In This With You, page 7
I always imagined that someday, if I got married, it would be because I found someone I loved who I viewed as an equal, a partner. Not because I needed them for their insurance or their memory-free apartment or their beating heart in the next room.
Another gust of wind rattles the house, and I shriek.
My fists clench tightly as I scream into my pillow to muffle the sound. Then I remember I’m all alone. No one will hear. So, I open my mouth and roar as the wind tries to shake the house into nothing but a heap of splinters.
I’ve barely stopped shouting when a loud pop and a sudden blanket of darkness tells me the power’s just gone out.
Great. Now I’m crying.
Ten
Nick
The bell rings to end my second class of the day on Friday afternoon, almost a full week since I asked you to marry me…and you’re still thinking about it. Surely if you’ve spent this much time thinking, the answer is going to be no, right? I bet you’re just trying to figure out how to let a guy down easy.
But this is you we’re talking about.
You say what you want, how you want, regardless of who you’re speaking to. It’s something else I equally admire and envy about you. There’s no filter with you. Ever.
In the week since I helped you move, I’ve wanted to reach out. Text. Call. Drive over. But I haven’t. I’ve kept my distance. The way I always have with you.
“Uh, Mr. Forester?” I glance up from my lectern at the mention of my name and find eighteen pairs of eyes that belong to my junior history class gawping at me. “That was the bell?”
“Oh, shit,” I mutter, drawing up a laugh out of almost everyone. “I’m sorry, you’re free to go. Enjoy your weekend.”
While everyone sprints out of my classroom, I turn to erase my scribbles strewn across the whiteboard, my mind drifting back to thoughts of you. Maybe I’ll give you a call on my lunch break or drive over after school. Yeah. That’s a plan. Just checking in will be my excuse. No pressure.
When the board is clean, I turn back around and immediately jump.
You stand near the door on the other side of my classroom.
I rapid-fire blink, wondering for a few seconds if I’ve lost my damn mind and conjured some kind of projection of you.
But you don’t disappear.
You’re here in the flesh. One hand on the lower curve of your belly, the other clutched around the strap of your crossbody bag. You’re wearing a set of your nurse’s scrubs, and while I’m wondering if you’ve managed to find another job in the week since we’ve talked, I don’t ask. The look in your bloodshot eyes has turned my blood to ice, shifting my focus.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” I take another look at you.
I’ve seen enough bruises on your body over the years to know you’re good at concealing them when you need to, but there’s no visible marks on you today.
Not a scratch.
Still, your lip quivers, and the tears bubble out of you.
“I didn’t get the job.”
“Oh…I didn’t—what are you doing here, Stephanie?” I didn’t mean for it to come out as an accusation. I lift my lips to smile, to try and smooth things over. “I just didn’t expect you to show up in my classroom during the middle of a school day is all. How’d you get in?”
“I evaporated through the fucking walls, Nick,” you blubber sarcastically at me. “No, Becky was one of my mom’s best friends. She let me in.”
Of course. Becky, the beloved head secretary. Should’ve remembered.
“Why are you—” I don’t even get the whole sentence out before you start babbling, tears already staining your cheeks and causing your dark blue eyes to shimmer like polished sapphires.
“My feet are killing me, I feel totally bloated, I can’t sleep at night, and I feel like I’m horny all the time,” you cry. I blink rapidly as I really let that last part sink in. “That house feels wrong, Nick. It’s not the cozy cottage you and I remember. It’s empty and it creaks and I swear it’s fucking watching me. And—and—I didn’t get the job.”
You sob your way across the room and bury your face in my chest. Normally, I’d try to avoid a woman getting snot and tears on my one-hundred-year-old vintage suit vest, but it’s you. I’d let you ruin every item of clothing I own twice over.
I wrap my arms around your shoulders as yours cinch around my waist, and my god, you feel so good and warm and right in my arms that I have to remind myself you’re crying. You’re having a fucking breakdown in the middle of my classroom. You’re hurting. I shouldn’t be reveling in the feel of you but trying to help you.
“Babydoll, you don’t need to find a job if you don’t want to.” I palm the base of your skull, and you lean back into my touch. “I’m more than happy to take care of you.”
The door hinges wide as one of my freshmen boys, Eric, opens it. He takes one look at you in my arms and flares his eyes wide. “Uh, I’ll come back?”
“Shit,” you mutter into my chest as Eric ducks back into the noisy hall. “You have to teach. What am I doing?”
I won’t let you step out of my hold, though. I tilt your head back so you’re forced to look into my eyes. “I’ll tell you what you’re doing. You’re going to go outside and wait in my car while I tell Becky I need to leave for the day. Then, we’re going to go somewhere and figure a few things out so you don’t feel this way anymore.”
One sculpted eyebrow quirks up as you scowl at me, suspicious. “You’d do that for me?”
I stroke the side of your face, scooping up your tears with my thumb. “Babydoll, I’d do just about anything for you.”
And before you can react or say anything, I fish my car keys out of my desk drawer, press them into your hand, and follow you to the front of the building. I make you promise you won’t take off without me—I’ve seen how fast you can move—and then duck into the office.
It’s easier than I expect to take half of the day off.
“Nick, you never call in sick,” Becky tells me with a wave of her manicured hand. “If you have to go, then go. Consider your classes covered.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Is Steph okay?” she asks.
I don’t want to lie to Becky, but I don’t want her to try and pry into our situation any further, so I plaster on a big ole smile. “Of course. I just forgot I promised her brother I’d help her with a project today since he’s out of town.”
“Ah,” Becky says, nodding and smiling back at me. “Have a good one then.”
“You as well, Becky,” I say, then practically sprint out to the parking lot.
You sit in the passenger seat of my Subaru with the engine on. Music blasts out of the stereo system, playing the fuzzy oldies station that barely reaches us from Tillamook. As soon as I open the door, you punch the radio off.
“Hey.” You sound like a deflated balloon.
“Hey,” I say. I glance at the clock. It’s almost noon. “You hungry?”
“I’ve been living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the last couple of days,” you say. “I’m fucking starved.”
I want to reach out and take your hand. Squeeze it until you understand everything is going to be okay. That I’ve got you now. That, even if you refuse my proposal, I’m not going to keep my distance.
But I don’t say or do a damn thing.
I might be head over fucking heels in love with you, you might be carrying my child, but at the end of the day, we don’t have much of a relationship. You’re my best friend’s little sister, and I’m your brother’s quiet, slightly aloof best friend.
Instead, I reach for the gear shift, put the car in drive, and head for the exit. I take a right instead of my usual left and head north on the 101. “Bun on the Run sound good for lunch?”
“Sounds fucking perfect.”
Eleven
Nick
May the higher powers help me, because you are full on making sex noises while you devour your double cheeseburger and fries. I’ve hardly touched my vegan teriyaki burger and garden salad, because every time I go to take a bite, you moan, and my attention is drawn to you.
“Oh, god,” you cry around another bite of burger. “Mm. Mm!”
I blink and I’m suddenly back in my Subaru with your feet hooked onto my shoulders while my hips worked like pistons as I drew the same kind of moans out you for very different reasons.
When I blink again, the diner returns. White and teal color scheme. Homage to 1950’s television in the décor. Hot grease sizzling in the kitchen. Rain pelting the windows that look out onto the bay. And you.
You sit across from me in our booth. Fully clothed, but with your eyes crossed in ecstasy. Melted cheese drips down your chin.
A laugh shakes out of me, and I’m finally able to take a bite of my food. Charred mushrooms, grilled pineapple, vegan coleslaw, and a heavy helping of Bun on the Run’s infamous teriyaki sauce.
“What?” you ask, mouth full.
“I just didn’t realize someone could enjoy a burger that much.”
“Well, not all of us are vegans,” you counter.
“And by that you mean…?”
“That a meatless, cheeseless existence is the only way to truly live,” you say, but you sound like you’ve been dipped in a fresh vat of sarcasm. Thank god. After your tear-filled episode in my classroom and your complete silence on the drive here, you were starting to frighten me.
“Are you saying vegan food is disgusting?” I ask.
“Yes,” you say. “Yes I am.”
I smirk. “Challenge accepted.”
“If you think I’m eating—”
You stop talking as soon as I chomp down on my burger, releasing a groan so suggestive and so loud that the older couple, who no doubt own the high-end RV parked out front, glare at me from across the restaurant. But if I was self-conscious of every tourist who passed through this stretch of the coast, I might as well become agoraphobic like my grandmother and never leave the house.
“Oh,” I moan as I take another bite. “Oh, god. Yes.”
I fall silent and grin at you as I continue to chew, waiting for whatever rebuttal that little act has earned me. You shrug, looking thoroughly unimpressed. I expected nothing less, of course.
“Meg Ryan did it better,” you grumble.
I laugh once at the reference you make to one of your favorite movies. “Babydoll, are you saying I’m the Sally in our relationship?”
“First of all, we aren’t even close to having a When Harry Met Sally kind of relationship.” You dip a fry in ketchup then pop it into your mouth. “Second, even if we did, you sure as shit wouldn’t be Harry.”
“Why not?”
“You’re too uptight.” You point at me with another fry and narrow your eyes. “That’s Sally to a fucking T, Smiles.”
“Smiles?”
“If you’re gonna call me Babydoll, then I’m gonna call you Smiles.” You shove the fry into your mouth and chew slowly, looking far too pleased with yourself for coming up with that little nickname.
I don’t hate it, per se, but I don’t like it. Most of the time, me smiling is me pretending, and if you’re making jabs at my mask, then it makes me wonder if you’re starting to see behind it. And that is fucking terrifying.
No longer in the mood to joke around, I ask you outright, “Why did you show up in my classroom during the middle of a school day?”
The longer we put off this conversation—the one where you tell me you’ve thought about my marriage proposal and are going to pass—the more anxious it’s going to make me.
You swallow down a bite of cheeseburger. Wash it away with another sip of water. Your blue eyes tick up to meet mine.
“I’ve thought about what you asked.” You wear a mask of your own. Nothing but indifference comprises your features. “About marrying you for the convenience of it.”
I sigh tightly and nod. “I understand.”
“How could you possibly?” You roll your eyes. “I haven’t even told you what I decided yet.”
“Well?”
“Sure,” you say flatly.
“What?”
“Sure,” you repeat. “I’ll marry you.”
“Really?” I try to hide the glee in my voice, but from how high my voice pitches, I doubt I’ve done the best job.
Even though I know you’re only saying yes out of convenience and nothing more, the woman I’ve been crazy about for half of my life has just said she’d marry me. Stephanie Louise North wants to be my wife, I think on repeat as I take a bit bite of my burger to try and stop the actual genuine smile ripping my face apart.
As if sensing this unchecked excitement within me, you scowl across the table. “Of course, there has to be a few conditions.”
I clear my throat. “Of course.”
“Condition One.” You hold up your index finger like you think I’m a child who needs a visual aid to commit what you’re about to say to memory. “We don’t tell anyone about this. No one can know you and I are…legally unified.”
“Understood.”
“That includes my brother,” you snap.
“I’m not an idiot,” I say, reining in my smile bit by bit. The thought of your brother putting his fist through my face is a great way to dampen my glee.
“I mean, he knows the baby is yours but—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I hold up a hand to silence you. My jaw starts to tingle the way it does when I’m about to vomit. “Your brother knows the baby is mine?”
“I told you that already.”
“Did you?” I ask, because I sure as hell don’t remember.
“Yes,” you say. “Last week after I passed out.”
I nod, because now that you mention it, I remember you vaguely saying that Ryder knows. Of course, so many important pieces of information were revealed that day, I’m not surprised I buried the memory. I’m kind of good at that when I need to be.
“Wait,” I say as the reality of what this mean hits me. “You told Ryder about the baby before you told me?”
You grunt. Fold your arms over your chest. “For a while, I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell you or not, so, yes. I told him before you.”
I try not to let the fact that I could have had a kid rolling around on this planet and not even know about it knock me on my ass. I breathe and try and chew on this information one measly bite at a time.
“And Ryder?” I ask, hoping like hell you don’t notice the tremble in my voice. I can already picture you rolling your eyes if you think I’m afraid of my best friend.
“He’s not going to murder you if that’s what you’re asking.” You huff, clearly annoyed. “But I don’t think he’ll be handing out free passes for everything that goes on between us. That’s why—”
“Our marriage needs to be a secret,” I say, finishing your sentence. “Got it.”
“Condition Two.” You flash me a peace sign. “Once the baby is born we are free to reevaluate the situation.”
“Reevaluate?”
“Decide if marriage is still what we both want.”
“So we can get divorced,” I say, trying to understand.
“Yup.” You pop the p like one of my sassy high school students. Annoyed and bored. Great. That glee? All but gone. That teriyaki burger? Itching to make a comeback.
“All right.” I nod again, but this time it’s a little less tight, a little less sure. But what am I going to say? No? You’re stuck with me until the end of time? You’re a woman who values her freedom and, regardless of what I want, I’m not going to be the one to clip your wings. “I guess that seems…fair.”
“Condition Three.” You wiggle three fingers at me as you scowl, as the look in your eyes becomes as serious as a natural disaster. “You cannot fall in love with me.”
My head rears back as if you’ve slapped me.
I’ve spent years betraying my heart when it comes to you, because I’ve felt like I had to. But with everything that’s happened between us and how enmeshed we are about to become in each other’s lives, I don’t see the point of continuing to betray my heart. I can agree to conditions one and two, because I know they are what’s best for you, but this one? Promising not to fall in love with you?
“I won’t.”
“Good,” you say. “Then we’re in agreement.”
“No, I mean I won’t promise that,” I say firmly. “I can’t promise that.”
The skin on your forehead crinkles, deepening your scowl. You stare at me in silence for a long while. Long enough that I start to sweat. Long enough that I start to wonder if I’ve just revealed my hand when I should have kept my cards close to my chest.
“You won’t fall in love with me,” you say eventually, your tone so definite, so emotionless, that it physically stings.
I want to tell you that you’re wrong. I want to tell you that the truth is, the falling stage is over for me. I fell a long time ago. Past tense. I breached the terms of our unofficial contract before you even set them out.
But contracts are only as binding as the language used, right?
If I already fell for you, I can’t do it again.
Once more I remind myself this isn’t about me. It’s about you. I feel like the universe has given me a second chance to show you what it’s like to be loved the way you deserve. If one night wasn’t enough to prove that to you, perhaps the five months between now and when the baby comes will be enough.
“All right,” I say. “I won’t fall in love with you.”
“Okay, then.” You extend your hand out to me. “I guess we’re doing this, then, husband.”
My tattooed fingers skim along the soft inside of your palm before my hand swallows yours whole. Your touch sends light tingles up my arm, and it’s all I can do not to lean across the table and kiss you.
“I guess we are,” I say, and while I’m fairly certain you were being facetious when you called me your husband, I can’t stop myself from testing your new title on my tongue, just to see how it tastes. “Wife.”
