drove me bonkers.” He frowns and picks at the bedspread.
“Give me an example,” I urge, wanting to compare myself to her and come out looking better.
He thinks about it for a second. “Okay, here’s a good one: when we were first married, she had her post sent to her parents’ house so I couldn’t look through it.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What did she have to hide? Credit card bills? Porn?”
He shakes his head. “Absolutely nothing. She just wanted me to wonder.”
“How do you know? Did you ever see her mail for yourself?”
“Loads of times,” he affirms. “Her parents didn’t know it was a big secret, so if ever I was at their house without her, they’d give it to me to take to her, moaning about not understanding why she didn’t have it forwarded to our address. I’d go through weeks’ worth of post, searching for whatever she could possibly be hiding. Nothing. A bunch of junky catalogues and maybe the occasional postcard from a friend on holiday.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say, shaking my head at her and getting annoyed on his behalf.
He raises an index finger. “But it never failed to wind me up. And that was the whole idea.”
Sandberg jumps suddenly onto my stomach from the floor, startling me. I think he’s trying to tattle on Jude for hurting his tail. I pet his head distractedly. “Did she ever have any big secrets? Secrets worth hiding?”
“That bloke she kept on the side was probably the biggest secret,” he reveals nonchalantly, scratching an itch on his knee. “At least, that was the final straw.”
“What a slag!” I cry, outraged for him, using my favorite English insult he’s taught me to date.
He laughs. “Right. Well, I was the one who acted the fool, marrying someone I barely knew. Because I confused being on the pull with choosing a life partner, and it all went tits up.”
I only understand half (maybe) of what he’s said, but I get the gist.
“Which one are you doing now?”
Tilting his head, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and shakes his head in a gesture of confusion.
“Are you ‘on the pull,’ or looking for a life partner?” I ask, my heart pounding.
He narrows his eyes and answers casually, “I dunno. Who wants to know? I only share that kind of information with someone who’s willing to share alike.”
“Well, I’m not hiding anything major from you,” I promise. “I’d never torture you that way.”
“But you’re hiding something,” he says, quickly picking up on my proviso.
“No,” I lie. “I’m not. You know everything there is to know about me right now. Do you want to know what brand of underwear I wore in the seventh grade? Or some other pointless detail about my past? Why?”
He shrugs. “No. I don’t care about your adolescent knickers.”
“Do you care about my grown-up knickers?” I set Sandberg aside so I can roll over and lie half on top of Jude, kissing his mouth.
He smiles and returns my kisses. “Perhaps. Especially if they’re lacy.”
I unbutton and unzip my jeans, giving us both a sneak peek. “Will you look at that? They are!”
He chuckles against my mouth. “You are just gagging for it! What would your mother
