Forever. (This. Is. Not. Over. Book 3) (11 page)

             
“
Danielle
Rouge,” Winnie says as she gives a lazy blink and drifts her eyes over to Laura.

“Oh
, shoot, dropped some butter on my dress,” Laura says as she grabs her napkin.

             
“Oh really?” Dena-Jo asks, taking a sip of her wine. “She was asked to speak?”

“Does anyone have a towelette?” Laura asks.

              “She was,” Winnie says, “for the feminists.”

             
“I gotta admit, that’s impressive,” Dena-Jo replies. “How old is she?”

             
“Jacob and Nat, you two went to school with her, right? The paper says she went to St. Bernadette. How old is she?” Winnie’s prodding. I smile at her; she winks back.

             
“Oh, I think she’s a couple of years younger than us, right Jake?” Nat asks as he cuts into his steak, his eyes focused on severing the meat.

             
“I can’t remember,” I say with a shrug. “So long ago.”

             
“I agree,” Nat says and then adds quickly, “So what are we thinking for dessert?”

             
“I have to admit, she’s really pretty,” Dena-Jo says. “Nat, don’t you think so?”

             
“She’s nice looking,” he says in his most non-committal way. He never tries to get on Dena-Jo’s bad side. He needs her.

             
“You think so?” Dena-Jo asks as she casts her eyes over to him.

             
“Well … you know … if you like the tall redhead type. What is she, like 5’10”? Kinda tall for a woman.”

             
“Where is that waiter?” Laura asks as she looks around.

             
“She does tend to tower over everyone,” Dena-Jo says. “You would think that a woman that tall would learn to lower her heels by an inch or two. She has to stand well over 6’1” or 6’2” with those stilts she wears.”

             
“This butter’s gonna stain,” Laura says.

             
“She’s about 5’9” without shoes,” I say. I don’t know Danielle but I do know that Malcolm is enamored with the girl. Something in me won’t let Dena-Jo talk about her like she’s some circus attraction.

             
“And Rouge. What does that mean? They’re Creole so it has to mean something,” Dena-Jo probes.

             
“Red,” Winnie says.

             
“Oh, that’s it. I’m going to the restroom,” Laura explodes as she throws her napkin on the table in a huff.

             
“Danielle Rouge,” Winnie says, “or as we’d say in English, Danielle Red.”

             
“When the waiter comes back, tell him I want the Chocolate Tower for dessert,” Laura says to Dena-Jo as she stands up and leaves the table.

“
Alright sweetie. So she’s speaking tonight?” Dena-Jo asks. 

“Of
f camera. Right, Jacob and Nat?” Winnie asks, as if she doesn’t already know.

“Right
,” Nat says. “Give me a moment honey,” he says to Dena-Jo. “Let me go and try to find that waiter before we miss the opening speeches.” He gets up and darts from the table. He’s doing what we law students would call ‘leaving the crime scene’.

“Okay, darling
,” Dena-Jo says over her shoulder but Nat’s already long gone. “Well, that will be nice. Malcolm will get to see this Danielle Rouge in person. She may be a Democrat but at least she’s a Boston girl.”

“I agree
,” Winnie says, and takes another sip of her wine while looking at me with another sly grin on her face. “It will be nice that he gets to see her in person.” Hmm … seems like Gwyneth Yates is trying to fuck with me. I smile at her and raise my glass.
Impressive.

             
She smiles at me and raises her glass back at me.
Thank you.

But now the question is, will she open her mouth to Laura? I raise an eyebrow at her.
Are you a snitch?
She laughs out loud, throwing her head back in the process.

“What?” Dena-Jo asks as she cuts into her steak. “What did I miss?”

“Jacob,” Winnie says before taking a sip of her wine. “I’m the daughter of General Landon Yates of the United States Army and Jacob’s questioning my allegiance.” I give her another nod and smile. Winnie may be more than a good fuck after all. She’s quick. She’s smart. She’s sly.

She’s me.

“Allegiance to what?” Dena-Jo asks.

Winnie says nothing. She instead locks eyes with me.

“Huh, Winnie?” Dena-Jo asks. “Allegiance to what?” I give Winnie a wink. I may grow to like this girl.

“What are you talking about?” Winnie asks Dena-Jo, her eyes still locked on mine.

“You said that Jacob was questioning your allegiance.”

             
“No, I didn’t,” she says with a smile, our eyes still locked.

             
“What? Yes you did.”

             
“Trust me, I didn’t.”

             
“Winnie, you just said—”

             
“No, Dena-Jo. I didn’t say a thing like that.” She winks at me.

             
“Oh wow, I must’ve heard you wrong.”

             
Damn … I think I like Winnie.

“I always thought I was your first love,” she says to me as I walk into our condo. I ease the door shut and slide my keys into my pocket. Winnie has her back to me while she gazes down at the city.

             
“I had a life before you, Winnie.” Why are we going through this shit again? I just came in to shower before I head back out. I didn’t come here to have yet another conversation that revolves around love, Jasmine and Winnie’s hurt feelings.

             
“Yes, but you never mentioned
loving
anyone. You never even mentioned loving me. I think it was a year and a half after we married that you finally told me you loved me.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “I automatically thought that I was your first love. The running joke was that you were a playboy and playboys don’t fall in love. So yeah, I had no idea that you had actually loved someone before me.”

             
“Why would I tell you about another woman, Winnie?”

             
“Because it would have been the courteous thing to do. You loving another woman before me made all the difference in our marriage. I would have never married you had I known that I wasn’t the first woman you fell in love with.”

             
“What are you talking about?” I see now that she’s holding a cup of coffee in her hands. She takes a sip as she continues to look out of the window. This is Winnie for you, standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows with the curtains drawn back, every light in the house out, alone drinking coffee. She’s the most ruminating woman I’ve ever met. I went from Jasmine, a debutant and Miss Black Massachusetts—a woman who could see a ray of hope in the devil himself—to Winnie, a woman who often finds comfort brooding in the darkness of an empty home. It drives me crazy. “Winnie,” I say when I can take no more of her silence. “What are you talking about?”

             
“My mother always, and I means always, has to have a grand walk-in closet in her home. She calls it her
chambre
, like those Renaissance French women would have. Inside is a bureau, a chaise, a vanity set …” She gives a small laugh. “When I was younger, she kept a small shoebox in her closet, off to the side. In it she had trinkets from high school, corsages from proms, letters from friends and pictures of her first love in it. She never put those pictures of the two of them in photo albums; she always kept them apart from the rest. Everyone in the family knew that this was her high school box, my dad included. It was hardly a big deal. Sometimes I’d go in her closet while she was dressing for a dinner with my dad and I’d sit on the floor looking through the shoe box. I’d ask her the same questions every time I held a picture up: ‘Who is this? What were you doing? What happened that night?’ She’d answer with a smile, always happy that she was able to recall her past and tell its stories, though it was always evident that she loved my father.

             
“One night, when my dad was stationed in Italy, my parents were on the verandah having a date night, just the two of them. My brothers and I were all supposed to be asleep but I snuck out of my room to see what my parents were up to. They were laughing, as usual. I overheard my mother talking about her ‘glory days’ and my dad saying she was ‘full of it’. They laughed again. Eventually she said she’d prove she was once a size two and she left the verandah and came into the house. I hid on the side of the couch. She came back seconds later with her shoebox, then she opened the box and pulled pictures out. They started talking and laughing again. She showed him a picture of her first love. My father had already seen this picture before of course. He said that my mother had ‘dodged a bullet’ by marrying him. My mother said that my dad dodged a bullet marrying her instead of Martina. I had never heard of Martina but I gathered that it was my dad’s first love.

             
“Anyway, they talked and drank and laughed for so long that I eventually walked back to my room and went to bed. The night was uneventful.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “It was uneventful because my mom and dad had each
fallen
for their first love and then they each
decided
to love each other. They love each other on equal playing fields. Up until five years ago, I thought that was how you and I loved each other. I thought that we were forced to marry but eventually we fell in love and we were each other’s first love. I had no idea that you
decided
to love me.”

“What does it matter, baby?” I whisper to her.

“We don’t love each other in the same way. You will never love another person in the same way you love your first love. First love is a reckless, no-holds-barred, now or never, I don’t give a damn, I’ve never felt this way in my life, I’m so fucking happy, I’m completely obsessed with this person love. You are my first love, I fell for you.

“
But every love after your first love gets a wiser you. A more tempered you. Someone who isn’t as gung-ho, someone who follows with their head first, not their heart. Someone who isn’t neurotically possessed with the feeling of you always wanting to be happy. Someone who loves you with a degree of caution, now knowing that love doesn’t always save the day. That’s how you love me. And it’s unfair when someone is your first love and you are their second.

“
I can’t sit on our balcony, look at that picture of Jasmine and laugh at it because you are my first love. I have that obsessive, possessive feeling for you. And it’s unfair because you never told me that you’ve loved before.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “And so I will always love you in a way that you will never love me.” She turns around and we lock eyes.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Winnie. I can’t erase my past but I do apologize for not telling you about other women, though I thought I was doing you a favor. The fact is that I started seeing Jasmine when I was seventeen and I stopped shortly after that picture of us. But I’ve already told you this. And I hate to have to tell you this again but, yes, I loved her first but I loved you last.”

“No, Jacob. You loved me next.”

“Winnie,” I run my hand over my face. “What … do you want … me to say?”

“Nothing. Because you will always love your first love. No matter what they do, what they say or how they hurt you.” Her voice trembles as she walks towards me, placing the coffee cup on an end table. “And I can only imagine how you feel about Jasmine because it’s so hard to walk away from your first love.” She swallows to hold back a sob as she walks past me and opens the condo door. What the hell am I supposed to do? I don’t know what else to say about this shit. What am I supposed to say? “And it’s even harder when they let you leave.” She closes the door.

Jasmine

(
principalities
.)

             
“Well, I just spoke to Dun-yell,” I hear Malcolm’s mother, Angie, say over the now familiar-sounding speaker. “And you, of course, are not meeting all of her required needs.” Malcolm exhales and then steals a look at me with a
‘here we go’
expression on his face.

             
“Listen here Ma, you two aren’t going to drive me crazy for the duration of your visit,” Malcolm says as he turns the truck onto Harbor Street. We’re in my neck of the woods now so I have a feeling that we’re headed to see Marlon. Oh boy. After that talk with Jacob, I just feel completely scattered. I haven’t processed what he’s said. I haven’t processed what he asked. I don’t think I fully realize that Jacob told me that our love was a wicked love, filled with philandering tendencies and artful manipulations.