59 - A Good Glass of Wine

The lights on the exterior of the New Jersey house glowed invitingly as the hired car glided through the front gates, but a very tired Jon found no welcome in them.  For a man who didn’t want to be here in the first place, the lamps weren’t a symbol of home; they only lit the way to obligation.

Maybe he wouldn’t be so unenthusiastic if things were more settled with Cassidy.  As it was, he’d slept fitfully after being plagued by those damn dreams last night and when he got up this morning, it was to beat his head against the concrete wall of Cassidy’s stubbornness because she didn’t want to talk about how to deal with her uncle.  He wasn’t complaining that she’d wanted to shower with him and then write music together, making memories instead of headaches, as she put it, but it didn’t do a damn thing to settle his mind. 

David’s annoying-as-hell harping about broken hearts all the way home hadn’t helped matters any.  What was likely intended to jar him into the realization that he was going to hurt Cassidy ending up having quite a different effect.  It made Jon once again acknowledge that he was a selfish bastard for wanting it all –marriage, happiness and a football team – without giving anything in return to the two women who would make that possible.

It was just one more thing to fuck with his head.

Needless to say, he wasn’t in the best frame of mind and it was going to take a super-human display of adulting to gracefully manage whatever bombshell Dorothea was holding.  Jon wasn’t sure he had it in him.

Maybe I can put her off until tomorrow.   

The driver navigated past the main door and, at Jon’s direction, braked to a stop under the portico sheltering the family entrance.  He gave the man his thanks before hauling himself, his duffel and guitar out of the vehicle and through the mud room door.

His Takamine was propped against the wall and his bag hit the tile beside it with a muffled thump so that he could hang up his jacket.  With nothing left to do but face the music, he took a deep breath and walked through to the family room, where Dorothea was undoubtedly waiting. 

“Hey,” she greeted with a relaxed smile from the far corner of the couch.  Legs folded beneath her, she closed the book she’d been reading but kept a finger tucked between the pages so as not to lose her place.   “You’re later than I expected.”

To his surprise, she didn’t seem pissed about it.  It gave him hope that this could end up being a perfectly civil conversation which he’d dreaded for no reason. 

“Sorry.  Traffic from the airport is shit on a Friday night.”  Figuring it was a good neutral distance, he claimed a seat on the opposite end of the sofa and checked his watch to find it was after ten.  “Boys already in bed?”

“Mhm.”  Her eyes sparkled with mischief.  “But they wanted me to tell you that there’s some kind SPCA event in Middletown tomorrow.  You’ll be taking them.”

He had no problem taking his kids anyplace they wanted to go and he liked animals okay, but he saw the writing on the wall.

“And when they inevitably ask for a dog, you want me to play bad cop and crush their dreams.  Am I right?”

Chestnut hair swayed as she dipped her chin with an admiring smirk.  “You’re not just another pretty face, are you?”

“I’m not even one pretty face anymore,” he snorted, crossing one leg over the other and smoothing a palm up one denim-covered thigh until it rested on his knee.  “I’m too old to be pretty.”

“Pretty as you are, nobody ever called you ‘baby doll’?”

He mentally shushed Cassidy’s soft drawl and pushed aside the “Lay Your Hands on Me” memories that followed that quote.  It was extremely inappropriate to relive that moment in this moment.

“I don’t know about that,” his wife countered with both her smile and sparkling eyes dimming.  “The girl in Nashville clearly thought you were… something.”

He’d been lulled into a false sense of security with the normal family chitchat.  Dorothea had merely been stalking her prey – toying with him until she was ready to pounce and sink in her claws.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, grant me the patience and wisdom to make it through this without showing my ass and turning it into a train wreck.

The Holy Mother must have seen how desperately he needed help and put him on the Blessing Fast Track, because Jon was able to keep both his tone and facial expression neutral when reminding Dorothea, “I already explained that.” 

And I’d rather not do it again.

”That’s right... she tripped.”  Dorothea gave an exaggerated nod of remembrance.

He really tried his damnedest not to let the blatant skepticism get to him, but he must have only gotten the half-order of patience.  “Are you bustin’ my balls over a coupla pictures that don’t mean shit?  Is that why you summoned me home when I was actually getting some work done in Nashville?”

“Why don’t you lose the attitude and quit being so fucking defensive?”  Her eyebrow shifted up in that condescending way he hated, which was a lovely accessory to her suspicion and distrust.

Cassidy, I hope to hell this is one of those times you’re praying for me.  I’m doing pretty shitty on my own.

“I’m not being defensive,” he corrected while calmly crossing his arms at the same time his foot tapped out an agitated rhythm on the carpet.  “I just don’t feel like rehashing the same shit when I’m tired as a mother.  If you’ve got something to say, then fucking say it instead of making insinuations.”

How in the hell did she get her eyebrows to go up even higher and arch more patronizingly?  The Queen of England couldn’t have more effectively looked down her nose at him than Dorothea when she withdrew her finger from the pages of the book and slowly set it on the end table beside her.  Just as slowly, she shifted in her seat to face him, leaving one foot tucked under her while the other silently slid to the floor. 

“You wanna know what I’ve got to say?  Well, let me tell you.”  The top half of her body leaned forward and he braced himself for the confrontation that he’d just invited.  “It’s been a long time since one of your playthings has shown up on my radar and, guess what?  It turns out I don’t have the patience for it that I once did, or maybe I just don’t have the desire to overlook it this time.  All I know is that I’m done being the stoic wife who holds down the home front while you conquer the world and most of the women in it.  I want a divorce.”

And there they were.  The four words that he’d subconsciously known were in the script for tonight, even though he'd hoped they would be forgotten lines.

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes in an effort to stave off the tension headache that was tightening like a vise across his forehead. He knew he should’ve waited until morning for this but, since he fucked up his chance, now he was going to have to step up and play hardball. 

“No.” 

“I’m sorry you thought I was asking your permission,” she immediately dismissed his refusal.  “But it was FYI, so that you know before the press does.  You also might as well know that I’ll be asking for the condo in the city and the Hamptons house in addition to my car and share of the liquid assets.”

No, no, no!  Goddammitmotherfuckersonofabitch NO!

“Dorothea, stop it.  We’re not getting a divorce.” 

Even over the deafening rush of blood through his head – which sounded a lot of a toilet flushing his NFL dreams away – he heard himself speaking in a perfectly calm and rational voice.  Damn if he didn’t deserve a fucking gold medal for not losing his grip and screaming like the lunatic he wanted to be.

“You sound so sure of that,” she replied evenly.  “Bending the universe to your will again?”

Okay, he’d settle for a silver medal.

“We’ve been married for twenty-six motherfucking years.  You’re not calling it quits over some bullshit pictures that don’t mean a goddamn thing.”

Cue the Queen of England look with both condescending eyebrows higher than the fucking St. Louis Gateway Arch.  “So you haven’t fucked… What was her name?  Cassidy?”

He would’ve liked the silver medal for his own ego but, when she brought Cassidy into the mix, his grip started to slip.  A bronze medal would be fine. 

“She’s got nothing to do with this, so leave her out of it,” he ordered tersely, unwilling to tolerate trash talk about a woman who had gone above and beyond with her kindness and understanding – while receiving nothing in return.

“You’re right, she doesn’t.  Not really.”  Dorothea moved from haughty indifference to full-on sarcasm that had the bite of a pit bull.  “The fact that she’s probably laid on her back and taken load after load isn’t her fault.  When the great Jon Bon Jovi tells a woman to spread her legs or suck his dick, she’s incapable of refusing him.  It’s a scientific fucking fact.”

Fuck the gold, the silver and the bronze medals.  He’d say what he wanted and settle for the participation trophy. 

“Who the hell are you to act so holier than thou?  Tell me there hasn’t been at least one cocksucker playin’ hide-the-salami in your pussy the last couple of years!  Because you sure as hell haven’t asked me to do it.”

“You’ve been half a step away from blowing your brains out for the last two years, in case you’ve forgotten.  Being forced to have sex with your wife may have pushed you over the edge!”

This was pushing him over the edge and he was so, so goddamn tempted to hurl vicious insults about her lack of support during those same two years.  It would make him feel worlds better for about thirty seconds – until the other shoe dropped indicating that they’d gone too far to make amends.

In order to survive this talk/negotiation, he desperately needed a calm that he didn’t currently possess and there was only one sure place to find that calm.  Jon pushed to his feet and put on a polite façade while forcibly swallowing the venom poised to roll off the tip of his tongue .  “I’m going downstairs for a bottle of wine.  Can I bring you anything?”

“Don’t you dare-“

“Goddamit, Dorothea!” he barked before he was able to stop himself, and a blood vessel in his temple thumped painfully enough to make him worry about an aneurysm.  “I need a minute and a drink.  I’ll be right back.”

Whether for his sake or her own, she didn’t argue further with him.  She simply crossed her arms and released a pent-up huff of anger that she further vented by annihilating him with dagger-like eyes that he could still feel drilling his back as he exited the room. 

Mentally flipping her the bird, he didn’t slow his stride. 

How the fuck was he going to swing this back in the right direction?  The Titans purchase would take everything he had and then some.  If she demanded a goddamn divorce and took anything at all, there wasn’t a chance in hell he could buy the team. 

A divorce would give you Cassidy.

He had Cassidy now, without the divorce.  She was independent, didn’t require a huge time investment and he managed to gloss over her moral reservations anytime they cropped up.  It was the perfect scenario and he was convinced that she would agree to the status quo for as long as he wanted her.

Now was not the time to be analyzing his relationship with Cassidy, he decreed as he flipped the light.  His frustration with one woman was tainting his thoughts about another. 

Descending the stairs, he went in search of an Italian Pinot Grigio that he’d been hoarding and the first musty whiff of the wine cellar went a long way toward pacifying his simmering anger.  Other than with Cassidy, his happy place was a bottle of wine and even better was an entire cellar.  The smell alone was enough to clear his head, and his brain cells started behaving rationally once again. 

He would simply refuse to sign the damn papers.  Irreconcilable differences required both of their signatures, if he wasn’t mistaken.  He had to consent to hand over half of his assets and he just wouldn’t do it.

Case closed.

The bottle he’d been searching for was on the bottom corner of the rack and he leaned over to hook his fingers around the neck.  Sweeping off a layer of dust with his hand, Jon then wiped his palm down his leg and recalled there was a bottle down here that Dorothea had gotten while on that same trip. 

Since he had found the solution to his divorce problem, he was feeling magnanimous and quickly sought it for her.  A glass of wine made everything seem better and she might want that when he threw a wrench in her plans.  He stopped by the kitchen for glasses and a corkscrew, feeling much more congenial when he re-entered the family room to find Dorothea right where he’d left her.

“I brought the Chianti you got in Milan.”

Her features weren’t tight with anger when she thanked him, so maybe the break in action had done her some good, too.   That notion was further reinforced when she didn’t snatch away the glass he filled for her to pounce on him with both feet.  She simply murmured another thanks and silently waited for him to open the Grigio and pour his own drink.

“Now,” he broached after a fortifying swallow from his reclaimed seat on the opposite end of the couch.  “I really don’t think it’s a good idea for us to get a divorce.  Financial shit aside, it isn’t fair to the kids.”

“The kids wouldn’t know the difference.  You’re never here, anyway.”

It was only a statement, without sarcasm and bitchiness, but he still had to bite back annoyance that wanted to rise anew.  With a soft sigh, he laid it on the line.  “Okay, fine.  So let’s say they don’t care.  The bottom line here is that I don’t want a divorce.  Simple as that.”

“I do.”

“And that’s unfortunate.”  He did his damnedest to sound sympathetic, but he wasn’t.  In the least.  “Because you need my signature to get one.”

Dorothea cocked her head ever so slightly and levelly met his gaze over the rim of her wineglass.  “No, I don’t.  It’s a pain in the ass for me that way, but I don’t need you to sign anything.  Especially if I file on the grounds of adultery.”

Well, fuck.  She’s done her homework already.

That throbbing vein in his temple from earlier was now banging like a steel drum and it idly occurred to him that she may not need a divorce.  At this rate, there was the possibility she’d become a widow tonight.

He visualized nice, normal blood pressure readings and pushed away his anxiety.  She wouldn’t fucking dare and if she did…?

Corralling enough Jersey confidence to outfit himself, his brothers, his dad and the entire damn band, he did what any self-respecting man would do – he bluffed.   

“Try it and I’ll find every single guy you’ve ever fucked and bring them all in as witnesses.”

She snorted with laughter.  She actually snorted.  “The courtroom isn’t big enough for me to bring in all your women.  We’d need a satellite feed from the Meadowlands.”

In reality, if they were talking the last decade, it was only one and she didn’t deserve to be in the middle of this shit any more than she already had been.  Any more than he’d dragged her into it. 

Cue the guilt, thank you David fucking Bryan.

He didn’t want to get into a pissing contest over adultery, of all things.  He just wanted to stay married and buy a goddamn football team.  Why was that proving to be so difficult? 

Jon’s wineglass went bottom-up and, once it was drained, he reached for the bottle to refill it while conversationally asking, “Since when do you hate me so much?  Because I thought we had a pretty amicable relationship.  You do whatever the hell you want and I pay for it.  Most women wouldn’t complain about that setup.”

Cassidy would.

He told himself to shut up as his wife’s brown eyes rolled expressively toward the ceiling in prelude to her belittling frown.  “You’re such a dumbass sometimes.”

“Yeah, so what else is new?  I still wanna know why being my wife has suddenly become so friggin’ intolerable that you’re willing to tear up our family over it.”

The frown was still in place as she fiddled with her wineglass, swirling the Chianti around the bowl as she regarded him.  Unlike the signature thing, this was evidently something she hadn’t given much thought to and he supposed he should be grateful the answer was taking this long for her to find.  If it had been something insurmountable, it wouldn’t have taken half this long. 

“It’s not intolerable,” she finally admitted.

Just like I said, there’s nothing a good glass of wine can’t fix. 

“Then what’s it gonna take, Dorothea?  What’ll keep you from calling a divorce lawyer?”

The woman who had shared his entire adult life considered the question with solemn eyes, and he could see the scales of justice weighing heavily in them.  Like he knew his own name, Jon knew she was going to make him pay for this fucking football team twice – once with money and once with blood.

“I’m tired of being the rock star’s wife that everyone looks on with pity because her husband is screwing around – because her husband openly admits he ‘hasn’t been a saint’.  It’s degrading and humiliating.”

Damn if that headache wasn’t coming back and he took another drink of wine to stave it off.

“Gimme something tangible to work with.  What do you specifically want from me?”

Thoughtful features became pinched and she fixed him with that same look the school librarian had always worn when he started drumming on the tables – like she was constipated.   “No more women, Jon.  Not one.  If there’s a single new rumor or a single new picture, we’re done.”

“How is that fucking fair?” he protested.  “Half the shit they print is nothing but fabrication.  Even if I am a damn saint, some lying sack can still shoot me in the ass.”

“Not my problem.”  His wife simply shrugged and swirled the Chianti in her glass again.  “No women.  That’s the deal.” 

How in the world was he going to pull that off?  Cassidy had already been publicly linked to him with innuendo.   Continuing their relationship without someone voicing speculation in the media would be a motherfucking miracle. 

Dammit all to hell.

He was backed into a corner with no other way out.  He’d figure out a way to deal with this new crisis later.  For now, Jon did what he had to do.

“If that’s what you want.  Okay.”

A flicker of surprise shone in Dorothea’s eyes as if she couldn’t believe getting his agreement was that easy.  Hell, he didn’t believe it either. 

“Good.  If you’ll do that and marriage counseling, then I’ll reconsider.”

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse. 

“Marriage counseling?  Are you fucking kidding me?”

He hated shrinks.  Yeah, he’d been more than once, but it had felt like a waste of time.  Bad experiences had made him refuse considering it after Richie split.  That’s how he’d ended up with the antidepressants that had gone swimming in the sewer line yesterday. 

Maybe Cassidy was right.  Abrupt discontinuation isn’t exactly working out for me.

Unaware of his utter disdain, Dorothea she merely shrugged.  “It’s either that or sign divorce papers.  The choice is yours.”

Some fucking choice.