Page 93 of Keep Me

Instead, she closes her lips and rests her head on my shoulder again. Her breath is warm against my neck as she relaxes into my arms.

Chapter Thirty

I hear the familiarclick-clickagain from the library, and I stop in my tracks as I walk in the back door, shedding my boots from the field before quietly crossing the floor. Sylvie hasn’t worked much on her novel in the past few weeks. First, she got sick. Then, we had my birthday party. And ever since then, she’s been back to acting strange again.

It’s as if Sylvie will only let me in one tiny bit at a time. That night of the party a couple of weeks ago, I think she realized how much we mean to each other now, and she didn’t like it. I don’t blame her. I didn’t like it at first either.

It’s such a strange feeling to fall in love with someone you don’t intend to. It’s like being coerced or tricked. Everything that reminded me of what it was like to despise her is gone. Wiped from my memory forever.

Slowly, I tiptoe up the stairs, mesmerized by the hypnotic sound of her fingers punching those loud keys. As I reach the library, I do the same thing I always do. I stand in the doorframe silently with my arms crossed as I watch her.

“I can see you,” she calls, sounding amused while still typing away at her typewriter.

I let out a low chuckle as I step into the room. She doesn’t stop what she’s doing. In fact, she seems captivated by the story she’s typing, and when she reaches the end of the page, she rolls it out of the old machine and loads a new one.

I could remind her again that she owns a perfectly good laptop, but she already knows that. And if this is working, then who am I to stop her?

After the fresh white page is loaded, she rolls her chair backward and stretches her arms over her head, arching her spine and revealing her back and belly. I have to force myself to focus.

It’s now early May, and I’m starting to feel a sense of panic building inside me because the days of our marriage are numbered. Sylvie only has four more months here. It will take me four more months to convince her to stay. To be my wifeforever.

“It’s a beautiful day outside,” I say carefully.

She looks momentarily surprised as she pops up and glances out the large window. “It actually stopped raining.”

“We only have a matter of time before it starts again.”

She spins toward me, tugging at the rubber band around the ponytail, letting her wild, warm locks fall around her shoulders. “What did you have in mind?”

“It’s a surprise,” I reply.

The corner of her mouth tilts upward, fighting a smile. “Fine. I can stand to take a break anyway. Let me get my shoes on.”

When I meet Sylvie outside, I watch her expression as she pulls the back door closed and spots Moire standing near the garden wall. Sylvie’s jaw drops.

“What is she doing here?” she asks with sweet surprise as she jogs down the gray stone steps toward the large animal.

“I thought you might like to go for a little ride,” I say without sounding too enthusiastic about it. I’ve learned that approaching Sylvie is like approaching a wild animal. Be gentle. Don’t be too charismatic. She spooks easy.

“I’ve never ridden a horse before,” she says with fright.

I reach out my hand toward her. “I’ve got you.”

When her gaze lifts to my face, I spot a hint of something affectionate, but she quickly wipes it away. “Promise?”

“Of course,” I reply. The desire to call her something special and intimate is strong, but I refrain.Tread carefully.

“All right,” I say, pulling her toward the saddle. “Left foot first.”

She slides her foot into the stirrup and leaps onto the horse’s back. As I climb up behind her, she relaxes against my body with a sigh. She’s more at ease with me close to her. I wish she could see that.

Sylvie leans back as we take off in a slow trot around the perimeter of the grounds. We don’t say much as we go, but my wife and I have reached that point in our relationship where we are comfortable together, even in silence. We don’t need to fill it with meaningless chatter. She’s not like my sister or my friends’ wives. Sylvie lives as if she doesn’t owe anyone in the world an explanation or an apology. She doesn’t belong to anyone—not even me. At least not in that way.

Sylvie is fearlessly herself. And I love that about her.

Especially when I feel as if I’m constantly battling with everyone to let me be myself—my sister, my aunt, and even my dead parents had a vision for me in their heads of what I was meant to be. I have failed time and time again. I’ve never truly been what anyone wished for me to be. So it’s easier just to be alone. In my house, I can’t feel the disappointment.

“Your property goes all the way out here?” she asks when we see the river in the distance.

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