She’s afraid to.
Our situation is complicated because she needs my resources to get by, and she hates it. I just hope she doesn’t hate me in the process.
When my wife finally opens the box, the sharp intake of breath is the only reaction I need to know I chose right. Her eyes go from the ring resting in the holder to me, glazed with cloudy emotion, and says, “It’s beautiful.”
Wanting to lighten the mood, I shrug and say, “Beautiful ring for a beautiful woman.”
A watery laugh is what I get from her, and I accept it happily. It’s all I need. “Want to eat? The delivery boy will get a hefty tip once he hauls all the Chinese food I ordered here. Wasn’t sure what you wanted.”
“Chinese?”
I grin. “Is this where you tell me that you’d prefer pizza? It is your wedding night after all. What the bride wants…”
Her nose scrunches, and her muffled voice offers a small, “Chinese is good.”
“Good.”
We stare at each other.
This time, a comfortable silence weaves into the crevices of everything left unsaid.
Good.
We settle on a mindless sit-com while we eat, neither one of us really paying attention to the slapstick humor based on the glazed expressions we cast toward the screen and pick through the various boxes of food.
Rylee’s focus on the show gives me ample opportunity to really look at her. I’ve definitely cast my gaze her way whenever I could, but she always retreats upstairs and away from my attention before my eyes can give her a thorough once-over.
I know her eye color makes her self-conscious—she looks away as soon as anyone notices how dark the brown tone is in comparison to the crystal blue one that’s a touch lighter than my own. But what she probably doesn’t know is that everybody who sees them is instantly enamored by their unique beauty. It’s like when she smiles. Nobody can resist smiling back when those doe eyes and soft lips are pointed in their direction, even if they’re in a piss-poor mood.
I know firsthand.
The honey blonde hair that was down earlier is now thrown up into a messy bun, the same kind I see Mum don often. Except on Rylee, it’s artfully done without meaning to be. A single piece rests against her now makeup-less face, and I’m itching to reach over and brush it away if it means seeing her shiver again over my touch.
Her skin is slightly lighter than mine, not pale, but not tan either. I wonder if she gets in the sun whenever she can or if she prefers staying in. There’s a freckle at the base of her wrist, and two more in almost a perfectly straight line, making me want to connect the dots and see how far they go.
“You’re staring,” she remarks, drawing my attention up from the freckle I haven’t seen often since she layers in clothes that hide her figure. I wish I could have properly enjoyed her body earlier when it was showcased in the dress she wore to say her vows, making me damn happy she didn’t accept my money to buy something else.
She’s still looking at the TV, but there’s a hint of pink dusting her cheekbones. Before I can comment on it, she tucks her feet under herself and says, “And don’t use some cheesy line about admiring the view.”
Damn, she’s good.
“My mother told me not to lie though,” I come back with, smirking when she side-eyes me with a quirked brow.
Eventually, whatever thoughts are filling her head sort themselves out. Her eyes leave my face and go back to the television. “You wouldn’t be lying. You’d be evading the truth. Everybody does it.”
Sounds interesting. “What truths have you been evading, Rylee? You seem to be upfront with me. Most people in your shoes wouldn’t be, least of all with your profession.”
She cringes at the reminder of her employment and what story she’ll have to craft for her boss. I asked her if she started yet, but she told me she wanted to wait until after the “job was done”. A job—as if marrying me is a 9-5 task she wakes up to dread every day.
Maybe she does.
Rubbing the clamminess from my palms onto the jeans I changed into once we got home, I heft out a sigh and brush off the feared thought before it eats at me. “We need to talk about that.”
Her eyes dart to me. “About what?”
“Your job.” I scratch at the denim, feigning an itch to stall. “Once you submit your article and get the payout, you’ll need to quit.”
This time, I’m the one looking anywhere but at the woman who’s staring me down. Her eyes burn into the side of my face, but I try playing it off.
She doesn’t like it there anyway.
She gets paid crap.
She feels trapped.
I’m doing her a favor.
“Garrick,” she chokes out, and I hide the frown that wants to waver my otherwise neutral lips at the shake of her tone. “I can’t just quit.”
“You can.” I give her a heartfelt look of encouragement. “You said that if you had nothing left, you wouldn’t like who you are anymore.” Rylee’s silence is more than enough for me to continue. “I’m giving you an out. You don’t need that job, not now. Write the piece, get paid, and tell your boss where to kiss it. You know I’ll make sure you have everything you need. Medicine, money, whatever you want.”
“I’m not the kind of girl who wants to depend on others. That… It scares me. Anything can happen, and then what?”
“We made a deal.”
“We rushed into a deal,” she agrees, panicked as she fiddles with her fingers. “But what about when our time is up? Two years seems like a long time but that’ll be here before we know it.”
My nostrils twitch. As much as I don’t want to think about that or the domineering feeling that comes with such a cemented statement, I give her the best answer
