Maybe their marriage was already over and she simply hadn't faced the fact. Maybe Galan didn't want to have children because he knew it was on the rocks. The thought made her chest hurt, deep inside. She loved him. Rather, she loved the person she knew he was, inside the surly exterior that was all she had seen for the past few years. If she were sleepy or thinking of something else and he popped into mind, the face she saw was the young, laughing Galan, the one she had loved so desperately in high school. She loved the clumsy, fumbling, eager, loving Galan who had made love to her, the first time for both of them, in the back of his dad's Oldsmobile. She loved the man who had brought her a single red rose on their first anniversary because he couldn't afford a dozen.
She didn't love the man who hadn't said "I love you" in so long she couldn't remember the last time.
T.J. felt so helpless, compared to her friends. If anyone tried to give Marci guff, she blew him off and looked for someone to fill his shoes – or rather, her bed. Luna was upset over Shamal, but she didn't sit at home waiting for him; she carried on with her life. And as for Jaine – Jaine was complete in a way T.J. knew she herself wasn't. Whatever life handed her, Jaine faced with humor and guts. Not one of the three would take the grief from Galan that she had been silently enduring for over two years. She hated her own weakness. What would happen if she and Galan split? They would have to sell the house, and she loved her house, but so what? She could live in an apartment. Jaine had lived in one for years. T.J. could live alone, though she never had. She would learn to handle everything herself. She would get a cat – no, a dog, for protection. And she would date again. What would it be like to spend time with a man who didn't insult her every time he opened his mouth?
When the phone rang, she knew it was Galan. Her hand was steady when she lifted the receiver.
"Have you lost your mind?" were his first words. He was breathing heavily, telling her he had worked himself into a rage.
"No, I don't believe so," she said calmly.
"You've made me a laughingstock here at the plant – "
"If anyone is laughing, it's because you let him," she interrupted. "I'm not going to talk to you about it on the phone. If you want to talk to me in a civil tone when you get home, I'll wait up for you. If you intend to rant and rave, I have better things to do than listen to you." He hung up on her.
Her hand was shaking a little now as she replaced the receiver. Tears blurred her eyes. If he thought she would beg him for forgiveness, he was sadly mistaken. She had lived the last two years on Galan's terms and been miserable. Maybe it was time she lived her life on her terms. If she lost Galan, at least she could hold on to her self-respect.
The phone rang again half an hour later.
T.J. frowned as she went to answer it. She didn't think Galan was likely to call back, but maybe he'd thought about what she said and realized she wasn't going to roll over and play dead this time when he raised his voice. "Hello," she said. "Which one are you?"
She frowned at the ghostly whisper. "What? Who is this?"
"Are you Ms. A? B? Which one are you?"
"Get a life," snapped the new T.J. and she slammed down the phone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jaine jumped out of bed early the next morning, determined to leave for work before Sam was stirring. While her heartbeat accelerated with excitement at the thought of sparring with him again, her head told her he had likely pulled up the list on the Web last night after they returned home from pigging out on small Chinese doughnuts. He was worse than a pit bull in not letting go of anything, and he had bugged her about the rest of the list the entire time they were eating. She did not want to know his thoughts on anything after number seven on the list. She was on her way out the door at the ungodly time of seven A.M. when she saw that her answering machine was full of messages again. She started to hit the delete button, but hesitated. With her parents traveling, anything could happen: one of them could become ill, or there might be some other sort of emergency. Who knows? Shelley or David might even have called to apologize. "Fat chance," she muttered as she hit the play button. There were messages from three reporters, one print and two television, requesting interviews. Two hang-ups, back- to-back. The sixth call was from Pamela Morris, who introduced herself as Gina Landretti's sister. Her voice had the mellow, modulated tones of a television announcer as she informed Jaine she would love to book her on Good Morning America to talk about the List, which was absolutely sweeping the country. The seventh message was from People magazine, requesting the same. Jaine fought down rising hysteria as she listened to three more hang-ups. Whoever it was waited for a long time, silently, before hanging up. Idiot.
She cleared the calls; she had no intention of returning any of them. This whole situation had moved beyond silly into downright ridiculous.
She made it out of the driveway without sight of Sam, which meant her morning was off to an even-tempered start. She felt so good that she tuned the radio to a country station and listened to the Dixie Chicks singing that Earl had to die. She even sang along, and wondered if Sam the cop would think Earl's death was justifiable homicide. Maybe they could even argue about it. She knew she had it bad when the thought of arguing with Sam was more exciting than, say, winning the lottery. She had never before met anyone who not only didn't blink an eye at anything she said but could go toe-to-toe with her – verbally, that is – and not break a sweat. It was a very freeing notion, that she could say anything and he wouldn't be shocked. Sometimes she had the feeling he enjoyed rousing her temper. He was cocky – in more ways than one – and irritating, macho, smart, and sexy as hell. And he had the proper reverence for her dad's car, plus he had done a pretty good job washing and waxing the Viper. She had to get those birth control pills, fast. There were more reporters at the Hammerstead gates. Someone must have tipped this bunch off about what she drove, because flashbulbs began exploding as she slowed for the guard to lift the barrier arm. He grinned down at her. "Wanna take me for a test drive and see if I meet the requirements?" he asked.