Bella – Six Months Later
When I get the text from him, I feel a shiver of anticipation:
Tonight, at Raphael’s restaurant.
The whole week, Jax has been acting weird and won’t tell me what’s up. The last time I saw him was three days ago. That’s the longest since six months ago, after the Russo house showdown and we started seeing each other regularly.
Still, my only response to this eagerly-awaited text is: Ok.
I’ll grill him when we’re in person, but I have to see him first.
It’s only 1:00 pm, but it’s not like I have anything to distract me. I stepped down as head of the Russos a few months ago – after I’d built up our wind turbine empire against all the odds. The position went to one of my cousins: Nico – a good man who promised to continue my work.
I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do now.
So, the rest of the afternoon is eaten up by that text too – just one long, scary preparation for tonight. Pretty much every dress in my closet gets tried on, from the very obviously inappropriate neon pink maxi to my very obviously equally inappropriate see-through black bodycon dress.
And yet, no dress seems quite right: too short, too long, too conservative, too slutty – not good enough, in a word. Every new gown fills me with the same dread.
When I finally do choose a dress (a black and blue sequined one, chosen out of exhaustion more than anything), it’s my makeup that gives me grief. Out of the swathes of shadows I smear on, none seem to work – the black is too dark, the blue too light. The navy eyeliner is too thick, while the charcoal one is barely there.
As I glare at the twelfth makeup incarnation of myself, I realize I’m literally staring the truth in the face: The problem isn’t the dresses or the makeup. It’s you.
I’m too nervous to make a decision, too nervous to hardly think. Until I find out what’s going on tonight, I’m not going to be good for much.
When I finally leave, it’s an hour early so I can get out of the house. A few steps out of the door and I already regret my smoky eye, but don’t turn back. Now that I’m out there’s no going back. The fresh air is good, refreshing, just what I need.
The neighborhood is nice too, full of shops and apartment buildings and people that look reasonably happy. As I shuffle by, they smile at me uncomprehendingly. I don’t blame them. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, so why am I terrified out of my mind?
The answer comes in a flash of memory: Whitey with a ham in hand, and a red face after he blurts out the words, “Guess you know Grace’s in town,” before the spiky-haired back of his head fled. Clearly, Jax told Whitey that he told me about Grace, his ex, months ago.
My encounter with Whitey was yesterday, and today I’m going to find out just what’s going on.
I inhale the fresh air, savor it, then, finally, exhale. There’s no way Jax could be cheating on me, is there? After six months of non-stop seeing each other, dates galore, and now, after all this, he’s tired of me?
On a bench outside of Dairy Queen, there’s a little girl clutching a Dilly Bar, staring at me with accusing eyes. I shake my head at her and murmur, “No” to myself. Jax loves me. He’s never given me any reason to doubt him.
Until now, that is.
The next hour passes as one nerve-racking walk, one blur of buildings that are not Raphael’s, of people remarkable only in that they are not him. My Jax.
By the time I reach Raphael’s gray slate exterior, I feel neither better nor worse.
Relief is what washes over me as I walk through the dark wooden doors. Now, finally, I’m going to find out what’s going on.
The maître d’s thin mustache bends as he smiles.
I smile shyly back. “Hi, I’m…”
“Bella,” he says with a thick Italian accent. “Of course, come with me.”
His glossy shoes pass from one lush red carpet to another. This new room is beautiful: with somber lighting that makes the dark redwood tables and gold-tipped wine glasses gleam, while the pyramids of napkins point me onward. It’s only as I get to the back room and, in it, see Jax in a dazzling suit, that I realize the whole restaurant is empty.
He rises and pulls a chair back, gesturing for me to sit down. I do.
The maître d’ whisks away just as I turn to him.
I direct my questioning gaze to Jax, but he just sits down across from me, takes my hand and smiles. “It’s been hard not seeing you these past few days.” I open my mouth to yell at him, to ask him, to beg him, but he just lays a finger across my lips. “Shhhh.”
Our gazes meet, then his breaks away, shifting to the picture behind me. It’s of a woman, her golden body morphing into the golden background, her whole head a sunburst. Her back is to the viewer. That’s how I feel, how I’ve felt these past few days: though it’s Jax’s broad back I’m behind and, no matter how I tap his shoulder, he won’t turn around.
Even now he’s avoiding my gaze.
A clink on the table reveals that the maître d’ is back. He has put two wine glasses on the table, into which, with a rhythmic swaying of his hand, he pours the wine. When I turn to thank him, he’s already halfway out the door, gone as quickly and quietly as he came.
When I turn back, Jax’s lifting his drink in a toast, declaring, “To the most beautiful woman alive.”
When we clink glasses, his gaze has already shifted, back to the woman in the painting. It’s silly, sad, being jealous of a painted figure, a woman who’s not even real. And yet, this is what I’ve come to.
I put my glass down without drinking. This ends now; I’m going to ask him.
“Jax,” I say, “what’s going on?”
Still, he won’t look at me. His face is expressionless; all his emotion is in his strangled voice, “Can’t we just… enjoy this?”
He takes my hand, and I rip it away. “No, no, I can’t enjoy this, I can’t enjoy anything. Not when something’s wrong, and you won’t tell me what.”
His hand still in the gesture it was clasping mine with, Jax is silent for a moment.
Then he says, “I can’t tell you. Not now.”
His face – hell, his whole body is in on it too. Is neither relaxed nor tense, calm nor worried – reveals nothing. This silence is waiting, him waiting for what I’ll do, me waiting for the same.
I don’t know until I’m halfway up, until I’ve swept across the room to the door. Before I can stride through it, Jax has grabbed my arm. I wrench myself away, but his grip holds.
I don’t turn to him. I speak to the empty luxuriant room before me. “Let me go, Jax. Let me go. I’m going.”
“Be reasonable, Bella.”
I twist around to say my words to his face: “I am being reasonable. I’m not stupid. I know something’s going on. I know your old girlfriend is in town. I know, ok?”
Jax stares at me evenly for a minute. Amusement flickers over his face, and, with my free hand, I slap him.
Shocked, we both gape at each other. Then Jax frowns, rubs his cheek. “What was that for?”
“For not taking me seriously,” I say huffily.
Now he lays his hand on my cheek, but gently, only his fingertips grazing my skin. “Oh Bella,” he says wistfully, “if only you knew.”
I twist my head away. “You’re not making any sense.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “So, you love me then?”
I shrug him off, whirl around, and glare into his eyes. “Of course I love you. Why are you saying these things? Why aren’t you making any sense?”
Jax shakes his head dumbly, his eyes locked on mine, searching mine, as if testing for the truth of my words.
Finally, he sighs and says, “Alright, Bella, you win.” He takes my hand and leads me back to my chair, then pulls it out.
I stare at it. “So you’ll tell me now? Tell me everything?”
He nods, and I sit down. He sits down across from me. Then he claps his hands.
A few seconds, the maître d’ is back.
“Yes, monsieur?”
“The book please.”
He nods then leaves.
I stand up.
“Bella, what are you doing?” he asks.
“Jax, I don’t want any more games. I want the truth.”
Jax doesn’t move. “Bella,” he says, “that’s exactly what I’m getting you, if you’ll wait one second.”
I pause.
The maître d’ passes me and hands Jax the book. He turns to me. “Does Madame need anything?”
“No, she was just going to look at the book. Thank you,” Jax says.
He gets up, walks in front of me, and hands me the book. His body barring the way, he says, “Please, Bella. Just open it. Open it, and everything will be explained.”
I throw a suspicious gaze at Jax, then return my attention to the book. It’s has a beautiful red and gold binding, with gold-tipped pages. I open it. Inside it’s hollow, and, on a red pillow, there’s a gorgeous gold ring.
I gasp.
“Bella,” Jax says.
He’s down on one knee, taking the ring in his palm. Finally, he is looking at me, speaking the words the expression on his face is already saying: “Bella, my love, my light, my darling angel. As soon we met, I knew there was something different about you. Something remarkable. I’ve met many women and known many people, but none of them have come even close to moving me how you do.
“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You’re funny, irreverent, passionate, outspoken, beautiful, and I love every part of you. Every time I see you it’s never enough. I miss you even when you’re here, even when you’ve gone to the bathroom or are talking to a friend. It’s ridiculous, and I can’t help it. I love you more than words can express. You are my best friend and my sexy lover and my favorite person in the world. I’ve never been anywhere near this happy, and there’s only one way you can make me even happier.”
He raises his hand with the ring. “Bella, will you do me the incredible honor of being my wife?”
I gape at Jax, at the tear-filled eyes of the man I’ve never seen cry, at the trembling hand of the courageous fighter I’ve never seen afraid. I gaze at the ring, the stunning, ornate, vintage-looking waves of rose gold with little flowers embedded in it, the gleaming cylinder of diamond.
I take his other hand, and a hysterical laugh escapes out of my lips, along with the words, “Yes! Oh God, of course yes, Jax!”
He seizes me and spins me around, spins me round and round and round, as we both cry out laughter. Then we grasp hands and race through the restaurant, past the goggle-eyed maître d’, past the empty tables (that now suddenly make sense), back into our room.
When he finally puts me down, both of us out of breath, I lower my hand and spread my fingers. Jax slips on the ring slowly. Or maybe everything is happening slow-motion because I want it to, because I want to savor this moment, this beautiful sweet moment as the beaming man I love slips this symbol of his love on my shaking finger.
When it’s on, he looks up at me, rises, takes my face in his hands and kisses me.
We kiss, and all of me fuses into him. We kiss, and I relax into it, into this man who is mine. Who is here for me and always will be.