Page 28 of Assigned

Chapter Eleven

Lucas

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Air rushes out of my lungs as if I’d been kicked by a horse. My fingers dig into the armrest of the couch. Riley thinks I married her to help out with Mason? Guess she forgot the reason I’m going to court. It’s because she’s in my life, not despite it. “Marrying you is the reason Lisa wants a legal custody agreement.”

Where is this coming from? What happened to the woman who wanted to go with me to see the lawyer? Who said we’d show Lisa we could be a family for Mason? I rub both hands over my face. “Look. We’re supposed to be working things out here. Not making them worse.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Craiger, there are obviously some underlying issues here.” The therapist flips through the file, reads something, then closes the folder. “I do notice you both knew each other as teenagers. But let me be forthright, even the smallest lies will cost you both. The committee doesn’t take people joining the program for personal gain lightly. If you did in fact sign up to help with your custody case, Lucas, you could be dishonorably discharged.”

My body tenses and it’s as if all the oxygen in the room dissipates. Be kicked out of the military? Fuck, no. Not after everything I’ve gone through to get where I am.

Losing my job would mean losing my son.

And my purpose.

I level the therapist with a look. “I assure you that is not why I joined. I’m sure the committee will find legal paperwork that is dated to corroborate my statement.”

Could this day get any worse? Talk therapy is supposed to help but it’s making everything worse. I guess it only helps when everyone is being honest, which Riley definitely isn’t. There’s something about her stomach, the way she constantly leans forward, arms clasped around her middle, like right now. And the way she panics if my hands come anywhere near it. Somehow it’s tied up with her moving out here and that stupid apartment. She’s always been one to deflect, but I never would have thought she’d deflect in a way that would hurt Mason. I thought she really liked him and I could tell he liked her.

My gaze runs over my wife. She’s pale again, and there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Something is wrong. She’s in pain. I reach out a hand and place it on her shoulder. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” she snaps. “I don’t want or need your concern or any special treatment.”

My mouth drops open. Uh, what do I say to that? How is asking if someone is okay the wrong thing to do? I raise my eyebrows at Dr. Stehman who also watches Riley, hoping she might have a suggestion.

Instead, her noncommittal smile and concerned facial expressions fade. She’s cool. Assessing. Riley seems to notice, too, and fidgets. My wife’s shoulders slump and she lets out an audible sigh. “Actually, I’m not peachy. I’m not feeling so great. Could we reschedule?”

“Of course,” Dr. Stehman says.

My heel bounces against the floor as we set a new date, my gaze shifting between my wife and the floor. Don’t want to upset her, but I’m worried. Once we are all set, Riley and I exit the office. I stay behind her, shoving my hands into my pockets because I’m not sure what else to do. And at least if they are restricted by the denim material, I might not overstep and make her feel incapable.

The ride home is as silent and tense as the one to the therapist’s office. I steal glances over at Riley. Her skin is even paler and she’s hunched over even more, arms still crossed over her stomach. What can I do to make her feel better?

I stare out the windshield and my mind drifts back to our appointment and that pause before she answered why she joined the program. Is that where the problem lies? Her answer was fine, once she said it. So why did it seem so difficult for her to admit to? Especially since it’s in line with my reasons. It’s not the first time the question has come up. She had to have said something on the application about why she applied. Unless, of course, she’s lying and had to scramble to remember what she’d said before. A cold knot forms in the pit of my stomach.

When we get back to the house, her door opens and she’s getting out practically before I can put the truck in park.

She’s upstairs by the time I get in the house. The door of the upstairs bathroom slams shut. Dread owns me, pushing against me like an invisible gale, attempting to reverse my steps back to the garage and into my truck. My stomach is locked up tight, nothing getting in or out, and I’m sweating through the button-down shirt.

But unless I can turn back time and drag the sun from the sky, the chips have to fall where they may. I just hope if given enough space, Riley will open up to me before the stress of watching her suffer eats me alive.

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