December Rain (34 page)

The staff greets them with their coats and less flirtation than on arrival, but one waitress does deliver a soft kiss to Monica’s cheek. She admires the lipstick stamp and says, “You can totally work here any night you want. I’d love it.”

“Thanks.”
I guess?
Monica smiles as a waiter bows and opens the door. The cold San Francisco night squeezes the last ounce of adrenaline from their bones, and the short ride home puts them into hibernation mode. They crawl into bed like zombies.

“Next year, we stay home,” he says. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It was the most unique experience I’ve ever had. And I think the most surprising.” She snuggles into his chest and they both start to drift asleep. “Seems like bad luck not make love on our first New Year’s Eve.”

“I’m not worried.” He pops his heavy lids up. “I can rally if you really want though baby...” His eyes grow heavy again. “But I’m tired.”

“Me too. Too much wine,” she says. “It’s okay.”

“It will still be the first when I get home.”

“Oh yeah,” Monica moans out half asleep. “Rain check ‘til then.”

Quinn holds her close as they fall into a hard sleep.

January 1st - Sunday

“This is how I want to start the rest of my years.”

Monica tries to unglue her eyes as his words absorb into her brain. The clock says 4:38 a.m. “Leaving me at an ungodly hour? That’s not nice. You only got three hours sleep,” she mumbles.

He smiles at her cute sleepy-daze and kisses her forehead. “I’ll nap on the plane and be back this evening to walk the dogs.”

“Okay. I still can’t believe you’re gonna be in the parade. Right by my old house.”

“I know. I always wanted to be in a parade, but I imagined it more like Ferris Beueller. Sure you don’t wanna come? We can grab a stand-by seat with my miles?”

“Positive. I can’t see another plane for a little while.”

“Like next month back to Hawaii?”

She smiles and her eyes open a little more. “Maybe I’ll recover by then.”

“So what will you do while I’m gone?”

“Sleep. I don’t know. Probably do nothing.”

“You could call Tristan or Ri. It’s a new year... a fresh start; forgiveness and all.”

“No. They always get together for brunch and start the year together. I’d just ruin the mood.”

He kisses her temple. “It’d be better to apologize sooner than later though, don’t you think?” She rolls into the pillow and wails in frustration. “Alright, just think about it. I’ll be back this afternoon to get that rain check.” His eyebrows pump with a mischievous smile and a kiss.

“Love you. I’ll be watching, so keep that hand waving.”

He leaves with just a shoulder bag and newspaper while Monica has no trouble falling back to sleep. She wakes to a loud fog horn and panics when she realizes it’s already 8:30 a.m.
Shit! The parade started thirty minutes ago!

She stumbles to the flat screen in the sitting room and looks around for the remote. It’s not on the coffee table or in the couch. It’s not on the desk, bookshelves, or mantle. She studies the TV itself to see if there’s at least a button.
This thing doesn’t have an ON button? Are you serious!
Finally she looks under the couch.
Bingo! Fuck! I hate remotes!

She figures out the cable menu and hits record once it’s on. They keep showing the Marine Corp marching band so she has no idea what’s been missed
.
On a commercial break she runs downstairs, the dogs chasing after her, and grabs the big box of Honey Nut Cheerios and milk. Back upstairs she spreads her feast on the coffee table with still no sign of Quinn.

I should look up the schedule. They gotta have a float order or list... Google knows it all.
She looks around thinking.
My laptop is... still in my bag downstairs? Why did I do that? So stupid.
She glances at the desk behind her, relieved to see Quinn’s laptop. She reaches over the back of the couch, stretching as far as she can.
Yep. I’m at the peak of laziness. It’s very sad.

Oh good, there’s another three floats and a band before his.
She pours the milk and curls up in a soft throw looking around her new room.
All of his stuff is in this space. Except for the kitchen stuff. He’s only moved into these two rooms. No, I guess he’s got the roof too. But he’s got this big house and still only lives in a tiny room.

The marching band for Burbank Middle School is finally announced and Monica waits eagerly for the next float. When they start talking about it Quinn’s name lands on the screen along with his close-up. He stands near a replica of their school’s mural in vibrant flowers and waves with a group of honor students dancing around him.

The male commentator says, “Folks, we’re going to stop talking for a moment so you can hear the marching band.”

“This is always my favorite in these parades,” a female says. Monica’s face turns to shock and then a huge head shaking grin as she hears the horns.

“Folks, if you can’t hear them, sorry, we’re having sound issues, they’re playing Twist and Shout.”

“And I believe Quinn Matthews is lip singing like Ferris Beuller, which was what, nearly thirty years ago now?”

“Wow. Has it really been that long?”

“Shut up! I want to hear the song,” Monica screams at the TV.

The camera stays focused on Quinn and the kids acting out the scene.

“I’m amazed those kids know the song,” the man says.

“Really? I think it’s a classic that everyone knows at this point, right?” the woman laughs. “It’s good to see so much spirit this morning.”

Soon the camera is points to the next float, announcing their theme and special guests. Quinn is still visible in the background and it’s apparent the crowd is insanely into it.

“You can see Twist and Shout really getting the crowd riled up folks. I’ve never seen a float get this much energy in Pasadena. Amazing.”

I can’t fucking believe it! He got to be Ferris! Of course, nothing fazes him so it shouldn’t surprise me.

Soon the coverage moves on and Monica turns it off. “We can watch the rest together tomorrow,” she says to Max.

It’s so quiet now.
She starts to tour the empty house, walking the long hallway past the fainting room.
Paint for sure. Good place to put the dog crates. It can be their room.
She continues to the two bedrooms. One has a smaller easel near the bay window with boxes stacked along the perimeter and that burgundy wing-back chair that she loves so much.
This is his space. I’m curious how he’ll finish it.

The other room was identical, but empty.
My bedroom furniture can go in here as a guest room I guess.
She opens the closet and sees lines where two children’s heights are marked.
This feels like a happy place.
I knew I’d love this house, even from the street.
She sighs.

Downstairs is cold and drafty with no fireplace or furnaces going. “We need wool rugs and drapes to warm this place up.” She imagines the large living room and connected dining area full. “Photos! I’ll take a couple of before shots so we can look back. Sadie, you and Max go sit over there.” The dogs both sit in the hallway, right where they were waiting which makes her laugh.
I’m talking to the dogs like they’re going to talk back.

She takes out her cell phone and snaps a few photos, before grabbing the backpack with her laptop. She scrolls through her picture gallery pausing on selfies of Robin and Tristan from their brunch.
Before my disaster.
Tears stir and she scrolls down to photos of her with Robin moving into the loft.
I miss you so much.

Monica’s tears hit the screen continuing the torture stopping only once she sees Alex in Hawaii.
I know I should delete these, but I... can’t. It’d be easier if I hated you, but I don’t. Sometimes I miss you... I still... I fucked everything up... No. I can’t keeping do this. It is what it is.

She looks up to the ceiling with a deep breath and shoves her sorrow down. Her phone goes back in her pocket and she wipes the tears from her cheeks.
This room is big for a Victorian. He did this all for me. It’s so weird right? Just a little? He bought up my dreams
. She exhales, biting her lip and reaches for the phone again.

“Please pick up? Please?” she says.

“Hi! You've reached the cell phone for Dr. Robin Westen. I am either with a patient or in a meeting, so if you can leave your name and a number, I will call you back as soon as possible. Thanks.” Robin's voice mail message beeps.

“Hi. It’s me. I don’t know how to apologize for such an epic fuck up on voicemail... I’ve been trying to work out a script or something... but I am really sorry. I miss you. More than anyone else who won’t talk to me.” Monica ends the call and takes another tear-stopping inhale.

With phone in pocket, she drags her numb feet into the kitchen. In the butler’s pantry she finds a collection of fixtures and hardware. They’re all old but not Victorian like the fixtures in the house. They’re seventies style sconces with layers of paint stuck to the scussion plates. A lime green paint covers a dark blue which covers a sunny yellow, and the yellow is similar to the current color in the kitchen. She walks over and runs her hand along the wall before taking a deep whiff.
He repainted all of this.

She looks around at the switch plates and sturdy lights, all polished to their newest potential.
Restored antiques and matching fixtures and plates?
She darts upstairs to inspect the details she’s missed so far.
He replaced everything. How can he afford all of this? There’s no way a few shows can pay for all of this.

She enters their bedroom and looks through his closet. It’s not full by any means, but what’s inside screams with dollar sounds. The labels on all seven of his suits are either from Brooks Brothers or William Fioravanti, and his dress shoes are Berluti or John Lobb. She wanders back into the sitting room to warm by the fire and stew.
It doesn’t add up. These houses had to cost millions.

Her eyes rest on his laptop sitting on the coffee table. She opens it and starts snooping. It doesn’t take long to see that one of his recently opened documents was in Quicken. With one click a massive blast of information fills the screen.
He should really have a password on this or something.

A little guilt washes over as she tries to close the informational pop-ups.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
She’s lost in the maze of flowcharts, pie charts and graphs.
This is more complicated than I thought it’d be.
There’s a panicked glance at the time.
It’s only 11:34 a.m.
Monica clicks through multiple windows until she sees a Home button.

Holy shit! This can’t be right.
She scans the page to see another name reference or some hint that this is someone else’s financial information, but everything says, “My Money,” or “My Home Page.” On the left side under the Accounts tab there are multiple bank account balances, investments, properties, and a section just titled separate accounts. At the bottom it says, “Net Worth $5,552,107.14.”

“What the fuck!” she yells. “There’s no way.”

Sadie and Max come running from their crates wondering what’s wrong. Monica clicks through tab after tab showing lists and charts about spending by category. His savings accounts show a balance of nearly $440,000 as of June of this year, but his current balance was over $1.2 million. Her body trembles as she keeps shaking her head in disbelief.
That can’t all be from selling his art.

The rumbling in her stomach starts up again and she throws the computer across the couch to run for the bathroom. She sits there shaking, covered with goosebumps, trying to breath.

Why has he been lying all this time? All those stories about his college years and being broke. Living in a loft with his rock band... and his mom sneaking in to the city to try to give him cash, sending zucchini bread just this summer so he wouldn’t starve? I don’t understand. He lived in Rebecca’s attic for months... with almost a half million in the bank. I don’t get it. Was this all a joke? Was he trying to trick me? Why wouldn’t he say something about it?

Monica gets some water downstairs despite her uncontrollable quaking nerves. The hardwood floors feel like sheets of ice, so she holds on to railings and counter tops as if she’ll slip any minute. Everywhere she looks she sees it. She’s been seeing it ever since they got back together. Money has been all around her and every time she worries about it, he shuts her down.

I wish I had Robin. Or Ri. Fuck!
She settles back into the couch and puts the dreaded information machine back on her lap.
I wish I hadn’t seen any of this.
She looks at the dogs, still sitting tentatively.

“Why didn’t you guys tell me? What would Robin say?
”
Both dogs cock their heads in wonder which she finds amusing.

She’d ask me if it really changes anything. She’d ask if knowing would have stopped me from falling in love with him.