Names
By Felicia Ferguson
Signed, Sealed, Delivered
Shane/Oliver, married vignette
All rights belong to the genius, Martha Williamson. She has my unending thanks for creating Shane and Oliver as do Kristin Booth and Eric Mabius for bringing them to life with grace, kindness, and obvious love.
I stare at the empty kitchen cabinet shelf, holding a cookbook and contemplating what Oliver would call a conundrum. Inside the moving box are more cookbooks than will fit in the entire cabinet. It seems my new husband loves to read about recipes as well as words.
I know he wants everything in just the right place, and he's already assigned this cabinet for these books. Unfortunately, in order to check this box off the unpacking list, a culling of the books or a reassignment of cabinets is needed—neither of which I want to do without his input. We already agreed to our going steady rules. And I have a feeling he'll equate hanging bead dividers with rearranging kitchen shelves.
The tap of hammer against nail echoes from our new living room. He's moved on from unpacking to hanging his paintings and my beloved empty frames, all found on our honeymoon trip to Stockholm. "Oliver?"
"Yes, love?"
His ready response steals my breath and sends my pulse skittering. Grabbing the counter, I close my eyes, steadying myself against the rush of feeling that skims through me. He might have changed Holly's mind with a kiss, but he can stop all my thoughts with a word.
That word.
Over the past few months, he's said it many times, but it's been halting, awed, almost prayerful. This time the endearment rolls off his tongue like he's asking for more butter. Easy, familiar, comfortable.
He's quiet, but I can still sense when he enters the kitchen. He takes whatever was in my hand and slides it onto the shelf then turns to watch me. "Shane?"
There it is, the other one that stops me. It, too, rolls off his lips easily, but grounding me, binding me to him and him to me—an endearment of its own. It was the first one that made my heart stop and sent me reaching for stability.
His voice is soft, amused. "What are you contemplating?"
Don't you mean, what was I contemplating? Opening my eyes, I see the pleased smile that plays about his lips. He knows what he's done to me, and he's enjoying the turned tables. I shake my head, trying to marshal it back into orderly thought, but then he says the next words.
"Mrs. O'Toole?"
He's full on teasing me now. There's a glint in his eyes, warm amusement surrounded with contented love. I saw the same look in the mirror that morning in the DLO when he caught me in Annalise's wedding dress.
This name, though, pulls my thoughts back into order. It's one I'm proud to call mine, but despite carrying the calming weight of forever, it's still too new, too unfamiliar.
We haven't been back to the DLO since the wedding, honeymoon, and now moving into our new together home. Over the past few weeks of freedom, he's called me all of these names. But what will he call me when we leave our private bubble and return to our professional realm?
Maybe he'll go back to Ms. McInerny? I love hearing it, no matter how he says it, and I'll always be grateful to her. She's the one who brought us to Shane, to Love, to Mrs. O'Toole. But she's not really me anymore.
And though completely, and legally, accurate, Mrs. O'Toole, like Love, is entirely too intimate, too revealing of a relationship we've spent years cultivating behind the twin shields of privacy and professionalism.
Maybe he'll finally call me Shane? He almost did once on the Monday after our disastrous first non-date. Even though I argued Rita's delighted claim, I did hear his aborted "Sh—" before he opted for the safer formality of Ms. McInerny. But there was still too much hurt, too much confusion between us, for it to be appropriate for work then.
Now though, it might be perfect.
Oliver still watches me, eyes glowing with mirth, almost daring me to speak. If I do speak, will he find my contemplations amusing or heartfelt? I open my mouth, but I still can't find the right words. Then, I remember.
I am an O'Toole now.
And according to Oliver's grandfather, Shakespeare has the perfect words when an O'Toole has none. My lips widen into a teasing grin, and I cock my head to one side, lifting my brows, I quote, "What's in a name?"
I wrap my arms around Oliver's neck and weave my fingers through his hair, catching a glimpse of his delighted smile before his lips meet mine.
Love. Shane. Mrs. O'Toole.
What's in a name?
For us, it is the treasure of our hearts.
"What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
-Romeo and Juliet