Page 21 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
Geneva’s sneakers stumble on the mold-stained walkway bending around the side of the house, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from chuckling. Once we’re in her silver sedan, the console screen pops up with GPS presets. The first one is an acronym, but the second is a place called Hotties.
“Hotties? I had no idea you moonlight as a cocktail server at a biker bar,” I say, touching the screen to initiate navigation.
“Don’t—” Geneva reaches forward and cancels navigation. “And what if I was? Would you think less of me?”
“Not in the least,” I say, settling into the seat. “Serving is hard, honest work.”
She eyes me stonily before putting the car into reverse, throwing gravel as she pulls onto Sand Bend Road.
Silence slips between us as Geneva weaves through the farmland that separates the town from the larger city of Virginia Beach, where the home improvement stores are located. Rows and rows of soybeans and corn stretch on either side of the two-lane road, butterflies flitting in the air. I’m smiling at a tiny yellow one arching over the tall stalks when Geneva’s voice draws my attention.
“It’s a restaurant.”
“What is?”
“Hotties. They serve hot wings.”
I tilt my head back with a groan. “That soundsamazing. I haven’t had good wings in forever. Can we go after the hardware store?”
When I glance over, Geneva’s gaze is fixated on my Adam’s apple, and she nearly misses the next curve in the windy road. The lane-departure alert beeps as she rights the car.
“Um…sure,” she says, punching her finger on the console screen so that heavy-metal music pulses through the speakers.
I glance out the window, smiling to myself. As much as Geneva might not want anything romantic to happen between us, she’s undeniably attracted to me. And as a man living on crumbs and sleeping on the couch, I’ll take it. I’m beginning to figure out that I’ll take anything she’ll give me.
An hour later, I utilize every opportunity to pester Geneva at the gigantic home improvement store. We select clover seed, a watering system, and hardware to fix her broken door before stopping in the paint department.
“I’m not painting my house pink,” she tells me, assuming her favorite cross-armed position.
“Why not?” I ask, pulling down a variety of rose-colored swatches. “Wendy’s house is a joyful peach, and with the yellow house beside yours, pink would be perfect.”
Geneva doesn’t dignify my comment with a response. She only reaches up to grab a gray color pallet.
I snatch it from her and hold it behind my back. “We can do better.”
“There is nowe,” she says, reaching up to select another one.
I’m quicker, though, spreading my palm over the gray display area so she can’t select another swatch.
Geneva glares. “Were you dropped on the head as a child?”
The corner of my mouth quirks. “This will be the color your house will be for at least five years, accounting for how the salt air takes a toll on paint. Really think about what you’d like.”
“What if I like gray?”
I’m unprepared for the way her mouth softens, how her words are slightly uneven. I’d expected her to spar with me until theend of time. I’d been prepared to bring up the information I found online, but this questionfeels…earnest. When Geneva’s gaze falls to her shoes, hiding her face beneath the bill of her hat, my chest caves in.
“Gray is—” I clear my throat of its grit and remove my hand from the display. “Gray can be nice.”
Geneva selects four ashen swatches, surveying them with a rigid jaw. “It’s a safe choice.”
I want to press the issue. I want to push for why. Why doesn’t she feel like she can have color in her life? Why is she limiting herself? Instead, I gesture toward the service counter.
“Why don’t we get a few samples to try out?”
Back in the car, my stomach rumbles—loudly. It sounds like a thunderstorm is brewing inside me. Geneva takes one look at me and releases a long-suffering sigh.
“I’m fine,” I preempt. “I can wait until we get home.”
