Twenty Four Weeks - Episode 16 Part 2 - "Twenty Seven" (PG) by James David Denisson
Twenty Four Weeks – Episode 16 Part 2 – “Twenty Seven”
Written by J.D.Denisson.
A sequel to the movie “This is Where I Leave You”.
Characters and back story based on the novel “This is Where I Leave You” by Jonathan Tropper.
Copyright 2016 J.D.Denisson.
Previously…
We sit in my car. Both of us are exhausted and exhilarated all at once.
“Did that just happen?” she asks me.
“It did.”
“God I love you,” she says. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t kiss me. All she does is say it. The sheer simplicity astounds me. How those four words could convey everything she feels right at that moment.
“I love you too,” I say to her, and every cell of my being is saying it too.
“Take me home, Judd. Take me home and make love to me.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
Twenty seven – Part Two
Thursday
We can hardly wait for the elevator to stop at our floor. But somehow we do. We’ve been waiting for this for months. Maybe we’ve been waiting for this for years. The doors open with their familiar ding. The apartment is quiet and dark. I take her by the hand, down the hall, past the room that I have inhabited, living like a monk, to our old bedroom. But it is new as well. Gone are the memories that have plagued me. I don’t see what has been done here, between her and me, between her and him. I mean, I’m aware that something did happen here, but it is like it happened to someone else.
Our window is open. Light intrudes in light and dark stripes upon the wall above our bed. I can see her in the gloom, standing there, waiting. She is beautiful in her dress. I can see sparkles here and there, stitched into the fabric, glittering in the half-light. She kicks off her heals and she is suddenly shorter. I like her this height, her forehead is easy to kiss and she needs to lift her chin or stand on her toes to kiss me. Most of the time she wears heels and she is almost eye to eye with me. But not now, not here.
I move to her, stand before her, take her in my arms. I don’t let her come to me, I reach down to her, kissing her gently on her lips, slowly, tenderly. She moulds into me again, drawing herself into every place at once. She is inside me, this woman, inside my soul. I know her. I love her without restraint or shame.
A new wife. A new man. A new life. A new bed. A new love.
Everything is new.
Friday
I wake later. The clock says it’s a little after two. Quinn is up, in the shower. I lay awake and listen to the water running in the other room. The door opens a little later, casting a wide arc of light into the room. She comes out, wrapped in a towel. She sees me.
“Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
I take a deep breath in and out. I take her in, my friend, my love, my life.
She climbs back into the bed and I take her place in the shower, wash away the evidence of our love-making reluctantly. I want to carry it into my day, have the scent of her on my skin. I will have to be satisfied with the ring on my finger.
I climb into the bed next to her. She wriggles over to me and takes my hand, looks at my fingers in the light through the blinds.
“We’re going to have to get you a new ring too,” she says.
“If you want.”
“I do.” She sighs. “Everything is new.”
That is the last thought going through my mind as I drift off into sleep.
Everything is new.
Friday
It’s easy to think that I’ve just been carried away on the wave that Quinn had created last night. It’s easy because it is true. From the moment I appeared at the place she told to appear at, things just progressed without my control. Not that I’m complaining. This is exactly where I wanted to be. Well, not exactly. There are differences, but the fundamental destination has been reached.
I drop Quinn off at her work, like I’ve been doing these last few weeks, and drive to the station. A few months before I walked there, picked up coffee for Carrie, and started the show. Now I’m driving. It’s a subtle divergence from the norm that tells me that my life has changed. I have the same ring on my finger as back then. I sit in the same chair, look at Quinn smiling at me in the photograph, listen to the same incessant crap from people on the telephones and pipe them to the mad, aggressive ass on the other side of the window. Same crap, different day.
But today is different. Forget that we’re all a little tired and hung over. I’ve just made love to my wife for the first time in six months. I’ve been to hell and now I’m back. I don’t want to say that I’m back where I started, because I’m not. Our wedding picture is missing. I don’t want it because it represents what I’ve lost. Soon I’ll place a photo of last night in its place, as a picture of what I have gained.
I’m different. Quinn is different. Hell, even Wade is different.
“No, man, listen,” he saying on the radio. “You’re not hearing me. That just isn’t going to work, believe me.”
I can’t hear the caller on the other end.
“You can’t keep doing the same things and expect a different result. You’ve got to try something else.”
He listens.
“Then talk to her, man!” he yells. “And when she talks to you, listen, damn it!”
Wade says nothing for a moment. He’s sitting there with his head down and his eyes closed. I think he’s about to choke and I’ve got my finger on the button ready to throw us to a break.
“Listen,” he says finally. “Listen good, all of you. I know you want to hear some manly crap, you want to all hear me say ‘man up already’. But I’m going to tell you something way better.”
I’m wondering where this is going. I’m wondering if Wade has finally lost his mind. My finger is still on the button and I’m not moving it away.
“And this advice is free. You could spend thousands on shrinks, and they’ll say the same thing. And here it is: most of us get one shot at this. We only get one life and only one true love. If we screw that up, then I’m sorry boys, its game over. Some of us, some lucky bastards, get a second chance. They’re rare, so don’t you count on being one of them. So what I’m saying is, don’t blow it, fellas. Don’t say to your lady that she’d better toe your line. Don’t go out drinking with your buddies all night long. Don’t spend your money on shots and porn and women, or whatever the hell you waste your money on. Be good to your women, your wives, your daughters. And above all, and this is the most important thing, don’t ever, ever, listen to any of the crap that comes out of my mouth.”
We cross to a commercial because I’ve hit that button. He has lost his mind, at least the one he had. Something else was running the mad house between his ears.
And Stewart tells us exactly that.
“Are you out of your bloody mind!” he yells.
“I actually think what he said made a lot of sense,” I say, always trying to defuse.
“You’re as mad as he is!”
“In my defence,” Wade says, “the guy wanted me to say what he was doing to his wife was the right thing. I’m sorry, man, but I’ve got a conscience, you know?”
“When did you get one of those?”
“This is what we’ve been saying about the show,” I argue. “We want to deliver some truths with some punch. Wade did that.”
“But you just contradicted your entire existence!” Stewart bellows.
“Did you do that?” I ask Wade. “I don’t think you did that.” I turn to Stewart. “That’s what we’re trying to d
“You both are making no sense at all.” Stewart storms from the office.
“That went well,” I say. Wade shrugs. “Maybe we should talk about taking new directions before we take them,” I suggest.
“Well, I’m willing to consider it. But what I said was true though, right?”
I nod. “What’s going on with you, man?” I ask him.
He slumps back in his chair. “I don’t know, buddy. There’s this pressure, you know, to be me – or the way I was before Chloe – and to be the man I am now. Sometimes it just drives me crazy. I mean I loved to sleep around with all those women, but I don’t have that now. I just have Chloe. I just sleep with her. I don’t want to grow tired of her and start sleeping around and screw up possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m afraid I will, though.”
“I hear you,” I say.
I’ve never seen Wade cry. I’ve never seen a tear in his eye. I didn’t think he was capable of that greater range of emotions. I’m wrong though. Maybe he always was, or maybe he’s changed and some part of him has come alive. He’s crying now. Tears form and roll down his cheeks. He holds his head in his hands, but it’s not from shame.
Now we’re friends. I didn’t think I’d ever say that after everything, but we are. Forgiveness has that way of getting into voids between people, creating bridges. It opens eyes too, to