Page 32 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“That sounds very permanent for a temporary situation.”
“Yeah.”
I glance at the black silicone ring on my sweaty hand, a mirror image of Van’s—though I’m sure he would’ve preferred white, or yellow, or cerulean. Little gray spots swim over my fingers like unfamiliar freckles. I snap my gaze up, blinking hard. I’vealready drained the water I brought with me, and Brynn isn’t carrying any.
“Could we slow down just a little?” I hate myself for asking, for showing weakness, but I also don’t want to pass out miles outside town.
“Sure.” Brynn looks me over, a furrow knitting between her brows. “Do you want to walk?”
“No. I’m good.”
My brain is on fire, and my life is falling apart, but I learned early not to let anything show.
“Smile, honey. Even if you’re breaking inside. They only want to see you smile.”
I’m not quite sure how I manage the rest of the run, but Brynn allows me to do so in silence. By the time I stumble through my back gate, everything hurts. I whisper words of affection to my sweet hens as I quickly tuck them in for the night. Maybe after I drink my weight in water from the kitchen sink, I’ll take the ice bin out of the refrigerator and dump it into a cold bath.
Van is punching numbers into the microwave when I open the back door—two, eight, then start.
“What are you doing?” My tone suggests that I caught him mutilating kittens for funsies.
“Reheating some hot chocolate. Did you have a good run?” Van turns, his smile fading as his gaze rakes me from head to toe.
I must look as disheveled as I feel. Fine. That’s great, even. The sooner Van figures out he doesn’t actually like my prickly personality, the sooner we can shut this whole thing down, and things can return to normal.
Because I know to keep that cataclysmic emotion at bay—hope. Every time Van shows interest in what I’m saying, or fixes something, or smiles at me for doing absolutely nothing,it surges in my chest. Then I’m forced to shove it down like overcooked meatloaf at a church potluck.
Push him away,I remind myself.
“Why didn’t you use the thirty-second auto-start button like a normal person?” I ask, making sure my words are extra spiky as I fill a cup at the sink.
“I feel bad for the other numbers. They almost never get used, so I try to come up with different combinations. Next time, I’ll use thirty-four.” I feel his presence behind me, like he’d crossed the room while speaking, but I ignore it.
Half of the water sloshes over my shaky hand as I bring it to my lips, but that’s fine because it’s nice and cool. I don’t know why I feel more flushed than when I was running outside. After I drain this cup, I might just put my head beneath the tap.
“You don’t have to be so considerate all the time. Just use the one-push button,” I say, making two attempts to turn the water back on.
Stupid hand. Why won’t you work?
“Make me.”
Though Van’s words are an undeniable challenge, there’s none of his usual teasing mirth infused in them. Some other emotion mixes with his consonants and vowels, but my brain doesn’t have the capacity to determine what. Motor control is takingwaytoo much effort.
As if on cue, the plastic cup slips from my hand, dropping into the sink at the same time my knees buckle.
“Gen.”
My name is breathed into my ear at the same second Van’s arm latches around my waist, pulling me flush against him to hold me upright.
Worry, my unhelpful brain finally supplies. That’s the word to describe what’s infused into Van’s deep, melodic voice.
But why should Van be worried?
I’m fine.
I’m always fine. I have to be.
“You’re burning up.” His other hand moves from my neck to my cheek to my forehead. I unwillingly lean into it because it’ssoooocool.
