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Authors: Lisa Kleypas
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heavy Luke had gotten, I realized he was asleep. Time to put him down. “Excuse me . . .” I tried to push away from the table. Instantly Jack was by my side, pulling back the chair.
I went to the bed and gently laid the baby down, covering him with a knit blanket. Returning to the table, where Jack was still standing, I sat while he pushed the chair in for me. “This experience with Luke,” I said, “has confirmed everything I’ve ever thought about motherhood. Mainly that it’s something I’ll never be ready to do.”
“So if you marry Dane, you’ll wait awhile before having one of those?” He nodded in Luke’s direction.
I dug into my potato, picking up a forkful of fluffy white starch saturated with butter and covered with melted aged cheddar. “Oh, Dane and I won’t ever get married.”
Jack gave me an alert glance. “Why not?”
“Neither of us believes in it. It’s just a piece of paper.”
He appeared to consider that. “I’ve never understood why people say something is just a piece of paper. Some pieces of paper are worth a hell of a lot. Diplomas. Contracts. Constitutions.”
“In those cases, I agree the paper is worth something. But a marriage contract and all that goes with it, the ring, the big meringue-puff wedding dress, doesn’t mean anything. I could make Dane a legal promise that I would love him forever, but how can I be certain I will? You can’t legislate emotions. You can’t own someone else. So the union is basically a property-sharing agreement. And of course if there are children, you have to work out the terms for co-parenting . . . but all of that can be handled without marriage. The institution has outlived its usefulness.” I took a bite of buttery cheese-topped potato, which was so rich and delicious that eating it seemed like something I should be doing in private with the shades down.
“It’s natural to want to belong to someone,” Jack said.
“One person can’t belong to another person. At best, it’s an illusion. At worst, it’s slavery.”
“No,” he said. “Just a need for attachment.”
“Well . . .” I paused to take another bite of the potato. “I can feel plenty attached to someone without needing to turn it into a legal agreement. In fact, I could argue that my perspective is a more romantic one. The only thing keeping two people together should be love. Not legalities.”
Jack drank some wine and leaned back, watching me speculatively. He continued to hold the glass, his long fingers curved lightly around the crystal bowl. It was not at all what I would have expected a rich man’s hand to look like, brown and roughed-up, nails clipped close to the quick. Not a graceful hand, and yet attractive in its calloused power . . . holding the fragile glass so gently. . . . I couldn’t help staring. And for one second I imagined the touch of those blunt-tipped fingers on my skin, and I was instantly, disgracefully aroused. “What do you do in Austin, Ella?”
The question ripped me away from the dangerous thoughts. “I’m an advice columnist. I write about relationships.”
Jack’s face went blank. “You write about relationships and you don’t believe in marriage?”
“Not for myself. But that doesn’t mean I disapprove of marriage for other people. If that’s the format they choose for their commitment, I’m all for it.” I grinned at him. “Miss Independent gives great advice to married people.”
“Miss Independent.”
“Yes.”
“Is it some kind of male-bashing column?”
“Not at all. I like men. I’m a big fan of your gender. On the other hand, I often remind women that we don’t need a man to feel complete.”
“Shit.” He was shaking his head and smiling faintly.
“You don’t like liberated women?”
“I do. But they take a lot more work.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of work he was talking about. And I certainly wasn’t going to ask.
“So I guess you know all the answers.” Jack leveled a steady
I went to the bed and gently laid the baby down, covering him with a knit blanket. Returning to the table, where Jack was still standing, I sat while he pushed the chair in for me. “This experience with Luke,” I said, “has confirmed everything I’ve ever thought about motherhood. Mainly that it’s something I’ll never be ready to do.”
“So if you marry Dane, you’ll wait awhile before having one of those?” He nodded in Luke’s direction.
I dug into my potato, picking up a forkful of fluffy white starch saturated with butter and covered with melted aged cheddar. “Oh, Dane and I won’t ever get married.”
Jack gave me an alert glance. “Why not?”
“Neither of us believes in it. It’s just a piece of paper.”
He appeared to consider that. “I’ve never understood why people say something is just a piece of paper. Some pieces of paper are worth a hell of a lot. Diplomas. Contracts. Constitutions.”
“In those cases, I agree the paper is worth something. But a marriage contract and all that goes with it, the ring, the big meringue-puff wedding dress, doesn’t mean anything. I could make Dane a legal promise that I would love him forever, but how can I be certain I will? You can’t legislate emotions. You can’t own someone else. So the union is basically a property-sharing agreement. And of course if there are children, you have to work out the terms for co-parenting . . . but all of that can be handled without marriage. The institution has outlived its usefulness.” I took a bite of buttery cheese-topped potato, which was so rich and delicious that eating it seemed like something I should be doing in private with the shades down.
“It’s natural to want to belong to someone,” Jack said.
“One person can’t belong to another person. At best, it’s an illusion. At worst, it’s slavery.”
“No,” he said. “Just a need for attachment.”
“Well . . .” I paused to take another bite of the potato. “I can feel plenty attached to someone without needing to turn it into a legal agreement. In fact, I could argue that my perspective is a more romantic one. The only thing keeping two people together should be love. Not legalities.”
Jack drank some wine and leaned back, watching me speculatively. He continued to hold the glass, his long fingers curved lightly around the crystal bowl. It was not at all what I would have expected a rich man’s hand to look like, brown and roughed-up, nails clipped close to the quick. Not a graceful hand, and yet attractive in its calloused power . . . holding the fragile glass so gently. . . . I couldn’t help staring. And for one second I imagined the touch of those blunt-tipped fingers on my skin, and I was instantly, disgracefully aroused. “What do you do in Austin, Ella?”
The question ripped me away from the dangerous thoughts. “I’m an advice columnist. I write about relationships.”
Jack’s face went blank. “You write about relationships and you don’t believe in marriage?”
“Not for myself. But that doesn’t mean I disapprove of marriage for other people. If that’s the format they choose for their commitment, I’m all for it.” I grinned at him. “Miss Independent gives great advice to married people.”
“Miss Independent.”
“Yes.”
“Is it some kind of male-bashing column?”
“Not at all. I like men. I’m a big fan of your gender. On the other hand, I often remind women that we don’t need a man to feel complete.”
“Shit.” He was shaking his head and smiling faintly.
“You don’t like liberated women?”
“I do. But they take a lot more work.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of work he was talking about. And I certainly wasn’t going to ask.
“So I guess you know all the answers.” Jack leveled a steady
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