146:Smoke & Stress

December 20

“Wanna tell me what’s the matter with you?”

Tony's harsh voice found Jon huddled in the dim light cast by twinkling white lights outside his cousin's house while the entire rest of his family - parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, cousins, aunt, uncle, nieces, nephews, Chiara and their six kids - were all inside.  The Christmas gathering of his dad's side of the family typically took place on Christmas Eve, but in order to ensure everyone's attendance, they were assembled here tonight.

He adored his aunt and uncle and got along great with his cousins, but it was too much for him right now.  This never-ending task list he’d stuck himself with for the last three weeks was going to kill him before it was done, and if the list itself didn’t kill him, the waiting and uncertainty would.

Jon harshly blew out a puff of smoke from the cigarette he was using to self-medicate the unfamiliar anxiety.  Fixing narrowed eyes on his brother, he shoved one hand further into a coat pocket while inhaling another deep drag of nicotine. 

Hypothetically speaking, he’d given up smoking while, in reality, he’d given up smoking ninety-nine percent of the time.  That goddamn one percent was the tricky part.  It represented the fraction of his life where he did everything possible to gain control over a situation, even knowing that there was something within that situation that he would never be able to control.  

Also known as frustration to the nth degree.

Even his favorite kind of fighting sex was only a short-term distraction, and the way Chiara watched him with worry made him even edgier.  He was working toward her happiness – their happiness.  Why couldn’t everything fall into place so they could fucking well get on with it?

“Who says something’s wrong?”

“Dude.”  Tony scoffed, leaning a shoulder against the porch column closest to Jon and flicking his lighter.  Covering the flame with one hand, he inhaled until his cigarette caught fire and a fresh cloud of smoke rode off on the biting breeze.  “I’ve known you my entire life and worked for you most of it.  Your face is gaunt, which means you’re drinking and smoking instead of eating.  Charlie’s cooking can’t be that damn bad, so something’s wrong.”

Once again, this was the problem with families.  They knew too much and didn’t hesitate to use that knowledge to butt in where they weren’t wanted.  He had this under control for the most part.  In any case, it was only a few more days before it was done – if he could check off that last item on the list.

“Her cooking has gotten better,” he admitted. 

She did a hell of a shrimp scampi now, and a couple of other seafood dishes.  Eggplant parm was still a work in progress as was the traditional American Christmas dinner she was continually trying to perfect, no matter how many times he offered to bring in a caterer. 

He was sick of mashed potatoes and fed them to the dog when the counselor wasn’t looking, but they were edible.  She only scorched one rack of lamb, and the prime rib last night was like shoe leather, but she’d pull off dinner in five days or die trying.  Last he’d heard, Dominick and her mother were bringing reinforcements, and he thought his dad mentioned something along those same lines tonight. 

If they hurt Chiara's feelings by bringing food, he wasn’t going to be happy, and it was anybody's guess as to how she would react.  Between the cooking struggle and a flurry of Christmas painting projects, she was wound almost as tightly as Jon.  He found himself wondering several times a day which of them would snap first. 

Incredibly enough, they managed to keep their frustration directed at the situations frustrating them instead of taking it out on each other.  How that came to pass, he had no fucking clue, but most of the time the only things they exchanged were the comfort and strength that would allow them to get up and fight another day.    

The only time she got irritated with him was when he had a particularly trying day and wouldn’t tell her why, and if their positions were reversed, he’d be the same.  Worse, actually.  The counselor let him get by with a lot of shit that he wouldn’t tolerate from her. 

“You have until I finish this cigarette to spill your guts or I’m gonna have to take you out in the yard and spill 'em for ya," his brother informed him lazily.  "I’m too out of shape for that shit, so just get on with it.”

His guts hadn't been spilled to anybody.  Different people knew different bits and pieces, but no one had the whole picture and Jon wasn’t inclined to share it yet.  Was it superstition that had him keeping it to himself?  Did he fear jinxing it?

The reason was irrelevant.  His gut told him it wasn’t time to show all his cards yet and Jon trusted the gut that had gotten him this far in life. 

“I have some business deals that are a pain in my ass right now.  That’s all.”

“You said the recording contract thing was straightened out.”

“It is,” he agreed, shifting position against the column to cross his ankles.  “Chiara took care of that.”

“So, it’s the apartment then.  Not selling as fast as you hoped?”

In the middle of his next puff, Jon's eyes darted to his brother and found Tony watching him with a smirk.   No one but his lawyer and real estate agent knew he was selling the place in Tribeca.   “How’d you find out about that?”

“It’s on Facebook, man.  Lilah’s still friends with some of those Jovi girls, and they’re reposting an article from that celebrity real estate site.  Jon Bon Jovi can’t list real estate and expect it to go unnoticed.”

“It’s not supposed to be on the motherfucking market until after Christmas,” he growled. 

Goddammit, if the counselor found out from Facebook via Lilah, he was going to be pissed.  The counselor was going to be pissed, since he’d neglected to mention that little tidbit in his flurry of recent accomplishments.  Somebody’s ass was going to get ripped for this breach in security.

“Put it away,” Tony ordered blandly when Jon dug out his phone to do just that.  “Nobody can do anything besides shit razor blades if you start cussing at this time of the evening.  Relax.  Lilah won't saying anything.”

“How can you be so damn sure?”

“Because we talked about it.  She doesn't want to see 'that look of betrayal' - her words, not mine - on Charlie's face if she doesn’t already know.  Based on your reaction, I’m gonna say that’s a valid fear.”

A car went by on the street fifty yards in front of them, its lights cutting a path on the asphalt as Jon dully confirmed, “Chiara doesn’t know.”

“I hope you’re not making a fucking mistake.”  Flicking ashes into bushes that twinkled with the same white lights as the porch, Tony looked after them with the slow shake of his head.  “I like her, Jon.  I really, really do.”

He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake, too, but so many ships had already sailed.  They couldn’t be called back, and that left Jon with no option but to hold on and pray they’d end up in port at the same time.  

The cigarette tip glowed as Jon sucked deep, and he took comfort in the burn of his lungs burning with the acrid smoke.  Preserving the familiar feeling, he continued to hold it when asking, “You like her, but…?”

“No ‘but’,” his brother denied, neck twisting just far enough to peer at him.  “You hear what Lilah did when Charlie was burning cookies at the house a couple weeks ago?”

Jon remembered that day.  The counselor came home irritated as hell but bearing kisses and cookies to “sweeten his attitude”.   They shared a couple of suckerpoodles and used his desk chair for sex that was sweeter than the kisses or the cookies, and he'd been fantasizing about a repeat performance.  

The burn of his lungs had moved from pleasant to painful, and he released the breath with a subtle gasp.  Distinguishing the difference between the smoke and his warm breath against the cold air was nearly impossible. 

“God only knows with your wife.  What now?”

“She juggled things around and convinced Charlie to take Matt’s name in the Christmas exchange.”

“And the significance of that?”  Having smoked down to the filter, he stubbed out what little fire remained and stuck the cigarette butt in his coat pocket.  Their cousin would kick his ass for tossing it in her yard.

“So Matt would have to accept a gift from Charlie.  Lilah seems to think there’s some kind of sneaky psychology there that will also coerce Matt to completely accepting Charlie's role in your life.”

It was enough to make him want to light another smoke.  “Is that shit still going on?  I thought I already talked to him about that.”

The faint squeak of leather acted as a soundtrack to Tony’s shoulder lifting in a lazy shrug.  “Just because you talk doesn’t mean people listen, you fucking egomaniac.”

God made brothers to keep a guy’s ego in check.  Chuckling up at the starlit sky, he sought warmth for his smoking hand by cramming it into a coat pocket.  

He hated to hear that Matt still had some kind of issue with the counselor and actually appreciated Lilah’s butting in this time.  As a show of gratitude for her concocted Kentucky psychology project, he should trade in the ugly elf suit that he'd chosen as her Christmas gift.  She deserved something nicer in exchange for taking care of the counselor, and he mentally added it to the infamous list.

“Tell Lilah I said thanks and that Chiara got Matt something nice.  Something he’ll appreciate enough to reconsider his opinion of her.  If not…  I guess I’ll have to fire him, because he’s too fucking big to take out in the yard and beat his ass.”

“True ‘dat.”  The emphatic agreement coincided with the end of Tony’s smoke.  “You comin’ back in?”

It was cold enough that he should, but it was too hard pretending his mind wasn't elsewhere.  He found it easier to stand out here and rearrange the stars.  

“Not yet.  You’ll make sure Lilah keeps the apartment thing to herself?”

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and squeezed.  “If you promise me you’ll eat something so you don’t look like a fucking cancer patient.”

“I will.” 

Eventually.