The Family Man

Chapter 20

His condo was just so—ugh. Cold and shiny. There was no evidence of life, true life. It looked like a cutout from an Ikea catalogue. When the lease had first been signed, the first Marilyn did was hire a Feng Shui expert. Jack had told her that he didn't care much for sushi. She had thwacked him upside the head.

Jack missed eclectic furniture and popsicle stick picture frames.

And cheesecake in the fridge and slightly undercooked soybeans. And Tom darting around like 007.

He opened a carton of day-old Chinese food and sat in front of the plasma screen, scrolling through fifteen hundred channels. Oh, Satellite at its finest. He settled for watching the Barefoot Contessa because it didn't really require commitment. In his lap, Lee's handwriting taunted him. An address and a phone number. The eldest Bouvier either had a vendetta against Jackie's current boyfriend or was a diehard member of Team Kennedy. Faith was definitely her weakness. But Jack wasn't exactly complaining. Call, you pussy.

He was in this meditative train of thought when Marilyn burst inside and started giggling.

"You know how I can tell that your brain's been rattling inside that skull of yours?" she trilled, dropping her Coach purse on the end table. "You're watching the Food Network and enjoying it."

Jack squeezed his eyes shut.

"Oh, baby," Marilyn touched the bandage on his forehead gingerly. "How many stitches?"

"Five."

"And a bum arm, too. Damn, Jack. How are you going to carry things for me now?"

"Buy a forklift."

She grinned and sat in his lap, running her fingers through the ends of his hair. Jack tried to remind himself that this was his life; this was what he had chosen, and he had been comfortable and happy with it many, many weeks ago.

"So, what's the deal with this concussion thing? Am I supposed to monitor you?" Marilyn pouted and kissed him fleetingly. "Because I have a super busy next week. Tuesday I'm being fitted for my dress. And Peter wants me to come visit on Friday for the weekend. And Marcél wants me to be there at the opening of his restaurant, Bazaar. Not that I want to eat anything there, me and raw fish so don't mix. But I owe him a favor; I really wish I didn't. He's such an obnoxious man."

Jack sighed.

"If you want, I can hire you a nurse. But you seem sort of okay, despite the fact that you smell like hospital soap." Her fingers flitted to his shirt, where she began to straighten his collar. The behavior was so jackie-like that Jack instantly cringed and slipped out from under her. Marilyn peeked up from over the couch, "Hello, what was that?"

"I need something to drink."

"Aren't you medicated?"

"Little bit."

She followed Jack into the kitchen, where he was rifling through the cabinets.

"You're so morbid today, Jack. It's such a turn-off." Marilyn slipped in front of him and slinked her arms around Jack's waist. She smiled, "Did you miss me, babe?"

"No." Jack removed her hands and took a step back, thoughtful. He had to feel for her a little: Miss Monroe's smile had slipped off of her face and collected on the floor. It was kind of like being hit by a train, but these were hurried times. He was confident that she would bounce back. Forty-eight hours, tops. "Mary, you don't want to marry me. I've been thinking."

"Have you," Marilyn crossed her arms, affronted.

"Yeah. Yes. And look—I don't think it's fair to gloss this over. You need the truth. And the truth is that you don't love me and I don't love you. I probably never will. I know that sounds harsh, but it's mutual," Jack winced. "We look fanfuckingtastic on paper, I'll give you that. But really, it's taken me awhile to realize this, because I've most likely been repressing this emotion for months now: I kind of can't stand you. Sorry."

So, maybe it was a huge mistake to think that being fresh out of the hospital would have garnered Jack Kennedy some pity points and prevented his now ex-fiancée from chasing him around the penthouse, launching fine Tiffany china vases at his face. This was not the case. But to his advantage, Marilyn had dismal aim. Lem, Jack was convinced, would beat him to a pulp to compensate.