Meant to Marry Me

They made it home. The trip had been excruciating, neither of them saying anything at all to one another, not a single word. It was as if they each understood the other's position; I know there's going to be shouting, and that doesn't mix well with driving. As soon as she walked in the door, Bree slipped her heels off of her tired feet and sat down on the couch.

Trent hung his keys by the door and slumped into the chair next to her, his fingernails biting into the armrests. As Bree tried to decide how to phrase her first question, he said quietly, "I didn't want to upset you."

"I can respect that," she said, keeping her tone even as well. "But don't you think I have a right to know?"

"Normally, I would say of course you do," he said, not quite looking at her. "But considering all that you've been through recently, I didn't think it was worth the risk of upsetting you. You haven't been yourself recently, Bree. Not that anyone can blame you."

"I burned my hand, Trent. There's nothing wrong with my brain!" The last sentence got away from her as she tried to focus on the fact that he had done this in order to protect her, at least, that's what she wanted to believe. Still, she wasn't a fragile porcelain doll that might shatter at any moment. He shouldn't treat her as if that's what she was.

"I know that it was your hand that was burned, Bree. But you were also almost murdered. You've been through so much, Bree, there was no way I wanted to take a chance on putting your nerves through something else so potentially troublesome, especially when I'm quite certain that was the only reason Monica was there at all--just to mess with you."

"Really? You think so?" She felt anger burning in her cheeks now as she imagined the snide model arranging to work her way into the event in hopes of messing with the happy couple. "You don't think it was a coincidence?" "I don't know," Trent admitted, seeming slightly more calm than he had before. "Maybe she really did want to go with the older photographer who brought her as his date. Maybe she thought it would be a chance to be seen. But she had to know I'd be there."

Bree looked at him for a moment as he let out a defeated sigh and ran his hand through his caramel brown hair. She didn't have anything else to say at the moment, so she kept herself quiet and hoped he'd continue.

After a moment, he did. "She somehow happened to be sitting at the same table as Celia and I." Bree's eyes enlarged. For the first time since she'd found out she wouldn't be able to attend the ceremony, she was glad she wasn't there. Would she have been able to put up with such an arrangement? "She didn't say a word for the longest time," he continued, "but then, for whatever reason, she got a little ugly. Celia put her in her place pretty quickly, and Monica stormed out into the foyer to wait for her date to get back from his photo op. That's it, really. She did come up to me when the ceremony was over and tell me she wanted to get along, but I think she was just trying to save face. Other people sitting at our table had to think she was a real piece of work."

He made the statement as if it hadn't been a big deal. Maybe it wasn't. Or maybe she needed to speak to someone else. Bree wondered if Celia would tell the story the same way. Perhaps she needed to find a way to put herself into a position where she could have a chat with his coworker. "Well, I really wish you would've told me," she concluded, deciding there was no point in arguing about it now. "If you see her again, I want to know. All right?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you to begin with. I truly was hoping not to upset you. I do wish you would've mentioned to me that you already knew."

Was he really going there? "So... you're upset that I didn't call you out in your subterfuge earlier?"

"I'd hardly call this subterfuge!" He was annoyed again. "I told you, I did it for your own good."

"And I was giving you a chance to tell me for your own good!" she shot back. "I don't want to argue with you anymore, Trent. Especially not over her. Wouldn't she be happy to know she has us yelling at each other?" She got up off of the couch and headed to the bedroom to grab her guitar and practice for a while, the best way to calm her nerves.

Trent followed her into the bedroom, which was unnerving, but when he changed into running clothes and headed back out, she was glad he was also going to do something that would make him feel better. She had no doubt they'd get past this, but it was still unsettling. Every couple argued. Every couple fought. But not every couple had an evil bitch who'd already come between them once ready to rear her ugly head at any moment and pop back into their lives the way that Monica had. Something told Bree there'd be no peace between them as long as that woman was living in the same town as them. As she picked up her guitar and began to play, she had to wonder if there was some way to make her go away-- forever.

***

The sound of his shoes hitting the pavement created a cadence that allowed Trent to empty his mind of everything. Some people couldn't run without listening to music. He preferred this--the sound of nothing but whatever was going on around him. Today, that was next to nothing, and he was able to lose his thoughts to some distant place for a while.

As soon as his run was over and the apartment building came back into view, he realized he couldn't actually run from his problems, that he'd have to face them eventually. It was easy for him to try to blame Bree for this, to blame Monica, to even blame Hank and Christy for looking at Monica's pictures. But he was the one who'd decided not to tell his fiancée that he'd seen his ex at the awards ceremony. Granted, he thought he had a good reason for keeping it from her, but if she didn't agree with him, it didn't matter.

At the moment, the only person getting what they wanted here was Monica. With a deep breath, he walked into the apartment to find Bree still playing the guitar. He paused in the hallway for a moment, listening. She sounded better than she had the other day. He knew she still had a long way to go to get back to where she'd been before, but she would get there, as long as she didn't give up.

She finished the song she'd been working on and glanced over at him. "It sounds really good," he said, coming into the room.

He could tell by her face that she'd been crying, and it killed him that he'd been the cause of that--again. He let out a sigh and sank down on the bed next to her. "I'm sorry, Bree. I should've told you. I just... didn't want to hurt you. It turns out, that's exactly what I ended up doing by keeping it to myself."

"I'm sorry, too," she said.

"For what?" he asked before she even had a chance to elaborate.

"For getting so mad. I should've realized the only reason you didn't tell me was because you didn't want me to be upset."

Trent shrugged, reached over, and tugged her chin toward him gently. "I don't like arguing with you, Bree."

"Me neither," she agreed.

Slowly, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, savoring the warmth of her mouth, a hint of salt from her tears still present, likely mingling with perspiration from his run. He pulled away. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

Trent kissed her again, this time, reminding her of just how much he meant what he'd said. He couldn't get enough of her, the way her mouth felt, the way her tongue danced perfectly with his, the feel of her in his arms. He could've kissed her forever.

This time, Bree pulled back. "You should take a shower," she said with a crooked grin on her face. "You stink."

Laughing, Trent asked, "Do I? Thanks a lot."

She shrugged, as if she couldn't help but speak the truth.

"Wanna come with me?"

Her mischievous look shifted to something more sultry as she said, "I guess it wouldn't hurt me to take two showers in one day."

"You have been known to get a little dirty," he teased.

"Well, if that's the case...." Bree grabbed hold of his joggers and pulled him toward her, opening her mouth wide and showing him just how dirty she could get. Trent swept her up in his arms, carrying her into the bathroom, her legs locking around his waist. If she wanted to play dirty, he'd be sure to spend as much time in the shower with her as possible, though he certainly liked it when Bree was a little dirty.