46 - Do You Really Have to Ask?

Sheridan pushed in the door, letting her shopping bags hit the floor with a cacophony of rattling paper and plastic.  Her feet hurt.  Her nose was cold, her stomach was churning at the odd combination of pastries, cappuccino and pizza throughout the day, and she was freaking tired!

Madison had enough energy for both her mother and Sheridan, pulling them along and convincing them to take her ice skating at Rockefeller Center  until the tree lit up for the night at five o’clock.  Given that the girl was reasonably good on skates – thanks to three years of private lessons – the women at least got to sit on the sidelines and watch rather than having to strap those thin blades to the soles of their feet. 

Not that Sheridan could do it anyway.  She had no physical coordination whatsoever.  After the second time she cracked her tailbone trying to ice skate, she admitted she would never be able to do it, and stood aside to admire those who could.

Self-awareness did not make for warm toes, though, and she was eager for a hot shower and fuzzy socks.  Once she thawed out, she would break out the gift wrap and ribbon that she’d picked up at Macy’s.  It would be nice to finish up most of her wrapping tonight, since she had nothing else on her agenda.

Hanging her coat up, she was just reaching into the pocket for her phone when it started vibrating and singing out its generic ringtone.  She flipped it around to check the screen, and found that it was Jon calling.  She hadn’t gotten around to assigning him a special ring. 

With a wide smile, she pulled out a dining chair to sit in and answered cheerfully, “Hey!  I didn’t expect to hear from you.  What a pleasant surprise.”

His voice was the opposite end of the happy spectrum from cheerful.  Jon’s “Where are you?” was terse and abrupt.

“I…”  Sheridan was thrown for a little bit of a loop, and stuttered as a result.  “I just got home, why?”

“I’m coming over.  I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

“Okay,” she said, perplexed.  But she was addressing her agreement to no one.  He’d hung up without waiting for a reply. 

Frowning, she put the phone on the table.  Ten minutes wasn’t enough time for a shower, she realized with a distracted frown, unable to fathom what could be prompting Jon’s behavior.  Had something else happened with his ex-wife?  Or his youngest boy?

She still had no idea when she padded down the stairs after changing into a soft black lounge outfit and matching fluffy socks.  The bags commanded attention, as they were strewn in front of the doorway, so she shuttled them into the closet while she waited for Jon.  It was a distraction from the worry that was starting to build inside her.

He should be here by now, shouldn’t he?

But he still wasn’t by the time all the bags had been transferred. 

So, after ferreting out the wrapping supplies and dumping them on the dining room table, she went to the kitchen drawer to locate the rest of the things she would need to package up her gifts.  Nervous energy had her aligning everything neatly on the table, from largest to smallest.  Tall paper rolls, then ribbon, gift tags, scissors, a black Sharpie and tape.  

That accomplished, she was busily checking the clock when the door buzzer sounded.

“Thank God,” she muttered, anxiously moving toward the door.  Sheridan was reassessing that sentiment when she saw that Jon’s face looked as somber and serious as his call had been.  The man who always carried a markedly youthful appearance was looking every day of his forty-nine years.  And then some.

It drove all sense of propriety and social convention from her head.  Instead of a proper, more traditional greeting, “What’s wrong?” was the first thing that came toppling out.

“Can I come in?”

Let the man inside, Sheridan.

“Of course,” she acquiesced, taking a hasty step backward so that he could brush by and shrug out of his jacket.  There was no warm greeting in his eyes.  No welcome kiss.  A chill of trepidation went up her spine as he used a dining room chair as a coat rack, and then strode a determined path to the sofa.

“We have a problem.”

Taking in his ramrod straight back sitting on the edge of the cushion, his hands draped in loose fists over his knees and the pronounced lines in his face, she couldn’t say that his proclamation surprised her.

“I kind of got that impression,” she said quietly, sitting next to him.  “What’s going on?”

He dipped his head, the wheels visibly spinning as he channeled that politically correct, public figure persona she’d seen only from afar.   When he found the words he was looking for, there was little doubt that his approach was carefully and purposefully chosen. 

“The media jackals are trying to sink their teeth into a story.”

Her first thought was of his children.  More specifically, the trouble he’d been having with Romeo.  What else could possibly be so grave? 

The impulse to comfort him came without conscious thought, and Sheridan scooted closer, placing a gentle hand over the waffled material of the black Henley covering his shoulders.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

He didn’t withdraw from her touch, but he didn’t soften under it and made no attempt to reciprocate.  Nor did he look at her.

“They found out about the fall Richie took in his kitchen on Thursday night.”

Sheridan’s hand fell away at the flatly issued statement.  That particular news surprised her.  It was unexpected on multiple levels.

“What? How?”

Now he turned to look at her, eyes piercing and hard as the set of his shoulders.  “That’s what I wanna know.”

She was so busy trying to come up with a possible scenario that she missed the undertone of accusation in his clipped statement.  How could this possibly have happened?  It wasn’t like there had been a crowd of people at Richie’s house that night. 

“But…  You and I were the only ones there,” she mused aloud.

“I’m aware of that.”  Her eyes snapped up.  That undertone was coming through loud and clear now.  “Did you talk to anyone about it? Maybe even mention it just casually to…  I don’t know…  your friend at the gossip rag?”

In an instant, she found out exactly how much power he had to hurt her.  That… insult was more painful than anything she could recall in recent memory.  The only thing that even came close was the morning he walked away without a backward glance.

Evidently, we haven’t moved as far beyond that moment as I wanted to believe.

Sheridan’s voice was purposefully soft – and maybe a bit incredulous – when she restated the question the way it was intended.  “You’re accusing me of leaking a celebrity’s highly sensitive, personal information to the media.”

“I’m not accusing,” he corrected mildly.  “I’m asking.  Richie told me he overheard you talking to your friend.  You had news she’d find interesting, or something like that.”

“But you – both of you – automatically assume that I have to be responsible.”  She’d gone emotionless now, by way of the cold block of ice forming in the center of her chest. 

“I didn’t automatically assume anything.  I told Dorothea about it yesterday, so she was the first one I called after I talked to Richie.”

Dorothea.  Of course the woman who had been a coveted part of the Bon Jovi underworld would be instantly declared blameless.

Sheridan laughed humorlessly, slumping back into the sofa cushions with a disbelieving shake of her head.  “I’m sure she was more than willing to pin it on your new girlfriend.”

His silence was all that was necessary to confirm that suspicion.

“So you think I did this?  You think I violated your confidentiality and threw a poison dart at not only your livelihood, but your friend’s?”

Jon shifted so that he could see her over his shoulder, disregarding her inquiry in favor of his own.  “I’d like for you to answer my question.  Why did you call that woman?”

“And I’d like for you to answer mine.”

“Sheridan, don’t be juvenile,” he huffed, turning around more fully to face her.  “Just tell me what the fucking phone call was about.  It shouldn’t be that hard if there’s nothing to hide.”

His face was creased with anger, frustration, exasperation…  all of those damnable negative emotions that could drain you dry.  And then there were his eyes.  They glittered with pain. 

Pain that I’ve done this to him, or that he has to ask me at all?

“Jon,” she began softly, bending her leg.  When her heel was planted in the cushion and her arms were wrapped protectively around her knee, she reminded him, “You were the one who left, and then came back asking me to trust you.  Asking to earn my trust.  Part of the reason I told you about Madison was to offer you the proof that you had it.  My full trust.  I’d just seen a facet of your life that was very private, and I wanted to show you that I trusted you as much as I thought you trusted me.”

“Is there a point to this?”

Her nostrils flared with a silent sigh and she lifted her eyes to lock into his.  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then tell me about the call, so I can let it go.”

Here it was.  They had circled the block and returned to the busy mid-town intersection of Sex and Relationship.  They’d been riding along Sex Street in the beginning, but she thought they’d made the turn onto Relationship Road when he came back and asked for her trust.  Somehow, though, they had found their way back onto the street that didn't require trust, only lust.  Now, with their turn signal blinking as they got closer and closer to Relationship Road again, she knew it was going to take mutual trust to turn that wheel.   Without it they had nothing but a series of hot, one-night stands.

The magic question was… did they have it? 

There was only one way to find out.

Sheridan tipped her chin, never breaking eye contact.  “I could, and I will if you need me to.  I’ll tell you everything if that’s what it takes to clear my name, but honestly…?  I’d like to think you trust me enough to take me at my word.  I didn’t do anything wrong.”  Cocking her head to the side, she asked softly.  “Now…  Is that enough?”