Free Crushing Crystal by Evan Marshall Page A

chemistry, Reilly and I made up for in our ability to work together as life partners. Things were not bad with Reilly. In fact, I was quite comfortable with our life together. But when I compared our relationship with the weekend I had with Matt, I realized I loved Reilly like the brother I never had. I loved Matt like the husband I never had.
    Of course, Reilly is not the Patron Saint of Husbands either. Our first big blowout was a month before our wedding when he surprised me by telling me that his parents were paying for our honeymoon as a wedding gift.
    â€œThat’s unbelievably generous of them!” I said. “It’s so extravagant, though. A month in Italy is not cheap.”
    â€œWell,” Reilly hesitated. “I know we talked about Italy, but my parents booked something a little different for us. They meant well and I think we can make a good time of it.” I didn’t want to “make” a good time of it. It was a honeymoon. If ever there was a time I didn’t want to work, this was it. Italy was my dream. Italy would just be wonderful. I wouldn’t have to make it that way.
    We didn’t just “talk” about Italy as Reilly so politically put it. We made an itinerary. We had reservations at local pensiones. I was even taking a conversational Italian minicourse on Monday nights after work. I had always romanticized the thought of taking a gondola ride with my husband in Venice, seeing the great museums and eating like a glutton in paradise. Suddenly, that plan was out, and his parents booked a two-week stint for us at Club Wed, a cheesy little honeymoon paradise in Aruba.
    Club Wed was so trite it was gag-worthy. Heart-shaped pink bathtubs. Top Forty love songs blasted over the resort sound system. And all the staff members introduced themselves as “Cupid Joe” or “Cupid Mary” or “Cupid Whoever.” Even the maid knocked on the door each morning and announced in a thick Brooklyn accent, “Cupid Juanita is ready to clean. Y’decent?”
    Couples weren’t required to participate in the scheduled activities, but if they chose not to, they never heard the end of it. Once Reilly and I opted out of the game of passing fruit to each other while holding it between our chin and neck, and Cupid Annie never let us live it down. “Cupid Annie was so sad not to see her favorite wove birds at Body Sports this afternoon,” she said to us as we nibbled on chocolate-dipped strawberries and drank cheap pink champagne. “You don’t want to break Cupid Annie’s wittle heart now do you?”
    â€œUm, no, of course not Annie, er, Cupid Annie,” said Reilly. “We’ll be sure to make it tomorrow.”
    We will? I thought.
    â€œNo you won’t pumpkin puddins. Tomorrow afternoon I’m leading Sweethearts Tennis, where the score is always love, love,” Annie said with a hiccup of a laugh.
    Splashing champagne in her face would be considered rude, right? I thought.
    â€œSounds like fun, what’d’ya say, sweetheart?” he elbowed me. For a moment, I thought he was kidding. Sadly he was dead serious.
    The fact that Reilly was not hostile toward her made me hostile to him. At least if we both hated Cupid Annie we could bond together against the common enemy. His cheery accommodation of every goofy request the staff members made was a complete turnoff.
    During our pre-wedding battle Reilly promised Club Wed could be great fun.
    â€œItaly was going to be great fun!” I shouted. “Why can’t you tell your parents thanks but no thanks?”
    â€œPrudence, be sensible,” Reilly switched his strategy. “If we put off the trip to Italy we can put a down payment on a loft in SoHo that’s right above a gallery. We can live among art for the rest of our lives, and it will make a great investment. The trip is completely free. It would be rude to turn it down. Prudence, I know it’s