Page 67 of The Marriage Game

I may be in on this ruse, but I want to be clear: I will always fight for my wife. Thank you for fighting for me in return.

A thrill runs through me. Someday, when things get hard again—as they are bound to do in marriage—I’ll look back at this text and be reminded of how much Max loves me.

Of how muchIlove him.

Dorothy’s expectant face swims back into focus, and I’m suddenly reminded of the exercise she had us do at the morning session: pick something to remind yourself of your spouse’s love for you in the hard times.

Inadvertently I’ve done just that.

And it helped.

Well, that doesn’t mean she knows what she’s talking about.

And even if I were to concede that she does, well, that still doesn’t give her the right to use our marriage failures to turn her next book into a bestseller.

“Look, Dorothy, I really just want to be alone right now, okay? Can we continue this conversation in the morning?”

Dorothy blinks a few times then sighs. “Very well, dear. I’ll let you have tonight, but know this: I’ll be in my room praying you experience a loneliness that drives you back into the arms of both your husband and your Heavenly Father.”

My mind instantly goes back to waking up alone this morning and the loneliness that gripped me, but I quickly shake this away.

“Thanks, I guess,” I tell Dorothy because frankly it’s sort of an unsettling prayer. One of those dangerous prayers, like praying to be humbled or for God to realign your priorities. These may have a good outcome in the end, but the path there is challenging to say the least.

Dorothy leaves and I settle back against the door, letting out a long, slow breath.

The thing is, I have been lonely of late, but instead of seeking out God or even Max, I’ve turned my attention to poor substitutes like work—turning my part time 20 hours a week job into closer to 30 or even 40 hours a week—, books—reading is great, but picking up my Bible before the next book trending on Goodreads would be better —, cleaning—see my prior discourse on rearranging the entire kitchen on a whim—, and even food on occasion—chocolate is a backstabbing friend: sweet in your presence, but then it turns around and eviscerates your metabolism.

I lift my phone back up and open my text thread with Max, typing out a message.

Jill

Hope you didn’t think you were actually going to spend the night away from me. I’m coming to your room. Try and get one on the first floor —I’m not sure my sneaking in skills can handle scaling walls.

His response comes quickly.

Max

Well that’s one of the most thrilling text messages I’ve ever received. Now I’m picturing you looking sexy inall black performing impressive acrobatic feats just to get to me.

Jill

I did recently discover that I can still do something that lightly resembles a cartwheel. I’ll do one for you if you’d like.

Max

Wow. An almost cartwheel. Dang. And here I was thinking you’d already performed enough impressive acrobatics today–who knew a double bed could be so fun? (winky emoji)

I laugh, flushing with pleasure, then type a message back.

Jill

Is this the part where I admit that move was just me trying not to fall off the bed? Sorry to spoil your illusions of my acrobatic prowess.

Max

No illusions spoiled. I’m perfectly happy with all of your prowesses–acrobatic and otherwise.

I’m biting my lower lip against the huge smile fighting to escape as I text back.

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