Page 39 of Take 2
As I complete the ritualistic knotting of the bow tie, I ask, “Are you ever going to learn to do this yourself?”
“Nope. I have a wife to do it for me.”
“Lucky you.”
“Lucky me, indeed.” He kisses me and proceeds to help with the spread.
I post the pictures while Ryan pours the champagne. I tag @annasbroadwaydreams in the caption and do my best to look casual as I lean my elbows on the counter. “Anna was crying about us not going to her premiere.”
“She’s such a diva.”
“I mean, it’s kind of a big deal.”
“I know.” His shoulders slump. “What are we supposed to do? It’s not my fault we live in an apartment that costs more than a house in Wisconsin would.”
My hands tremble as I open a block of gruyere and put it on the cutting board. “It’s not my fault either.”
“Babe, I know.” He hands me the cheese knife. “It’s California’s fault.”
“Well, you chose to live here.”
“You chose to live here, and I chose to live with you.”
The steady rhythm of slicing helps keep me calm. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Long distance would have been hell.”
“We would have figured it out.”
He puffs out a breath that’s something between a laugh and a scoff. “Even being here in-person, I hardly ever get time with you. Different time zones and rare FaceTimes would not have worked.”
“Ryan …”
“I’m not starting a fight.”
“You are, though! Jesus, Ryan. You knew I wasn’t moving here for a vacation. You always said I was going to succeed because I work my ass off, but the reality of that sucks. I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Well, school and writing weren’t actually supposed to be the only things you worked hard at.”
My hand slips, and I cut my finger. “Coño!”
“Bella!” Ryan grabs a napkin and pulls my hand away from my face where I’ve put the cut fingertip between my lips.
“It’s not a big deal.”
He holds the napkin around it, squeezing my whole hand in his. “Wish you used Spanish in bed instead of swearing over injuries.”
“Mom didn’t teach mesexySpanish words, obviously.” I sniffle and wipe underneath my eye before the tear poised at my lashes can slide down.
A finger pushes up under my chin, forcing me to make eye contact. “Bella, I’m sorry.”
“I just … I feel like you hate it here, and I don’t want you to resent me for making you move, and—”
“Babe, no.” He tucks me into a hug, and I breathe him in. “I don’t resent you or regret moving here. It’s hard, I’ll admit. Harder than I thought it would be. It’s weird to spend two decades wanting to get the hell out of Wisconsin only to find that I feel out of place elsewhere.”
I arch back to look him in the face. His plan was always to leave Wisconsin, and I can’t help but think it’s less about the location than what he’s doing. We would have moved anywhere for a football team, and that probably would have been better for both of us. I can write anywhere. “Don’t you like UCLA?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know.” He’s on the athletics staff, not playing, which felt close enough when he decided to go that route, but it’s not the same.
