Page 15 of Unexpecting

″I have two salaries, and you live here, too,” I retorted.

″I have no desire to have a baby,” he reminded me.

″Is that ever, or just for now?” I couldn’t help but wonder.

J.B. shrugged his shoulders without turning back to me. “I don’t know. Things are pretty okay the way they are. I like keeping things casual, especially with the restaurant opening next year. And I don’t have anyone knocking down the door trying to get me to be a father, which makes it easier.”

″Maybe because you never keep them around long enough so they can find out what a good guy you are. A little big in the ego department, but still okay,” I teased. “Don’t you have a biological clock or anything? Ticktock, ticktock?”

″That’s a female thing. Guys aren’t that stupid.”

″Charming.” I shook my head and began to go through the pile of mail sitting on the table. Magazines, flyers, bills, more bills, an envelope that looked suspiciously like a wedding invitation. “You’ve got a card here,” I told J.B., holding it up. “Paris Flats, Saskatchewan? Isn’t that where you’re from?” J.B. snorted and ignored the card. “Don’t you want to open it? Isn’t it from your family?”

″What’s the date today?”

″June 7.”

″It’s from my ex-wife. She sends one every year,” J.B. told me casually.

″But—why? It’s not your birthday, that was in April, wasn’t it?”

″It’s the anniversary of the divorce.” I know about J.B.‘s divorce, even though it took him two years to tell me. He doesn’t talk about it. The only thing I know is he married young, just a few years out of school, to the proverbial high school sweetheart. Happily ever after for a while, and then bad stuff and splitsville. J.B. went to Calgary and then Toronto, met Cooper, and the rest is history. I really don’t know much about J.B.’s early years.

″It’s the—how long ago did you get divorced? And she sends you cards? Who does that? And what does it say? Yippee skippee? Thanks a lot, you big jerk?” I wondered with amazement.

″Open it if you want,” J.B. said.

″I can’t do that!”

″Go ahead. I know what it says.” J.B. put down his knife and leaned against the counter. ”‘Dear J.B., I can’t believe it’s been twelve years since we agreed to go our separate ways. I still have fond memories of our life together and hope you will somehow be able to forgive me for my actions. I still love you,’” he recited. “Sometimes she gives me details of her life, like when she got married again or had her kids. Or sometimes just gossip about what’s going on at home. Go ahead; read it. I don’t care,” he finished carelessly.

I waited for a moment to make sure he really didn’t mind, then carefully ripped open the lavender envelope. The card had a big bouquet of flowers on the front. ”Thinking of you,″ it said. “Pretty card,” I commented.

″She’s big into cards. Sends me one every birthday, Christmas… Groundhog Day if she could,” he said, turning back to his vegetables. I heard the sizzle as he slid them into the hot frying pan.

With a last glance at J.B., I opened the card. He was right—the sentiment written was almost exactly word for word what he had said.

″What did I tell you? Anything interesting?”

I scanned the words. “She says you’re hard to forget. And—oh. There’s a bit about her—her son,” I faltered. “Do you want to read that yourself?”

″Go ahead, Case,” J.B. said quietly. “It doesn’t bother me. I’d probably just throw it out.”

″Well, she says that she can’t believe her son will be starting high school in September, and she can still remember her first day and meeting you and how she fell in love with you… Oh. Maybe I shouldn’t be reading this,” I said quickly. I tried to hand the card to J.B., but he just shook his head.

″It’s okay. It’s the same every year. She misses me, will always love me…” J. B’s words were casual, but the catch in his voice was telling me differently. “She named her kid Jeremy,” he told me.

″After you?” I asked, shocked. Quickly I did the math. “If he’s starting high school, then he’ll be thirteen or so, and if you’ve been divorced for twelve…” I looked, horrified, at J.B. “It’s not yours, is it?”

He shook his head. “No. He’s the reason that we broke up. The final reason, actually. I think she named him after me for some sort of appeasement or something. To make me feel better. It’s—complicated. Messy. And she still sends me a card every year.”

I can’t see the reasoning for a woman to send a thinking-of-you card to her ex-husband twelve years after they divorced unless she was still in love with him and trying desperately to get back into his life. Not even I would pull a stunt like that. “Do you—?” I wondered aloud.

″Dinner’s ready.” And with that, J.B. firmly shut the door to any further discussion about his past.

Of course it practically drove me crazy—both the not knowing and J.B.’s unwillingness to answer any of my questions. I tried—really I did, but the sixth time I attempted to bring the conversation back around to his marriage, J.B. bluntly told me he didn’t want to talk about it. Which, of course, made me suspect that he’s still in love with the ex-wife but can’t forgive her for her actions. What actions? Obviously, something to do with her having a thirteen-year-old son and only being divorced for twelve years. I watched J.B. eat his meal, as attractive but as inscrutable as always. To say he doesn’t like to talk about his feelings is an understatement. I’m surprised I got this much out of him.

Is this why he goes through women like he does—keeping them around for a night or two and then discarding them with a smile? It’s not like he doesn’t tell them upfront—everyone who knows J.B. knows he’s not into anything serious and long-term means a long weekend. I’ve seen women chase him relentlessly, convinced they are the one who can change him and be the one he ultimately settles down with, but up to now, no one has come close.

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