Page 75 of Marrying the Gardener
Calm, he nods. “In order to drown feelings, I’m told. What feelings were you drowning?”
The ones telling me to climb in his lap and cuddle, hoping I don’t hit the car horn in my fit of reckless abandon. Being in love is, how do you say…? Inconvenient.
When I don’t reply, he smiles, meeting my eyes as he draws his caress up to my knee and back down.
“Quit it,” I mutter.
“Quit what?”
“Your face is an innuendo.”
He laughs, and heat pools, warm and low. I can’t stop the way it spreads throughout my limbs, enclosing me in peace. I’ve missed being close with him this past week. It stressed me out. I don’t know how many times I nearly called Crisis to vomit up my thoughts and hope she’d have some sage wisdom to bestow.
Every time I stopped myself, it was a little harder to cope alone. Which sucks. Because I’m supposed to be used tocopingby now.
“Nitpicking my weight was particularly icky of you,” I comment.
“Too far?” he asks.
I cross my arms. “No. Fairly classic, actually. You did it so casually, too. You could be an actor.”
Something in his face shutters. “I’d rather be a gardener. I’m not a fan of spotlights.”
“Due to a disastrous middle school play where you were a vegetable or a giant tooth or something and you tumbled into the brass section of the band during your solo song about digestion?”
“Unfortunately, I do not have any traumatic middle schoolstories to disclose.”
I pout. “You can’t leave it all up to my imagination. Marriage is apartnership, right?”
He sighs. “My parents were overachievers, to put it kindly. They had high expectations, and failure was met with the discipline I’ve mentioned before.”
“The abuse,” I correct.
Pausing, he stares at my legs for several long moments, then closes his eyes. “Yes. The abuse. They were the sorts of parents who’d dismiss your drawing, then brag about how you were an artist whenever they had an audience. It made me hate standing out. Made me dread it.”
“I’m sorry they didn’t deserve your talent.”
“They deserved a whole lot less than what they got. But…it doesn’t matter now.” He rests his head back against the seat. “I don’t have to deal with them ever again.”
He’s free.
I wonder what it’s like to be free from the people who have hurt us the most. I wonder how I’ll cope with the sorts of memories I see written all over Kaleb’s face right now. Even when you’re untouchable, history sticks with you. I will always be a woman who was never good enough as a girl. I will always know how it feels to be hit by my primary caregiver. I will never understand what it means to be loved by a parent.
Freedom doesn’t change the past.
It just gives you a chance at a brighter future.
Toying with my fingernails, I say, “I’m glad a disastrous middle school play wasn’t added to your childhood trauma. It may have pushed you over the edge.”
He casts a wry look my way. “Is there a disastrous middle school play you want to talk about, Rose-red?”
Shaking my head, I smile. “No, I was tutored at home, remember? Not a single embarrassing thing has happened to mein my entire life.”
“I believe it.”
It is at this exact moment Ava opens my car door. I fall into the air, saved only by Kaleb’s grip on my leg.
“Oh goodness,” she exclaims, looking down at me and casting a glance toward Kaleb, who appears to be stifling laughter. “Are you all right, Mrs. Nightingale?”
