Page 27 of This Means War

Lydia, why don’t you just move home. You’ll be able to get a more stable job out here with our help.

Anyway, I digress. The point is, Cole’s parentsseem bent in the opposite direction. Suppress, suppress, suppress. I don’t always like my parents’ bluntness, but at least I know where they stand. Am I going to spend my marriage to Cole trying to interpret the thinly veiled expressions of Joel and Felicia Jacobson’s faces?

Pushing myself off the wall I strip off my Fruit Hoop covered tank top and yoga pants, then head towards Cole’s bathroom to take a quick shower so I can get all the cereal dust out of my hair and pores.

After my shower, not wanting to keep everyone waiting too long, I French braid my wet hair and slip into a cheetah-print pencil skirt paired with a tucked in red blouse. It’s almost eight; normally I’d have been in pajamas for at least an hour by now, but I grew up next to the Jacobsons, and I never saw Felicia in anything less formal than a pantsuit. I don’t even own a pantsuit.

A skirt will have to do.

I head back out into the main section of the house, expecting them all to be in the living room as Cole had suggested, but I hear their voices still in the kitchen. I pause hidden around the corner as I hear Cole’s father’s angry words.

“Whose harebrained idea was this, Cole? That idiot campaign manager of yours, I suppose?” He doesn’t wait for Cole’s answer, just barrels on, “You’re so stubborn that you can’t see the mistakes you’re making. You only care about doing it your way. Do you even want to win this election, Cole? Because the choices you’re making don’t line upwith those of a person who wants to win. Jacobsons win, Cole. We win. What’s my candidate win rate, Cole? Say it.”

“Ninety-two percent,” Cole mumbles.

“That’s right. And yet you thought you could do this without me. Now you’re seven months away from this election and you’ve married a woman who sure, may be a lot of fun, but has no idea what it takes to be a politician’s wife. Maybe you think it’s nice that the two of you are able to have impromptu food fights, but does that sound like the actions of a mayoral candidate? You’re already young for the job, Cole.” His dad’s anger ebbs into exasperation. “You have to compensate for your age with your actions. Ashley was a mature, stable woman; one up for the challenges that come with being married to a politician.”

“Dad,” Cole starts, but Mrs. Jacobson interjects.

“The shower’s been off for a while,” she says. “I’m sure Lydia will be back out any minute.”

“Fine,” Mr. Jacobson sighs. “We’ll have to table this conversation for another time. When we can guarantee our privacy.”

Ah, I see now. The Jacobson family doesn’t suppress their angry emotions, they just hide them from the world. They are a political family through and through. And now Cole has gone and saddled himself with me, a woman who has never been able to hide much from anyone.

“Dad,” Cole tries again, ignoring his suggestion that they end the conversation, “you don’t evenknow Lydia.”

“I know enough. We may not have been able to make it to Josh’s wedding, but we’re still in touch with the Hamlins. Lydia might be fun and she’s certainly pretty, but her life is a mess, Cole. She couldn’t even get into her parents’ alma mater for law school. And they make regular generous financial contributions there.”

Even though they can’t see me, humiliation burns my face preventing me from bursting in there and telling them off. I can’t believe my parents are telling people about that. Hurt intermingles with my embarrassment.

“I just don’t understand what happened to Ashley,” his mom speaks again. “She was so perfect for you. A successful lawyer. Beautiful.Polished.” She emphasizes this last word.

I wait for Cole to speak, oddly desperate for him to rebuff his mother’s words. He defended me against her insults once before, will he do it again?

“Lydia’s pregnant,” I hear him say instead, and my heart sinks at the desperation in his voice. “We got married because Lydia is pregnant.” Apparently, Cole is just like his parents. Putting on a show for the people. Defending me only when he knows I’m there to take notice of it.

“Pregnant?” Mrs. Jacobson gasps the word.

“Are you sure it’s yours?” his dad demands gruffly, making me bristle with indignation.

“Dad, what kind of question is that?” Cole sputters.

“It’s a perfectly reasonable question,” Mr. Jacobson retorts. “You think there aren’t opportunistic women out there? Women who would take advantage of your wealth and status to get ahead. There are, Cole. So, I repeat. Do. You. Know. For. Sure. That. It’s. Yours?” He spaces out the words, giving them each the weight of a full sentence.

Cole’s lengthy silence sickens me. How could he think I would lie to him about this? Sure, we’ve only been reacquainted for a short time, but we grew up together. Doesn’t that count for anything?

“I’m just saying,” his dad picks back up when Cole remains silent, “at least do a DNA test. Make sure of it before you throw everything away for her. If it’s not, maybe you can get an annulment. I can work with Tom on that. See how we can spin the whole thing in your favor. I’m sure there’s a way.”

I don’t wait to hear more; I back up and hightail it back to Cole’s bedroom where I stand against the door, my heart racing. Is Cole going to ask me to do a DNA test? I’ll be honest, I never saw my life taking this type of Jerry Springer turn.

I shimmy out of my skirt and blouse, replacing them with my pajamas. I am not going back out there; I don’t have the energy. Instead, I head for Cole’s bed. It’s decorated with a bunch of throw pillows, and I use them to stack a line down the middle of the bed, then climb in on one side and stare at the ceiling.

My mind flits back to that moment in the kitchen when one of his hands rested on my hip and theother smoothed a Fruit Hoop out of my hair. How my stomach flipped at his touch, and I thought for just a second, that maybe this crazy marriage of ours stood a chance of becoming something real. So stupid. Cole has always been a charmer, I can’t trust anything he says. I’m just a pawn in his political game.

I’m suddenly so angry; I can’t just lay here anymore. I throw the blanket off my body and stalk to the bathroom, banging around in the cupboards until I find what I’m looking for: Q-tips. I pull them out and stick one in my mouth, rubbing it along my cheek like they do on TV. Cole has a dixie cup dispenser on his counter. I pull out a cup and place the wet Q-tip inside it. I grab my phone and my toiletry case and march back out to the kitchen, Q-tip in hand.

His parents are gone, but Cole is still in there, sweeping up cereal. I clear my throat, and he turns to face me, a wary expression on his face. Anger still fueling me, I step forward and shove the cup into his hand.

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