Page 31 of Bound and Blitzed

“I don’t know about all of us,” Cohen comments.

Arlene shakes her head. “You’re married.” She reaches out to hug her son.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Joe surmises.

“Oh yes! Get the good bubbly.” Grandma claps her hands together.

Joe chuckles but does as he’s told.

“You know this means you’re going to have to wear the ugly bridesmaid dress, don’t you?” Raia arches an eyebrow at me.

I laugh, the wine making my blood warm and loosening the tightness in my joints. “It’s an honor you’d want me to stand up beside you.”

“Oh, you are too sweet for Avery,” Arlene comments, pulling me into a hug. Tears fill her eyes, and she blinks to hold them back. “Come, let’s sit for dinner.”

As Joe pours champagne and the family relocates to the dining room, Avery steps beside me. His hand finds the center of my back and rests there, rooting me to the moment.

I find comfort in the weight of his palm against my lower back. I lean against him, as if giving into the gravitational force that is his presence.

“You were great,” he murmurs, looking into my eyes.

I lift my face to his. “You too. I almost believed you for a second there.”

Avery tilts his face, a shadow passing through his eyes. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he dips his face to mine and presses a quick kiss to my lips.

Then, he enters the dining room, and I pull in a shaky breath.

What was that for? And what did Avery mean by it?

Chapter11

Avery

Once we brokethe news to my parents, things fell into place. Kind of. Valentina called her parents to tell them the news and from the loud voices I heard through the line, coupled with the distress that framed her face for the two days that followed, the news of our marriage wasn’t well received.

When I asked Valentina about it, she shut down further, saying it’s nothing new and refusing to speak about it.

And, to be honest, time isn’t on my side to pry further. My bye week is over and I’m back to the grind of football.

“Are you sure about this?” Valentina asks weakly as she glances around the boxes of her stuff in the foyer of my condo.

I look at her, lifting an eyebrow. “Now that we carried all the boxes up, yes. Are you?”

She sighs. “I mean, I could have kept my apartment too.”

“You don’t think that would look suspicious to an immigration official? My wife has a residence, not one she owns but one she rents, just two floors down?”

“I suppose,” Valentina replies noncommittally. But I can tell the lack of her parents’ support is weighing on her.

That, coupled with reality.

We’re two busy young professionals. I spend more waking hours at the field than I do home, and Valentina often works late into the night at the university library.

In the past few days, we’ve gotten a taste of what our new normal looks like and it’s not boding well for the next few months. Or two years.

“Do you want to unpack?” I ask. “I cleared out some space in the closet and drawers for your stuff.”

“Thank you.” Valentina looks at the boxes again. “That was kind of you, Avery.”

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