Page 41 of My Wife
“I’ll be going then.”
“Good,” he says, straining now, having moved on to pull-ups, using a bar mounted in the doorway.
“Great,” I say, once more captivated by this man doing his workout.
It’s not the show of brute strength—okay, a little bit because not even the most skilled Renaissance sculptor could create such muscular perfection from marble. He’s burly but not beefy. I’m transfixed by that and how he’s so cold when he has a cute and healthy son, a beautiful home, and a successful career.
Somewhere over the rainbow and down the yellow brick road, my version of that exists. I have to hope. I have to believe.
But it’s not here.
When I reach the door, the patter of little feet stops me in my tracks and two pudgy little arms wrap around my legs.
I sign that it’s time for me to go. The little boy’s chin quivers. I want to assure him we’ll see each other again, but know all too well the pain of broken promises, so I remind him not to climb the walls, to keep making such cool things with his Legos, and to practice signing to his crab.
Liam appears, sweaty and broody … and unfairly attractive.
Giving my head a shake, I sign,Goodbye, King Liam Ellis.
His father asks, “What did you say?”
I sign and speak, repeating my farewell then dropping my hands, I add, “Isn’t it a bit audacious to name your kid King?”
“It wasn’t my choice,” he says with disdain.
“I figured you’d want to wear the crown and be called Hockey King or something.”
He takes a few steps, edging me toward the door. “Around here, I do. Don’t forget it.”
“I’m at your service, your royal hiney-ness.” I know it’s childish, but I can’t help it. I’ll do anything to get this guy to crack a smile.
His lips don’t even twitch.
“The name King Liam Ellis, almost, but not quite, makes your son a junior.”
He blinks slowly as if bored by my observation.
“I’m wondering if I can call him KJ, short for King Junior. It’s more kid-friendly.”
“Call the kid whatever you want, Jessica.”
“It’s Jess.”
He slides his hand down his face as if exhausted. “Okay, Jessica.”
“Jess,” I repeat.
He holds the door open for me.
“Wait, um, also, maybe don’t call him the kid. You could call him KJ too. It’s kind of adorable.”
“I’ll call him whatever I want.”
“Right, but KJ is fun and sweet, right? And while you’re at it, you can call me Jess,” I say with a friendly little bop of my head.
“See you tomorrow, Jessica.” He closes the door some more.
I wedge my body between it and the frame. It’s a risky move since I’m dealing with this rascal. “Sounds great, but please call me Jess and your son KJ.”
