The phone went silent. I couldn’t even hear Azmir’s breathing in the quiet, but I felt his brooding. So badly, I wanted to ask about his apprehensions of the following day. I wanted to know if he’d been experiencing any grade of second thoughts. In my limited logic, it would have made him fallible—like me. It would have also provided me an opportunity to convince myself, as I attempted to convince him, why this marriage proposal was conceivable and solid. But my placid-CEO-mogul-thug-a-boo would never cop to any irresolution concerning me or anything else he’s passionate about.
“I’m not worried, Brimm,” he spoke softly into the phone. “I’m also not rushing mother nature. We can wait as long as we must,” I could swear to hearing his voice strain at that last word. We haven’t been together in weeks. For us, that is like years. But he’s committed to my walk, and this was demonstrated by his proposal to discontinue sex until we’re married. “I’m just checking in on you.”
“I miss you, too,” rushed from my mouth, unexpectedly. And before I could help myself, out came, “All of you,” I whispered. My eyes closed again as my head faced the floor and I found myself gripping my neck. “Desperately.”
I heard the air whistle from his teeth. I knew he was exercising restraint. This hasn’t been easy for him…being away from me for so long, not having touched me intimately in so long.
Then not to mention the whispers of pessimism that I’ve battled like hell of him seeking release elsewhere. Dawn Taylor. I’ve fought that fear many of nights. But the logical Rayna prevails most days. My mantra was if Azmir could propose it, he could sustain for the few weeks leading up to our big day. But the strain in his baritone, his inability to voice his need, and the palpable sense of him being like a spring coiled too tight, told secrets of his fidelity.
“Same here, baby,” came out as though his voice was reduced to a tearless cry. I could barely hear him. “Until you’re Mrs. Jacobs,” he bade before ending the call.
And that is the summary of the ghost that was Azmir.
After my facial, I’m whisked off to the master suite where I engage in my assigned two-hour nap. Once again, I find myself in awe of the décor and ambiance of the yacht. In this room is a king size bed, modestly dressed with earth tone beddings. There’s no headboard, the wall above it pins tan panels creating a semblance of a frame for the bed. The walls are variations of wood paneling.
There’s a small Japanese style bathroom off the main room with a toilet room separate of the shower room and vanity. There’s a long desk that runs alongside the window that’s draped in hard plaid curtain, matching the motif of the suite. A large television faces the bed, giving the space a homely feel. It isn’t half the size of the master suite of the marina, but still possesses the quality of elegance that Azmir always achieves.
I notice the stationary card against the king sized pillows almost as soon as I enter the room. However, it isn’t until I return from the shower, draped in the terrycloth robe that I tend to it.
Inside it reads:
Ms. Brimm,
I’m thinking about you as you prepare to become my wife. I wanted to be sure a nap was included in your itinerary. If I know my girl, she’s working her brain overtime about everything unessential: anxiety over the production of today, not having seen me…or felt me…in a while, should you even be marrying someone whom you’ve not known for a number of years.
I don’t want you at the altar exhausted from stressing over something that, in your heart, has already been settled on. Something that I’d known for almost as long as I’ve known you…and that’s you being capable of being the woman I need in my crazy world. I need you by my side today…not fatigued from doubt.
Sleep and dream of me.
P.S. There is a throw blanket in the closet. Don’t get between the sheets until you’re with me. I don’t want to have to tell my wife that the woman I’d been smashing before her was in the bed we consummated our marriage.
Ending the chase,
A.D. Jacobs
I can hardly imagine Azmir opting to consummate our marriage in a bed. That’s for traditionalist and Azmir is anything but. The last thing I recall before drifting off to sleep is the smile that plasters my face.
“Brimm…breaker-breaker…Brimm,” I hear as my consciousness oscillates. “Brimm…breaker-breaker…Brimm,”
I lift my neck to find the walkie-talkie Tessie gave me just inches away. I raise my arm and will it over to the radio device. I didn’t realize just how exhausted I was. Seeing Azmir’s encouraging words on stationary somehow put me at ease.
“Brimm…breaker-breaker…Brimm,” I hear again, identifying Azmir’s light-heartedness.
I randomly pick a button to press, “Azmir?”
I get nothing. So, I go to another one, “Azmir…”
I hear a little static before he says, “There’s my sleeping bride.”
My heart skips a beat. “Where are you?” I ask.
“Down in one of the lower cabins, getting trimmed up,” his Brooklyn twang is on full blast. I wonder if he’s been drinking.
Does he have to drink to exchange vows with me?
“Hey, Rayna…whadup, girl!” trills from the radio, but at a distance compared to Azmir’s voice.
“Is that Petey?” I return, feeling a smile break across my face in spite of myself.
“Yeah,” Azmir answers.