Blue Ocean Floor (A Justin Timberlake Fanfic)

Margarita Monday

"Hello?" I breathed into the phone.

"Hey." said an equally as exasperated voice.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I left work early. I need some margaritas. I'm too over it."

"I'm finishing a proposal to acquire new paintings at the museum, but I'm definitely ready to ditch this joint for the day. It's been a long week."

"Cool. I'll just meet you at the usual spot?"

"Sounds good."

    Reese and I had both accepted jobs in New York a few years ago. Hers an editor at Vogue, and mine as a curator for The Met. Luckily we still didn't live or work too far from each other and were able to annoy each other as often as possible. I finished up the email I was writing, pulled on my Max Mara coat, and grabbed my Celine bag. I tried to avoid everyone as I walking out, and thankfully no one noticed I had even left the building without asking me to do a million things I didn't feel like doing. Sometimes I felt as though my life revolved around the museum.

    I caught a cab to the neighborhood Mexican spot (though still not as good as anything you'd find in Los Angeles) and walked into the restaurant. I waved to the hostess and walked over to Reese sitting in the corner, our usual booth. The only person in the place wearing sunglasses. I threw my coat into the booth and sat down, sighing.

"What a fucking day."

"You're telling me. Anna is having a bad...month and she's ripping us all new ones whenever she gets the chance."

"Jesus, my day wasn't nearly as bad as that sounds." I watched her down a tequila shot and the waitress dropped off another two tequila shots and margaritas.

"Turn down for what I guess." I said taking mine and throwing it back. My phone rung and I looked at the caller ID on my iPhone, smiling to myself at the face that was smiling back at me. "Hey babe...no, I left work early. I'm out with Reese...I'll try not to come home too drunk...you know it...I'll bring you a burrito I promise. What I can't promise is that it'll be good as one from Cali...I know, but what can you do? I miss it too...I don't know...we'll see....ok, I love you too. Bye."

"He's still trying to convince you to move back to LA?" said Reese, taking a swig of her margarita.

"Yeah. I don't think he's really enjoying the cold. You know, spoiled rich kid syndrome. I've never met someone so used to getting what they want in every possible situation."

"He'll have a hard time convincing you to leave a dream job."

"Well, he has one of those jobs you can do from anywhere, so he's lucky in that aspect."

"He at least took initiative to move the two of you out here and into some baller ass penthouse overlooking the city."

"And he complains at any chance he gets that the people upstairs wouldn't give him the top floor."

"Yeah, well, he's definitely brat. But you're the one that married him."

"That I am."

I walked into the apartment I shared with my husband (or I should say stumbled into) a couple of hours later and I could hear the TV blaring football. I saw his 6'1" frame sprawled out on the couch, fast asleep. I sat the bag with his burrito in it down on the table and turned down the TV. After I threw my jacket and purse down on the recliner I climbed on top of him, laying across his chest.

"Hey, drunk ass." I heard his groggy voice from above me.

"Hey, sleepyhead." I lifted myself up and kissed him. "I missed you."

"Are you horny drunk or emotional drunk?"

"Definitely horny drunk."

"In that case, I missed you too." We both laughed and I climbed off of him. He sat up. "Is this my burrito? I thought I might not ever see it."

"You got lucky tonight. You might get lucky again later."

"I like the sound of that." he said giving me a kiss before he dug into his burrito.

    A few hours later I was sitting in our kitchen in my underwear, having a large glass of water after a long sex session. He was asleep in our bed already. He had an early morning and I didn't like to bother him with my insomnia. I tapped my engagement ring and wedding band against the glass, and then sat my hand on the counter, glaring at them. The engagement ring was obnoxiously big and admittedly it made me uncomfortable wearing something so gaudy, but I knew he would be offended if I took it off. I was never the marriage type, but somehow he had convinced me. He was good at things like that. Convincing me that I was the one. He brought me a Lorraine Schwartz floating emerald cut diamond ring to rival that of Kim Kardashian, and he proposed to me in the most romantic way you could imagine, on the most beautiful beach I'd ever seen. Candles and rose petals were spread across the sand...I still smile thinking about it. I had never assumed in a million years we (mostly I) would be married.

    I had an abusive father as child, and it took a lot of therapy for me to feel like it was ok to allow someone to love me. My mother died when I was 6 from breast cancer. I don't know if I ever recovered from that, and I don't think my father did either. His recurrent drinking turned into full blown alcoholism. I had no family that I knew outside of my parents. After my mother passed she left me a hefty amount of money my father couldn't touch and life insurance I never knew about until I turned 18. I found out about the money when I turned 18 and was already attending college at UCLA with a full scholarship. I'd never known my mother came from a pretty well off family and my father never mentioned it. I took half the money and purchased a condo in Santa Monica. After my first year of college, my father died from a heart attack and subsequent liver failure. That was the last time I ever went home. Only I and one other person attended the funeral. He was cremated. They wanted me to sell my childhood home, but I asked Lynn to do it for me. I couldn't take looking through all my old things. I just asked her to throw everything out.

    Some nights I looked around my huge loft apartment in New York City and I wonder how I ended up here. I never would've been able to afford an apartment like this myself, and it blew my mind every day when I sat on my couch staring at a Mark Bradford painting that he personally gave us hanging on the wall, that I lived here. I looked over at the patio I drink my coffee on and couldn't believe I had this view of the city. I glanced over at our wedding photo. It was a tiny wedding. I didn't want anything special. I didn't know enough people to have ever had an extravagant wedding and I'm not that sentimental or social. Sometimes when I looked at the photo I felt sad, but I can't ever pinpoint where that feeling is coming from. I brush it off as quickly as it comes. I'd be hard pressed to find a man who loves me as much as this one. I owed him a lot. I owed him my life.