2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) (4 page)

“Is that really what I am striving to become someday?”
she grumbled, pouring herself a scotch. Not that she drank scotch, but it was
stronger than wine and her faithful bar pals, tequila and vodka, weren’t in
evidence. “They’re obsessed with boobs and burping and—”

“Now dear, I understand that you’re confused,” Aunt
Judy said soothingly from behind her.

Catherine whirled around to face her, noticing the
spit and fire in her aunt’s eyes that didn’t mesh with the concern in her
voice. Uncle Al was dutifully one step behind as usual, like he was on a short
leash.

Judy pried the glass out of Catherine’s hand before
she could take a first sip. “I hardly think you should do anything so drastic
as a change
of that magnitude without proper consideration of the
consequences.”

“I went from wine to scotch. Big deal,” she retorted.

“I was talking about
the
change
,” she
enunciated. “I know that Cher’s daughter did it, but really Catherine, do you
want your mother to have a heart attack? My sister isn’t as forward-thinking as
Cher.
I
would be fine with it. No shame in my niece becoming a nephew.”

“Excuse me?”

“The boobs and burping,” she said quietly, like they
were foul words. “Men are… well… crass. Quite honestly I don’t know how they
live with themselves.” She threw her head toward Al with disgust. “Then again,
I guess if you’re swilling scotch you’re already halfway there.”

Catherine looked up to the ceiling as if for strength,
realizing what her aunt had overheard with her dog ears. “I was talking about
having a baby.”

“A baby? Are you pregnant?” Judy asked, almost
salivating over the gossip-worthy news that just kept getting better—her
younger, prettier, nicer sister with a lesbian, transgender, pregnant-out-of-wedlock
daughter!

“No, I’m not pregnant.”

“Oh,” Judy said curtly. “Well, you really should consider
thinking before speaking. This house is full of petty gossips.” Then she spun
on her heel and stomped off with Catherine’s drink, tugging Uncle Al along behind
her. It seemed that swilling scotch was only untoward and manly if Judy wasn’t
the one doing it.

Catherine shook her head, turning back to the
makeshift bar and pouring herself another round of scotch.

“Pour me one of those while you’re at it,” Uncle Dick
cranked from her right, still seated exactly where she’d left him by the tree.

She grabbed another glass—it was better than drinking
alone.

As she handed a scotch to the man who had terrorized
her and all the neighborhood kids since the beginning of time, she couldn’t
help but wonder if there were only two options in life: have kids and become an
insufferable, self-absorbed, gooey-hearted bore; or have no kids and become an
insufferable, self-absorbed, crotchety dickhead. Perhaps Uncle Dick would have
been a sweetheart if only he and his wife had had children…. Maybe she was singularly
destined for a dark and crabby heart, too.

She felt her intestines twisting inside, a squirrelly
feeling of certain dread. What if Fynn had been her last chance at the happily
ever after that she wanted? What if he had taken her words completely seriously
and right at this moment was already trying out his new, unattached status—updating
it on Facebook even. But of course he didn’t have a Facebook page. Couldn’t care
less about social networking. Didn’t like people in his business. She had
broken through that crusty exterior and earned full admission to Fynn-ville, as
she had coined it during a particularly over-indulgent night. There was
something sexy about being the only one allowed inside a man’s head and heart
and life…. Well, there was Cara, but she was just a little girl, not competition…
and his love and care for her made him even
more
attractive to
Catherine. And then there was Drew, his sister—no competition there. The ghosts
of girlfriends’ past didn’t haunt Fynn. He gave his heart carefully and she had
been honored to receive it… up until the day she stomped on it and handed it
back…. It seemed like weeks, not hours ago.

Maybe their time together had changed him. Before she
came along he had been single for over a year—content, was how he put it. Now
he acted like going five days without sex was borderline impossible, mauling
her the moment they were alone each weekend. Right about now he was probably aching
to get his rocks off, and it
was
New Year’s Eve—even Nekoyah probably
had its share of revelers who were loose and easy and all too willing to give
Fynn a little somethin’-somethin’ to do—

Can I claim insanity? Say I was loopy on Nyquil? Take
it all back?

“Boo!”

Catherine jumped as Connor came up from behind and poked
her side, sloshing her scotch dangerously.

“Watch it!” she whined, putting a second hand on her
glass, her heart still thumping wildly.

“Touchy. What? Pining for your
girl
friend?” he
taunted. “Or do you have a bad case of penis envy?”

Catherine groaned. “Aunt Judy?”

Connor nodded.

“That woman doesn’t waste a moment. Has Mom heard the
news yet?”

“Has she come bursting out of the kitchen wringing her
dishtowel yet?”

“No.”

“Then my guess is so far she’s been spared the circulating
story of her daughter’s sexuality,” he said grimly.

“Family is far more trouble than it’s worth,”
Catherine groused.

“Aw, you don’t mean that, sis. You know I love you for
who you are. Gay, straight, confused—whatever. You just say the word and I’ll
take her out.”

She cracked a smile but it disappeared quickly again. Fynn
was the only one who could truly make everything better right now.

“You look like you lost your best friend.” Connor eyed
her carefully and she was shocked by the strength of his resemblance to their
dad, right down to the perfect concerned-father look on his face. She could
imagine him using it to solve all of Niki’s problems as she grew up.

“I feel like it,” she admitted.

“The flights aren’t permanently grounded. You can fly
out tomorrow.”

Catherine took a sip of her drink to swallow the words
that threatened to burst forth.

“I hope you’re staying here tonight, though, seeing as
how you’re putting a hurt on that bottle of scotch.”

“Funny.”

“I’m totally serious,” he warned, as if he was the
older and wiser of siblings—well, wiser maybe. “Really, what’s with you
tonight? You seem strange.”

“Nothing,” she grumbled, her voice echoing in her
glass as she took a sip, shuddering as it went down hard, fighting her all the
way.

“Wait… don’t tell me…. You aren’t here because of the
weather, are you?”

“Of course I am.”

“So if you could fly out this minute, you would be on
your way to see Fynn?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She took another sip, not trusting herself
with actual words.

“Then let’s call the airport. Maybe you can go out of
Newark or Philly instead. Maybe it’s only New York that’s grounded—”

“I’m pretty sure the problem is on the other end,” she
eked out.

“No, I think the problem is right here in Chesterton,”
Connor said, his eyes burning a hole through her. He’d always been able to tell
when she was up to no good. Obviously some things didn’t change.

“You think you know everything. That’s why no one ever
liked you growing up,” she spat messily, feeling tipsy after just a few sips.

“You broke it off with him, didn’t you?”

“Why would I do that?” Her voice pitched in shocked
indignation.

“You got scared and dumped him.”

“Scared of what?” she challenged.

“You tell me,” he said, satisfied that her engaging
him was all the proof he needed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her
heart was in her throat. She poured scotch on it, scorching it—felt it fall
back down in place with a thud.

“You’re self-destructive. Always have been. You don’t
give a guy—good, bad, or ugly—a chance in hell.”

“That’s not true!”

“You don’t let anyone love you.”

Her mouth dropped open, but she had no response. Her
friends had said as much before, but she chalked it up to them being girls, who
admittedly had little to no idea what men thought. To have her brother—more or
less a man—say the same thing?

Catherine simmered alone in the soft light from the
twinkling Christmas tree. It was almost peaceful for the first time all night. Most
of the guests were either in the dining room picking at the desserts, or in the
living room mingling, or some were even on their way home before the big moment
happened—
that’s what you get when you invite old people to New Year’s Eve
. 

She looked at the ornaments on the tree and the empty
space underneath it that was no longer hopefully empty, awaiting Santa’s gifts,
but now simply bereft. Nothing was to come but a trip to the wood chipper and
Catherine suddenly realized that her mother was right... it
was
sad to keep
a tree up past its prime. Christmas was over. Why the hell have the tree up for
the New Year where it would carry the juju from one year into the next? Maybe the
same could be said about her relationship with Fynn. If it was inevitably going
to be a thing of the past anyway, certainly it was better that she’d broken it
off today rather than dragging it through its death knell into a fresh new day,
month, and year that should hold promise rather than the carcass of a
relationship built on a foundation of crazy circumstances. Who had they been
fooling trying to span miles and time zones and reality?

It’s not like they’d ever hammered out the details of
their whole “thing”. She had been flying by the seat of her pants for eight
months, on a wing and a prayer—literally. And if she was to be completely
honest with herself, the whole situation didn’t sit well with her Monday
through Thursday—that was more than half the week—every week! Hardly a promising
relationship that was going places….

On Monday it was gloom that met her in the morning and
shadowed her the entire day as she realized she would be Fynn-less for another
work week. It was enough to get out of bed and slog through the day, let alone
be truly productive. Then Tuesday there was that growing certainty (some would
call it dread) that her whole relationship was just a hopeless fling, something
she could have for much cheaper and a whole lot less jet lag at any bar in the
city. By Tuesday afternoon, more often than not, she was doing a mental
checklist of pros and cons regarding the Fynn-ish situation, always ending up
with the blaring truth before her: rather than gaining a boyfriend she had
gained a double life—a nine-to-fiver in NYC and a stranger-in-a-strange-land in
Nekoyah. On the other hand, there was that whole
love
thing…. By
Wednesday she would find herself considering medication for depression and
anxiety… and heartache. And Thursday she would be jonesing so bad to see him
again that it took all her energy and strength just to remain still through
work and not run pell-mell for the nearest bridge to end the waiting for the
weekend. By that point there was no reasoning with herself about what worked
and what didn’t; she just wanted his arms around her and his lips upon her skin
whether it be in Nekoyah or Timbuktu, whatever it took. It was a regular
hurl-your-guts roller coaster ride to Friday…. Ah, Friday… waking up with that
swelling in her heart, blood rushing to regions untouched in too many days’
time, zipping through the day with a lightness of being—hopeful and excitable. And
every single time she stepped out of the airport in Minneapolis, he would be
there waiting, leaning against the side of his truck in a pair of worn jeans,
Magnus’s happy head hanging out the rolled down window next to him. It was
enough to make her swoon with delight and pent-up sexual energy. It was enough
to make her forget the prior four days—which, if she was counting, was more
than half of her existence for the past eight months of her life.

This grounding snowstorm might just be the best thing
that ever could have happened to their whirlwind romance. By keeping her out of
his force field, she could look at things rationally—a woman knocking on the
door of thirty-five needed to dot her i’s and cross her t’s when it came to her
relationship status and projected future, especially if that woman aspired to
more than old-maidhood. The problem with the last eight months was that her
rational frequency got jammed whenever she was near him. Fynn was enough to
make her forget her misgivings. Hell, he was enough to make her forget the
dictates of the law of gravity or pretty much anything else.

Suddenly the noise of party revelers began to swell
and move, coming toward her. She looked around for a place to hide and noticed
the champagne.
Dammit!
Those bottles of celebratory elixir made the
family room
the
place to be right now. She glanced at the clock on the
mantel, the same clock that had always pronounced bedtime now pronounced
another grim fact: it was 11:55. Five minutes to a fresh and lonely new start.

Catherine pulled her phone out of her pocket and
checked the screen. No calls. She wondered what Fynn was doing at this very
moment.
He has another hour until his New Year begins,
she reminded
herself, and couldn’t help but think how that alone explained the problem in
their relationship. Even if they were still a couple, separated only by the
weather, she would still be entering the New Year alone. Symbolic, she was
certain.
Still, it would have been nice if he called. Just because we’re
taking some time to be apart, to reassess, doesn’t mean he can’t wish me a Happy
New Year. I didn’t say we should have no contact at all. I didn’t even say we shouldn’t
see each other. I just put the brakes on. If he cared at all he’d—but he didn’t
even fight for what we had! Just said, “If that’s what you want….”

The room was full now, the entire party condensing
into this one space, taking up all the oxygen. They were so happy, handing around
plastic flutes of champagne—which probably killed her mother seeing as how she
prided herself on all things proper, but certainly her father had put his foot
down when it came to buying enough glass flutes to outfit the guests for a
single toast.

11:58

Oh my God, he isn’t going to call me!

Maybe he’s too busy to call. Maybe he’s partying it
up out there in the middle of nowhere. Maybe I should call him and remind him
that I still exist….

She glanced around the room, watching all the couples
gravitating toward each other, wishing she’d thought to call Tara this
afternoon and crash whatever party she was going to instead. Certainly it
wouldn’t have been a couple-y type of thing. Probably sex, drugs, and rock and
roll—enjoying life for the pure fun of it. Sure there might have been some
candlewax on a few nipples, too, but anything was better than this grotesque
display—

There was Connor nuzzling Lacey’s neck—
yuck!

And Thomas running a hand through Georgia’s wild mane—
eew!

And her dad stepping into her mom’s path as she busily
went about her hostessing, grabbing the dishtowel off her shoulder and laying
it aside to incapacitate her, gazing into her eyes lovingly to take in the
moment—
ick!

And Old Mrs. Davis giggling like a schoolgirl as her
even older husband whispered in her ear—
ugh!

Even Uncle Al and Aunt Judy in the middle of a pre-New-Year
kiss—
gag!

Everyone was coupled—except Uncle Dick… and her.

Obviously she was hanging with the wrong crowd. Tara
was single; she reveled in it! She wouldn’t throw her perfect husband and baby
and
life
in her friend’s face at every turn. Catherine put it in her
mind that she needed to nurture their friendship now that she was single again
and her other “friend” had her new BFFs—all those mother-types like Lacey who Georgia
swapped recipes and coupons and gooey baby-milestone stories with. In fact, now
was a good time to start.

She picked Tara’s number off the list and held her
phone to her ear, waiting expectantly for her new best friend to pick up.

“It’s New Year’s Eve, Bee-atch—”

“Glad I caught you,” Catherine rushed out, wanting to
share her woes with the one person who wouldn’t judge, seeing as how Tara had
no intention of seriously dating or marrying… ever. “You won’t believe—”

“—if you think I’m going to spend my time talking on
the phone you gotta be
craz-y
. We’ll catch up next year! Ciao!”

“Mother fu—” Catherine cut off the call and sat
looking at the phone, dumbfounded. She hated when people had such lifelike
messages that you didn’t realize you were talking to a recording until you were
already mid-conversation.

Now she felt even more alone. Couples were sharing the
moment with each other. Singles were living the moment up. And then there were
the losers—
can I get a holla?
She was a total misfit.

The tensed energy in the room was hard to miss. Did
these people really think that everything would be different in thirty seconds’
time? She’d learned the error of that thinking when she was still in single digits.
New Year’s was a letdown. Nothing miraculous happened. She wanted to yell,
Get
a life!

Catherine reached for the only thing she had left to
steady her for the approach of another year, grabbing the locket that hung from
the chain around her neck. Its weight was foreign still, shocking her when she
moved with its palpable presence. It had only been a week since Fynn had given
it to her, picked it out himself and put a picture of her and her little sister
inside. Behind her back he had called her mother to get that picture so he
could give her a Christmas gift that would honor their love and Josey’s memory.
The tiny, tarnished butterfly ring that had been on her chain before was still
there, stored safely inside the locket. It was the most touching gift she’d
ever received, so meaningful because it was
Josey,
not a silly toy,
that
had actually brought her and Fynn together last spring. And now that toy, Caramellie’s
sundae house, was with Cara, where it belonged. And the ring was inside the
locket, where it belonged. And the locket was around her neck, where it
belonged. And she was here, completely out of place.

“10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… Happy New Year!”