Part 7

Day 22: New Year's Eve

When Caitlyn woke up, she was hungry, and as always there was the disorientation of the unfamiliar surroundings. But these surroundings were coming more familiar by the day, and it was only a few moments before she realized, Oh, it's the apartment, that's my chest of drawers and we're in the big bed, and the hum is the computer, and it's New Year's Eve (on a Monday, of all days!), and it's our own place and Jon is here and I'm happier and freer and better than I've ever been in my life.

She felt Jon stirring behind her. "Good morning, my love."

"Mmmm," he said. "Hi."

"We should get up," she said. "I'm hungry."

"I'm tired," he said. "We should go back to sleep."

"Why? We slept all yesterday."

"That wasn't sleeping, baby."

Okay, so it hadn't been. The nightstand was littered with condoms; they'd spent almost all day in bed, rising only to order a pizza at about 4 PM. True, they had slept in between sessions, catching a nap here and there, but for the most part they'd lain naked together, talking, whispering, laughing... And having sex, of course. They'd run the gamut, too, from raw physical lust to tender, emotional lovemaking, and once he'd simply slid in while they talked, chatting on as if he wasn't buried to the hilt inside her. It was more sex than she'd ever thought possible... And more fun, more relaxing, more loving, than she'd thought possible either. This must be what honeymoons are like. Why do people travel? It'd be a lot cheaper to just do this at home.

But maybe they were making up for lost time; the previous week had been less than relaxing. After getting moved in, Jon and Caitlyn had spent the entirety of Thursday shopping for needed supplies and materials—dishes, utensils, pots and pans, groceries, a couch, a somewhat larger TV than the 12-incher Jon had bought from a friend three years ago, a stand to hold it to eye level, and even some rugs and wall-hangings. It was the first time Jon had ever been to an Ikea, but not Caitlyn's; unfortunately, her experience with the store did not cover the subsequent furniture assembly (Jon: "This is like Legos, but worse"). They had also cooked dinner, a first time for both of them: Jon had dabbled at cooking before, hoping his father's talent at the stove had somehow come down to him, but never pursued it seriously, and Caitlyn was a fine hand at desserts and baked goods but had almost nothing else. The results were relatively edible, but not as good as could have been hoped for, and they'd stayed up a further several hours spreading out rugs, hanging pictures and juggling the arrangement of couch, table, bookshelves and other things.

They had made great progress, and Jon had then had and carried out the semi-inspired idea of inviting his family over for dinner on Friday. When they awoke, they were still tired and somewhat cranky with the unexpectedly-complicated logistics of putting a home together. The previous night's efforts had also not alleviated their concerns about their cooking skills (or lack thereof). It was a mood that not even sex could avert. They had spent the whole day arguing over the menu and then cooking the chosen items (a fairly simple list, to be sure: spaghetti with a slightly-spicy meat sauce which in itself was the most challenging item, homemade garlic bread, a spinach salad and one of Caitlyn's pans of patented brownies for dessert), and while the dinner was a success, they still felt nothing but weariness when they dropped into bed.

On Saturday, they slept in late but rose without their customary morning lovemaking, which Caitlyn was already beginning to miss if it didn't happen. She ended up devoting most of Saturday to harp practice, since she had barely touched the thing all week except to help move it to their new apartment. Moving it on Sunday would be nigh-impossible with only the tiny Celica on their side, but a quick phone call to Jon's parents fixed that problem. Jon had spent most of the day on the computer, trolling Craigslist, calling in favors and trying to get a feel for the job market. He wasn't entirely sure what his skills were worth anymore, and what he should realistically shoot for or expect. He also checked out the local car dealerships, cross-referencing places where he could trade in Buffy for something with more trunk space, and which cars provided that necessary space. A pick-up truck would be ideal: the harp had over 2,000 pounds of pressure on its frame, and if damaged in a car accident it might flat-out explode, throwing chunks and splinters with deadly force. Sheer safety mandated a separate storage compartment: "That's why all my family's cars are SUVs or trucks," Caitlyn explained. Jon agreed, but he simply wasn't sure he could drive such a thing.

Sunday after church (without car accidents) had been their first chance for sex since the morning of the 24th, which (Caitlyn thought) might have had something to do with the decision to devote the entire day to it. Or maybe we were just glad to be free. Jon was right: now that things are out of boxes, this place looks like a home now, not just some apartment people are living in. And it's our home. We don't have to worry about... We don't have to worry about anything but what we think... And maybe the neighbors too. But what they don't know can't hurt them, right?

"Maybe it wasn't sleeping," she said, "but we just got... What, like, nine hours."

"Yeah, but we woke up at three to do it some more."

She remembered that one well. He had slipped in from behind, but then turned them both over and begun to ram into her. She had found herself flattened beneath him, her face pressed into the pillow, his hips connecting with her butt on every stroke, and loved every minute of it. "Okay, so, six uninterrupted hours," she said.

"That's not enough."

"Plus the three or four we had before that?"

"Used it up doing you from behind."

She turned. His eyes weren't even open, but he had a grin on his face.

"You just wanna stay in bed and have more sex," she said.

"Yup," he said, reaching out with one arm and gathering her to him without ever opening his eyes. "Another lazy day in bed sounds fine to me."

It did to her too, but two in a row... Wasn't that kind of excessive? Maybe in a month. Or a week. Or tomorrow. "Jon, it's New Year's Eve. We should at least get up and celebrate. Maybe with your folks. Maybe with your friends."

"So, what, that'll start at, like, 10 PM? That still leaves us all day to play around."

"Jon, if we don't get up, you won't ever want to. We'll just end up spending all day in bed again."

"Says you. How do you know?"

Because I wouldn't want to get up either. "Look. If I have sex with you now, will you get up so we can celebrate the New Year?"

"Oh, I see how it is. Bargaining. We haven't been married for a month and you're already leading me around by my dick."

"Why, sweetie, I thought I was doing that from our first date," she said sweetly.

"Of course," he said. "I only married you for your pussy." His hand slid down her back, over her buttock, down her leg. "And your boobs, of course." He bent to kiss her. "And your mouth... And your tongue..." he murmured into her mouth. "And your sweet neck..." He kissed down the length of her throat as he spoke, and on down her body. "And your cute little ears... But most of all..." His lips landed at the top slope of her breast, the left one. "But most of all your heart. That little beating thing that makes you so kind, and patient, and wise, and brave, and everything you are that makes me love you."

She felt the first touch of his hand at her nether lips while his mouth found her breast. And then she was gone at his fingers on her clit and the deep, satisfying pull on her nipple. She didn't feel her arms clutching him to her, but he did.

Abruptly—it seemed like mere moments, but it might have been an hour for all she knew—his lips left her breast and his hand her pussy, and she felt a moment of vast confusion before his lips landed on her abdomen, kissing their way south. She felt the tickle of his lips and tongue down her stomach, over her navel, and then through the sensitive, tingling patch of hair at the bottom of her body. And then the first touch of his tongue, slipping between her legs. She moaned and arched to him, allowing him easier access, suddenly noticing his arm around her waist, her hands holding his head to her, urging him on, urging her pleasure.

Ripples and shocks of pleasure surged through her as his lips and tongue went about their business. She had, now that he'd done this to her so many times, a better idea of what went on down there—mostly he would suck on her clit, but his tongue would probe her inner secrets as well, finding folds and crevices she never knew existed. It had long ceased to amaze her that he seemed to know her body better than she herself did. And every moment of it was joy and warmth and the sweet tension of her body slowly tightening up towards orgasm, an orgasm that hung there, tantalizing, always just out of reach.

Knowing what he would be thinking, she found enough wherewithal in her hormonal frenzy to reach over and snag a condom, which he passed down to him. He took it from her hand without stopping his assault on her pussy, and soon he was sliding back up to meet her face-to-face. She hooked her leg over his, slid an arm under his shoulder, and reached down to place him inside her.

There, she thought. I knew we could make it work.

Face to face, feeling the planes of his body all down her own, feeling his cock plumbing her depths, was like heaven. She kissed at his neck and ear, the only part of him she could reach, but it was hard to concentrate with all that sex going on. The penetration was perfect: he was at a sharp enough angle that his shaft brushed against her clit with every stroke, but he could also bury himself to the hilt within her, letting her feel him deep inside. Her hands moved to his buttocks of their own accord, urging him on, drawing him in, feeling his skin brush against her nipples and stomach and pelvis, feeling closer to him than she had ever felt before. His heart thundered against her shoulder.

"I love you," she whispered. "Oh, Jon, I love you so much—" And then, to her surprise, she was cumming, hard and strong and so powerful it almost overwhelmed her. She felt her body clenching around the solidness of his cock, the hitching and spasming and the sheer delirious joy of her body's release, and then a moment of pure clarity as the first dim burst of warmth filled the tip of the condom inside her; and then all was fuzz and ash and twitching ecstasy as their bodies surged together in the final release and fell again.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

She felt warm, and safe; she felt more relaxed than she could remember feeling in a long time. She felt contented, sated, complete. This was heaven. It must be. And yet... "Jon... We... We have to get up."

"Nnngh. Why."

"Because if we don't, we never will."

"That sounds okay."

"We'll just melt into a puddle together and never be able to move again."

"I'd like to be in a puddle with you. I'd like to be just one flesh with you. No you anymore, and no me either. Just us."

"I'd like that too, but puddles can't hold down jobs."

"Why would we care? We'd be a puddle."

"Jon, please. We can't."

He was silent for a long time. Then he gave a deep sigh. "Yeah. We can't."

She followed him into the shower stall, knowing how cramped it was and not really caring. Some things were more important than a little discomfort. Wordlessly they soaped and scrubbed, passing things back and forth without asking, until finally he gestured for her to turn around and began to shampoo her hair. His hands on her scalp felt very good.

"It scares me sometimes," she said finally.

"What does?"

"Just how good you feel. Jon, this is the kind of thing that... That could become addicting."

"But we're married now. Isn't it okay to be addicted to your spouse?"

"Is it ever okay to be addicted to anything?"

"Depends on how you control it. Some things are inevitability in this life."

She wasn't sure she liked that attitude. "Jon... Remember what Pastor Pendleton said. Sin starts as something good. Then it gets out of hand, and that's where it becomes sin. Having... Making love with you is so good. Jon, I just... It makes me nervous. Sometimes."

"So you're saying it's sinfully good?"

Put that way, it sounded kind of stupid. "Jon, I'm just saying that... We should be careful. We should keep our eyes open. We should be wary of temptation."

"I always keep my eyes open," said Jon. "Especially when you cum." When she started to protest, he said, "All right, I'll be serious. And I will keep my eyes open. If you're concerned, then I'm concerned too."

She leaned up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

The apartment was definitely a bit of a mess. They'd done some desultory clean-up the night of the Stanfords' visit, but not much, and most of the dirty dishes still slanted into the sink. The counter looked like a war zone. And there were still plenty of boxes, crumpled packing paper and the other detritus of moving, waiting to be discarded. Jon gave a groan when he surveyed the scene, but Caitlyn took him well in hand, and by noon the place was looking more livable. Jon made sandwiches, Cait poured the milk, and they ate facing each other across the table, feeling rather satisfied.

"So," Caitlyn said eventually. "Who are we going to invite over or otherwise try to inveigle? We just had your folks over the other day. The Chamberses and the Cranes have seen this place, and besides they're probably at their homes and with their families. Your friends..."

"Well, Adam and Steve and all the rest," said Jon. "I dunno, Adam's my oldest friend but not really my best, and the others... Steve can get so self-centered, and Lana will complain about how her boyfriend's at UCLA—either that or just be face-first with him, which I guess I can understand because they only see each other three months a year, but, still. Either way, she isn't very social sometimes. And then ever since Adam and Steve broke up... We're all going our separate ways now. Who would you like to invite?"

"Well... Brandon and Meredith and Christa, really, but they're probably busy. I didn't ever really have any other friends."

The rim of his cup hid his mouth, but she could see the smile in his eyes. "You sure didn't get out much, did you."

"Jon, it's my parents we're talking about," Caitlyn said. "We had to elope for me to get out." The thing on her face was supposed to be a smile.

Jon sighed. "Yeah. I guess it's not surprising."

"You saw how fast their opinions changed," said Caitlyn. "Remember the Christmas party I had, when you were a senior? My parents met Meredith and Christa and thought there was absolutely nothing wrong with them. But I blew that out of the water, and now they think they're one step from the devil."

"Well, you got out," Jon said. "We had to elope to do it, but you got out." His hand covered hers.

"Yeah," said Caitlyn sadly.

There was silence for a moment. She felt Jon's eyes on her face. She had always felt people's gazes as almost a physical phenomenon, like acid on her skin—but not Jon's. His gaze warmed her. His gaze protected her.

"Well... I guess that solves it," she said finally.

"Solves what?"

"Who to invite over." She sighed. "We should ask my parents to come."

Jon almost fell out of his chair. "What?!"

"Jon, we tried going head-to-head with my mother already. We failed. Our only option now is to just... Be. It's like your pastor said at Christmas. Let our love shine so brightly and so clearly that they can't help but acknowledge it. City on a hill. Let it speak for itself."

Jon scowled. "I still think we'd be better served by just cutting contact with them and calling it quits."

It was tempting, true, but really... "Jon, honestly. Could you have done that with your parents?"

It was a risky argument, really. Jon had already fought this war against his own parents, turning his mother's head around until she could see the truth; he had been where she was now, fighting, winning, losing, loathing them and held in place by nothing more than sheer familial loyalty. But he'd also said that the constant battles she'd had to fight against her parents, and his role in them, had drawn his own family together; reportedly, he was closer with them now than he had been in years, perhaps ever. It might go either way. But Jon was a Family Sim; these things were important to him.

And she guessed right, as he sighed and hung his head and shook it. "No. I couldn't have just walked away. But I just don't think this is going to turn out well. Nothing does, while your mom is involved."

"Yes, but... Jon, we still have nothing to lose. There's nothing she can do to us that will make any difference anymore. They can't force us to divorce, they can't... They can't hold any more financial clubs over our heads... We're independent now. We're paying rent. We're not dependent on them at all. We have nothing to lose, and everything to win. They can't hurt us anymore."

"They can't hurt me," Jon said. "You they hurt all the time."

As if I needed to be reminded of that. "Please, Jon. For me."

Jon looked at her for a moment. Then he fetched a deep sigh.

Caitlyn was of two minds as she picked up the phone. Words had passed between herself and her mother, ugly ones, and it might be that Linda Delaney had simply had enough of her wayward daughter. But then she remembered what Jon had said about her mother needing to be a mother, needing so desperately to have this part of her identity that she couldn't take her children leaving. Maybe that one would win, instead of the other. She could only try.

And, as it turned out, it did win. "They'll be here at five," she said. "We have to cook again."

"We'd better throw out all those condoms," Jon said. "Actually, we'd better empty the trash too. The last thing we need is for them to notice some tell-tale sign."

"They may not even know what a condom looks like," Caitlyn said, but she knew Jon was right. Besides, what was one trip down the stairs compared to their safety?

They planned a slightly more impressive menu this time, using the cookbook that the Chamberses had given them as a Christmas present. Caitlyn nominated mashed potatoes, and a peach cobbler to please her mother; Jon recognized a recipe for teriyaki chicken which his father often used, and decided to mix some carrot slices and broccoli florets into the stir-fry as well, along with the mandated bell peppers and bits of garlic. It would be an unorthodox menu, to be sure, but Jon thought everything would taste just fine.

The only problem with cooking was the size of the kitchen: tiny. There was barely enough room for one person to work, but they had decided early on that both of them would do the cooking, partially because they both wanted to learn but also because they wanted their marriage equal. It was cramped, but fun, and they were learning to stay out of each other's way and in any case there were far less pleasant people to be tripping over. Caitlyn had observed long ago that adding Jon to just about any task made it fun; she supposed there wasn't any reason cooking ought to be different.

The only thing that concerned her was that it would be just the four of them, the Stanfords and the Delaneys. A neutral third party might be a smart idea—but she couldn't think of anyone, and neither could Jon. "The thing is, we have no lack of third parties," he said, "but the neutrality's the hard part. Just about everyone we know is on our side. And we'd want someone who was going to help keep the peace, not take our side—no matter how nice that might feel."

"Jeez, look at us," Caitlyn said. "Planning for disaster. Maybe we won't need a third party. Maybe they'll be civil. Maybe we'll be able to make peace and have a nice time."

"Do you think so?" Jon asked.

"No," Caitlyn admitted.

"Well, you said it yourself," said Jon. "No matter what, they still can't hurt us."

"You said it yourself," she replied. "They hurt me all the time."

"But not me," he said. "And you know I'll be right where I belong: in between you and them. After all, they can't hurt you if they can't get past me, can they?"

She sighed. "I wish it were that easy." But she smiled too, and felt better.

These were the thoughts that preoccupied her that New Year's Eve: worries and concerns and possible disasters, flitting through her head. She remembered the Scripture that said, Do not worry about matters, but rather pray about them, and tried to, but it was a little easier said than done; there were only so many times she could ask for guidance, and strength, and the wisdom to not do anything that would tick her mother off, before it all got stale. Especially since she had probably ticked her mother off just by inviting her. For the first time she understood some of Jon's dissatisfaction with religion. This... I never thought I'd say this, but it isn't always satisfying. It's an answer, but not enough of one, not at times like this.

This was how Caitlyn managed to look up an hour later and discover that the meal had practically cooked itself.

They stood in the middle of the room, arms around each other, food ready and needing only re-heating to be servable. They'd emptied the trash and tidied up the kitchen area; they'd folded (or at least hidden) all the dirty clothes. The windows were open, admitting the grey strained winter sunlight, and the television was on to provide some inoffensive background chatter. It looked as good as it was likely to get.

"How do you think we should act," he asked her.

She sighed. "I think... I think we need to avoid offending them. We need to be as non-offensive as possible."

"Easier said than done, when we offend them just by being married," he said.
"Yeah. I... Yeah."

"Remind me again why this was a good idea?"

"Because I'm a sadist, and like watching you suffer... And because I'm a masochist, and like watching myself suffer."

"Good thing I've got a psych major. I'll straighten you out."

She clung to him tighter. "Sometimes... I wonder if we made a mistake. Sometimes life seems so crazy... Why were we in such a rush to grow up?"

"Because that was the price we had to pay to get you out," he murmured. "And, baby, you're happier now. I've seen you. You're free, and that makes you happy."

"I'm happy because you make me happy," she whispered. "But all the other stuff..."

"Doesn't make me happy either," he finished. "But, baby, as long as we make each other happy..."

"Mmmm," she said, melting into his embrace.

How long they stood there, she could not say, but soon—all too soon—came the knocking on the door which indicated that the war, for better or worse, had resumed. It was followed immediately by a buzzing sound, which indicated that one of her parents had figured out how to work the doorbell.

"Hi," said the Stanfords.

"Hello," said the Delaneys.

There was an awkward silence.

"Well... Why don't you come in," said Caitlyn, wondering just how askew her hair had gotten. Hopefully Jon had no lipstick prints on his face, though hers didn't tend to do that. —No, there shouldn't be, because she wasn't wearing any make-up. How quickly and politely could she slip away to fix that?...

Then she caught herself. Why am I thinking about putting on make-up? This isn't a formal occasion, we're not entertaining guests or anything... Are we?

Her parents were duly impressed by the apartment and its furnishings—that is to say, not impressed at all, but pretending at it for politeness. They were rather critical of the dirtiness of the space (which was significant, though they'd done all they could without a steam-cleaner), its environment (not the most savory part of town) and its size (miniscule), and Mrs. Delaney seemed quite disapproving of the Ikea couch (which looked like nothing more than an extra-wide lawn chair but was quite comfortable). They seemed particularly unimpressed by the closet, in which Jon's and Caitlyn's clothes were stacked side-by-side, and the large double bed in the middle of the room. Jon and Caitlyn nodded, and smiled, and didn't say a word of agreement or disagreement either way, which Caitlyn could tell was only making her mother more peeved. She felt a surge of tiredness. Were they never going to let up?

After they had taken a tour of the apartment's three rooms, and Mr. Delaney had considered attempting to squeeze into the bathroom but decided against it (not because he was that large, but because it was so small), Jon led them back to the common room, leaving her parents before the TV momentarily while he and Caitlyn fired up the stove and microwave to rewarm the food. "We couldn't have had a better start," Caitlyn grumbled under her breath, and Jon touched her hand. She could see he wanted to do more, but didn't, for her parents nearby.

Once the food was ready (and tantalizing aromas were wafting through the apartment), Caitlyn returned to her parents. "Dinner's ready, if you are."

"Dinner? Oh, Caitlyn, that wasn't necessary," said her mother in a singularly underwhelmed tone.

"Nonsense," said Caitlyn, forcing a briskness into her voice that she didn't really feel. "Now that we live on our own, I figured it was time to pay you back for all the dinners you cooked for us. Come on."

"I hope you're serving more than dessert," said her father, which was probably supposed to be a joke but which she didn't think funny.

"Mmm, smells good!" said Jon in a disturbingly hearty voice. He handed out the plates and mismatched cups while Caitlyn's parents seated themselves around the table.

"Shall we?" said Caitlyn's father, holding out his hands, and Caitlyn and her mother took them, as well as Jon's, in preparation for the grace. But then Mr. Delaney looked at Jon with a tilt of his head, as if to say, Go ahead.

Jon froze. "Uh," he said. "Umm. Heavenly Father, we, uh. We thank you for the gift that we are abounty receive. Err. That we are... Bountifully... Able to receive. May the, uh. May the gifts of your grace be blessed to us—err, on us, um. Always. Amen."

"Amen," said Mr. Delaney, without a hint of irony, but Caitlyn saw her mother shoot Jon a dirty look before disengaging.

Jon picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes and was about to serve himself, but Caitlyn intercepted him and handed them to her father instead. Jon, taking the hint, routed all the food through him from then on. The mashed potatoes were a little dry, courtesy of their microwaving, and the chicken was a bit charred and not quite teriyaki'd enough. The carrots were interesting, though—fresh and crunchy, barely cooked, not the soggy, mushy things Caitlyn had generally been served at her parents' house. She thought she liked these better.

"These aren't cooked enough," said Mrs. Delaney.

Caitlyn wanted to throw something.

Jon shrugged. "I've always been a fan of less-cooked carrots. You get them boiled too much and they're almost like baby food. If you don't like them, the kitchen's right here—we can always send them back."

Caitlyn's mom seemed mollified, but once again gave Jon a cold look when she thought he wasn't looking. What, did she expect him to know how she likes her carrots?... Then again, with all the times Mom's served us carrots... Well, Jon doesn't think that way and I don't either, but, maybe Mom's got a point.

"So," said Mrs. Delaney, evidently an opener for conversation. "You two have been married for... What, three weeks now?"

"Three weeks and one day," said Jon promptly.

"And how is that going so far," said Mrs. Delaney, with an insufficient attempt at a pleased smile.

Caitlyn wanted to let a huge grin slide across her face, but remembering her mother's presence, she gave a noncommittal shrug. "It's been fun."

"It has," Jon agreed.

"Fun?" said Mrs. Delaney. "Is that what a marriage is about to you? 'Fun'?"

"No," Caitlyn protested weakly.

"I don't think the grounds of our marriage are any business of yours," said Jon.

"It is when my daughter is involved," Mrs. Delaney retorted.

"Jon," said Caitlyn, and Jon subsided. She turned to her mother. "The basis of our marriage, mother, is respect, love and shared values. He wants what I want. I want what he wants. And when that's not true, we talk it out until it is."

"And what if he wants something crazy," Mrs. Delaney said. "What if he wants a new sports car, or, or a vacation in Las Vegas, or a mistress on the side?"

"Then we talk a lot," said Caitlyn blandly. "If he can convince me that those things are actually going to do us good... Now, the mistress, I really doubt he could convince me of that. But hopefully we can compromise. And if we can't... Well, there might be problems. But we'll cross that bridge if it happens, which I seriously doubt it will."