Page 35 of Assigned

Chapter Fifteen

Riley

The aroma of slightly singed pancakes floats up the stairs. I follow the scent down into the kitchen just in time to see Lucas fling a spatula into the sink.

When we got home from the restaurant the night before, we went right back to bed. To Lucas’s bed. Maybe it was going to be our bed. Lucas was everything I remembered him being when we were in high school. Tender and passionate and generous in his lovemaking. He was something more now, though, too. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man, and he took possession of me like a man. I slept better than I had in weeks with his strong arms around me, his warmth by my side, the solid mass of him near me.

Standing in the doorway wearing nothing but the dress shirt I’d practically torn off him the night before, there was a throb at my very center remembering it. Everything I’d hoped for when I’d finally let him see my scars was coming true. Nothing that I dreaded seemed to be on the horizon.

Lucas still hasn’t noticed me, and I take a moment to admire the man in action. Even just putting pancakes on a plate and balancing syrup and silverware in his hands, his movements are confident and sure. The muscles in his forearms, bunching and stretching. No part of this man isn’t toned within an inch of its life. Something makes him shake his head as he works.

“What’s going on in here?” I ask.

He spins around and the look he gives me spreads warmth all over my body, as sweet as the syrup he’s carrying. “Figured I’d make us some breakfast so I can sit in the morning sunshine and look at my beautiful wife.” He gestures with a nod toward the kitchen table and I follow, a little nervous about what kind of pancake he’s made.

He sets the pancakes down. And they’re just that. Pancakes. No chocolate chips or blueberries or bananas. Plain. I realize how closely he’s been watching me and how hard he’s trying to make things work.

“Let’s eat,” he says.

I turn and pick up the glasses sitting on the island and bring them over to the table, then sit down. I know we should talk about the night before, but I’m not sure how to start. I take the pitcher and fill my glass with water.

Lucas piles pancakes on his plate and slathers them with butter. I put a couple of them on my plate. When I look up, his eyes are on me. He chews slowly, his head tilted just a bit to the side as he watches me. “What are the scars from?”

Damn it. I drop my fork and groan. I’d started to hope that his acceptance of those scars the day before had meant I wouldn’t have to go into detail. No such luck. “An appendectomy.” Maybe I could get away with a scaled-down version of the truth.

He nods and eats a few more bites. I can practically hear the gears whirring in his head. “Graves had an appendectomy last year and has one little scar.”

Panic flutters in my chest. When he’d kissed my scars and talked about how brave and strong I was, I felt more myself than I had in years. I want that so much. I want as much of it as I can get. As soon as he finds out the extent of what happened to me and what it could mean now, it’ll be over. I want to savor a bit more of that feeling. Maybe I’ll get approved for that new drug and won’t have any more flare-ups. Then he’ll never have to know about Riley the sick girl, Riley the weak girl, Riley who has to be handled with kid gloves. And Lisa will never have to know that I have a chronic health condition that might sometimes make it difficult for me to take care of Mason.

Fifteen years ago, I lied to him. Told him I didn’t want to see him anymore. Even worse, I’d let my father tell him I didn’t want to see him anymore and that it was because he didn’t measure up. I’d hurt him with those lies and I’d hurt myself. It’s time to put that behind me. It’s time for me to come clean.

“Actually, I have Crohn’s disease. All the surgeries actually did start with the appendectomy, but my symptoms got worse while you were away with your mom at that yoga seminar. I guess I had started showing some early signs of Crohn’s for a while, but had ignored it. Figured it was nothing more than some cramps. I’d push through it.”

He nods. “I know how you were back then. Pain was something to rise above, like that damn broken arm.”

“Turns out that wasn’t such a great plan. By the time I told anyone, my appendix had burst and I had to have emergency surgery.” I push my plate of pancakes away. “It happens. Most people get better after surgery and some antibiotics. Some, however, don’t.”

Lucas stares at his plate, cutting his food into tiny bits as if trying to find some way to release his emotions. “And you were one of the ones who didn’t get better?”

I blow out a breath. “Things went wrong. Really wrong. The pain. The cramping. The inability to hold on to food.” He looks up at me. “It was... a mess. I needed help. Lots of it. It’s why my father said you couldn’t take care of me. He knew how much that would take.”

He rolls his eyes. “Riley, that’s bullshit. He had it set in his mind at least a year before that. He never came right out and said it, but he made enough comments that I knew. My family isn’t rich. He wanted you to be with someone who had money. Always had. Nothing else really mattered to him.”

I narrow my eyes. “It isn’t just about you and me. You forget my older sister died when she was twelve. From a severe asthma attack. You’re a parent. How would you feel, what would you have done or said if you had one child die from a medical emergency and then your other child got sick? You’d want to know that child would be with someone who could take care of them.”

“I wouldn’t have ripped someone else apart.” His nostrils flair. “He was wrong too. I’m a good provider. I own a house and a car and I can buy my family everything they need. I’ve taken on second jobs and signed up for per diem opportunities. I’ve done everything I can to be sure my wife and child want for nothing. I’ve proven myself ten times over.”

“You’re not hearing me.” I lean closer, my face heating. “This isn’t about money. My parents wanted to make sure I was cared for medically. You were just a kid. How were you going to do that? You have no idea how bad it got.”

“Of course I don’t. You won’t tell me anything.” He tosses his fork down on his plate.

He has a point. I take a deep breath and blow it out and square my shoulders. “I had surgery after surgery. It kept getting worse. Then an infection set in. Eventually, I had an ileostomy and a colostomy.”

His brow furrows and I clamp my lips shut tight. If only those words would never have had to pass my lips. Even so, they’re just words and barely describe the physical and emotional devastation those months wreaked on me.

My husband remains quiet, just looks at me, giving me time to continue. And I do after slowly exhaling. “It was... horrible. I was lucky. They ended up not being permanent, but it was months and months of pain and sickness. I’ve been managing since then with watching my diet and some meds. Afterward, though, people treated me differently. My parents act like I’m a porcelain doll who has to be protected at all costs. I don’t want to be viewed as the sick girl. I want the opportunity to prove myself. I want a chance to be myself. Riley. Not Riley, the Sick Girl.”

My husband’s jaw tics. “That’s why you moved out this way? To get away from them?”

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