Page 14 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“This is what we’re going to do,” he says, stepping back so I can finally release my tight muscles.
“We’ll head home, get cleaned up, and prepare for tonight. If people think we’ve been dating for a year, they’re going to have questions. Since you’re the strong, silent type, you can grunt and scowl at everyone while I talk,” Van says, sending me an endearing grin. “I’ll take care of everything, keep the lying to a minimum so I don’t get heartburn, and afterward, we’ll stay out of the limelight. Deal?”
I nod, finally loosening my fisted fingers.
“Don’t worry, Gen.” Van gives me that dimpled smile. “I’ve got you.”
As I lock up my gym and numbly follow Van back to my house, my mind whirls. But I’m not thinking about how my life is spinning out of control or what a circus tonight will be. A single thought repeats itself, insistent as a drumbeat, as we trudge through the afternoon heat.
Only my husband calls me Gen.
six
Van
“Don’t you own something other than black?” I ask while sitting on Geneva’s bed.
She glares at me through the mirror of the ensuite bathroom, applying lipstick. It’s maddening, that bright-red color—nothing like I’ve seen her wear before. Geneva’s dress, however, is very similar to the one she wore in Vegas—tight and black. Her entire wardrobe seems to revolve around various shades of pitch darkness.
“It matches the color of my heart,” she quips, capping the lipstick and tucking it into the side of her dress’s bodice.
I glance away, certain that my ears are turning pink.
That’s another reason I don’t lie. Both Mama and Taylor could always tell if I was fibbing—my ears gave me away.
I keep talking to distract myself, moving to thumb through her open closet. “You could pepper in a bit of color. Perhaps a muddy brown or morose burgundy?”
When Geneva doesn’t answer, I look over my shoulder to find her leaning against the door jamb to the bathroom, arms crossed and frowning.
My little storm cloud.
“If you really wanted to shock people, you could add in yellow or chartreuse,” I say, needling her.
Geneva marches over, shutting the slotted closet doors and nearly taking off my finger. “I’m already shocking the town with your existence.”
We spent the afternoon learning about each other in preparation for tonight. Or rather, Geneva tossed my file at me, asked for me to point out inaccuracies—which creepily, there were none—and I pulled teeth, gathering barely enough information about her to satisfy the impending crowd. Geneva’s rationale was that no one in Wilks Beach knows much about her, so me knowing details was irrelevant.
I did discover that she’s originally from Philadelphia, she has a degree in business administration, and the rough details of her philandering father. Geneva admitted with an unconvincing shrug that everyone in town knew the basics, and therefore, so should I. Every cell itched to hold her, but since Geneva’s body language gave offtouch me and dievibes, I maintained my distance and made us a late lunch instead.
It’d also been necessary to subdue my impulse to ask follow-up questions, knowing there’s so much more to that story. Following that instinct usually proves right in my medical practice. When I get a hunch to order a seemingly unnecessary CT scan or an extra lab test, I usually find a disorder that, if left to fester, would have created problems later on. I want tounderstand Geneva on a cellular level, but I know earning her trust will be a slow-going endeavor.
I cock my head, waving my hand in a small circle. “Would putting me down help dispel some of this black-cat energy before we’re supposed to be social?”
“You smell like a bag of wet grandmas,” Geneva tells me with a straight face.
The laugh bursting from my belly causes the corner of her lip to quiver. It’s a beautiful sight until she forces it down.
“That’s a good one. Hit me again.”
This time, she doesn’t restrain her smirk, and I freaking love it.
“Talking to you is as riveting as reading a car manual.”
I splay my hand over my chest like I’ve suffered a bullet wound. “Stop. I can’t take it.”
Geneva leans in, a delightfully wicked gleam in her eye. “I love how you walk around with the confidence of a tall man.”
“Hey now.” I pull my shoulders back, rising to my full height. “Those are fightin’ words.”
