LISA
I was sitting at the counter, nursing my third cup of coffee when she came downstairs Sunday morning. She fixed herself a mug-I still hadn't attempted to use the coffee maker that had appeared one day last week, so she had to make do. I could sense her stolen glances as she waited for the Keurig to perform its magic.
"What?" I sighed.
"I fell asleep."
"You were exhausted."
"I woke up in my bed. With my dress off."
I arched my eyebrow at her. "It is customary for a wife to carry her wife over the threshold and remove her wedding dress the night they are married, I believe."
Deep crimson flashed across the top of her cheeks, highlighting the delicate bones.
I grinned and shook my head. "You helped me, Roseanne. You fell back asleep; I covered you up and left the room. I thought you might be uncomfortable otherwise."
"Oh."
She sat beside me, and sipped her coffee before noticing the wrapped package on the counter. "What is that?"
I pushed the box toward her.
"A present."
"For me?"
"Yes."
I discovered she was a ripper-no gentle peeling back of tape and carefully removing the paper. She grabbed at the corner and tore it off with the glee of a child on Christmas morning. It brought a small smile to my face. She stared down at the box.
"What?" I smirked at her confusion.
"It's a waffle iron."
"You said you wanted one so I got it for you. Like a wedding gift." I chuckled. "I couldn't fit a table into a gift bag. I guess you'll have to pick one out yourself."
She lifted her gaze to mine. "The gift I wanted costs no more than a small piece of your time."
She was wrong on that. I knew what she wanted, what I had promised in order to get her to marry me.
"You won't let this go, will you?"
"No. You know my story. I want to know yours." She lifted her stubborn chin, the cleft standing out. "You promised."
My coffee mug hit the granite with a little too much force. "Fine."
I slid off the stool, tense and agitated. I stomped over to the window, looking at the city, the figures small and distant-much the way I wanted these memories to be.
Yet, Roseanne wanted them brought into the open.
"My father was a playboy. Rich, spoiled, and a real bastard." I barked out a laugh, turning to look at her with an intense glare. "Like father, like daughter."
Roseanne moved to the sofa, sat down, remaining silent. I turned back to the window, not wanting to make much eye contact.
"He played hard, traveled a lot, basically did what he wanted, until my grandfather called him on it. He told him to grow up and threatened to cut him off financially."
"Oh dear," she murmured.
"He and my mother married a short time later."
"Well, your grandfather must have been pleased."
"Not pleased enough. Not much else changed. Now they partied together, still traveling, spending lots of money." I moved and sat across from her on the ottoman. "He was furious, and gave them an ultimatum: unless he had a grandchild to bounce on his knee within a year, he was pulling the plug on both of them. He also threatened to change his will, cutting out my father completely."
