Page 26 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
So I gave it a try. I wasn’t the dazzling beauty queen full of the right answers. I wasn’t the gruff boxing instructor who kept to herself. I was some melted version of the two of them.
I helped Raquel, Evelyn’s daughter, pick out prom dresses because she’d said she liked my style. I usually came straight from volunteering at the women’s shelter, wearing business clothes so the women I was teaching would see what’s appropriate for interviews. When I overheard Eugene and Charlie arguing over who would win an upcoming boxing match, I chimed in. Now we talk about matches like dads at the bus stop recounting the previous night’s NFL game.
I started to enjoy being there, loosening up each time. Eventually, I learned the story of the long-time best friends’ dream of owning their own business and how everyone in Eugene’s family worked there in some capacity. Charlie—a perpetual bachelor and flirt—ran a surprisingly effective social media campaign for someone in their seventies. His signature winking signoff even had its own hashtag—#winkysilverfoxhottie.
I still haven’t figured out the exact middle ground between perfect and untouchable, but I desperately want to get it right. Especially now that after our impromptu trip to Vegas, Vivian, Brynn, Summer, and Cade expect a normal friendship from me—something I’m not sure I’m capable of anymore.
“There you go strangling things again.” Van’s tone is playful.
“This is all your fault,” I snap and then immediately regret it. I’m being a jerk again, but all my wires are frazzled.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shift in his seat to face me, but I don’t dare keep my eyes off the road. “What’s my fault?”
“I was rude. I stormed out. I don’t do that there. I’m—”
I abandon the sentence, realizing that it probably sounds like gibberish to Van. I’m always rude in front of him. It’s my self-preservation bread and butter. They can’t hurt you if they don’t like you enough to stick around. But I can’t explain that I’mneverthat way at Hotties.
“If you’re worried if Evelyn was upset, she wasn’t. I told her we were in a hurry. You said so yourself when we arrived.”
“I’m not worried.” The words come out with frosty precision, but Van lets out an unconvinced hum.
“What’s going on, Gen?”
Only my husband calls me Gen.
I nearly snarl at my brain’s annoying reminder. Why does it keep telling me that at the worst possible times?
“Pull over.”
I’ve never heard Van be so direct, commanding. Is this his doctor voice? The one he uses to shout “Get me ten cc’s of propofol!” or “Clear!” like they do on those medical shows.
He points to a small city park just ahead. “Pull over there.”
“But—”
“Geneva Cecila Bradford, so help me—”
I cut off his impending tirade by jerking the car into the one of the slanted parking spots beside the fenced-off dog park.
Van makes an approving sound in his throat as I shift into park. Then he bolts from the car, jaw tight as he crosses in front. I have the fleeting thought to throw the car in reverse and leave him behind, but he left his door open.
I expect another command when my door is swung open, and this time, I’m prepared to fight. I really hate being told what to do. I spent way too much of my life following my mother’s ordersand haven’t let anyone boss me around since I carved out my own life in Wilks Beach.
But Van’s fingers smooth over my clenched ones, still strangling the steering wheel. “Let’s just take a minute to eat. Nothing makes sense when you’re hungry.”
I don’t move, not an inch. I’m pretty sure I don’t breathe.
“Come on, darlin’.”
It’s the darlin’ that gets me. Darn him and this effective Southern charm—though I’dneverlet Van have the satisfaction of knowing that.
My shoulders fall from my ears in helpless surrender as I shift to unbuckle my seatbelt. I hate this too—conceding—but Van’s murmured words of encouragement as I pick up the to-go bag soften the blow. He stoops into the car to grab our teas and turn off the ignition. I hadn’t even noticed I left it on. My brow furrows because I’m never anything if not meticulously careful abouteverything. But before I can question it further, a strong hand at the base of my spine leads me to a picnic table.
It’s too hot for a midday picnic, but the table is shaded on one side by a mature magnolia. Van places my drink in the shade and silently portions out our food, setting my mango-habanero and atomic paper boxes in front of me. When he digs in, unabashedly enjoying his wings, I open my boxes. The delicious scent of spices tickles my nose, and my mouth waters. I guess I’m hungrier than I thought.
The wing sauce burns my tongue, and it’s a welcome sensation—something expected, predictable. Because the last two days with Van are confusing. My brain shakes off its foggy state, reminding me I need to set strong boundaries with Van. The last thing I need is to open up to someone who’s leaving in a few weeks.
“We have to stop doing this.”
