Page 36 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“Go away.”
Van waits a beat, his grin growing larger by some unknown bending of the laws of physics. “I’m making breakfast. Scrambled egg whites, asparagus, mushrooms, and sundried tomatoes. No butter hath touched the pan. Cooking spray only. Oh, and a side of pineapple.”
I want to say no on principle, even though that sounds heavenly and I’m famished. My molars grind together, but my stomach rumbles like the traitor it is.
A single blond brow raises in challenge.
“Fine.” I should be sayingThank you. That sounds lovely. Will you marry me? Oh, that’s right, you already did,like a civilized person, instead of grunting single words like a Neanderthal.
“I also let the girls out earlier—fed and watered them. The clover is starting to germinate, so that’s exciting.”
“Riveting,” I say, fishing my brush out of the drawer.
I roughly run it through my usually straight hair, and it snags on a tangle behind my head. My eyes close as I wince, pain shooting through my scalp.
“Easy.” Van moves forward until he’s right behind me. “Everything is still sore, remember? You’ll probably hurt todayand tomorrow. In an hour, it’ll be time to give you more medicine.”
His fingers loosen the brush from my hands before Van works at the tangle with searing gentleness. My eyes water, but not because of pain.
“Stop.”
At my cracked request, Van’s eyes find mine in the mirror. “This hurts?”
I tuck my lower lip between my teeth, shaking my head no.
His focus drops to the tangle, working again. When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble—warm and unfairly comforting. “It’s okay, accepting help every once in a while.”
And what happens when that help leaves?
That’s the question I want to ask, but it’s trapped in my too-tight throat. Instead, I close my eyes and let Van work out the tangles in my hair, trying not to think about how this is the first time anyone has brushed my hair because they wanted to. All the other times, it was to be evaluated by a judge.
Van’s hands give my shoulders a quick squeeze. “Breakfast time.”
Then, because he’s a good man, he leaves me alone to collect myself before I walk downstairs.
Breakfast is delicious, and after a quick check on Hank because she’s needy in the morning, I retreat to the couch and pick up the remote without thinking. I tab over toCelebrity Circuitand push play, not considering that Van is washing dishes in the adjacent room or that I’m technically germing up his bed. It’s not until I hear him humming the catchy introduction song that I realize what I’ve done.
“Shoot.” I turn off the TV, and for some unknown reason—probably because I have the flu and am not thinking straight—I throw the remote into the stairwell like it’s the hottest potato. Fortunately, it thuds on my carpeted stairs and doesn’t shatter.
“What happened to the show?” Van arrives in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, sudsy pan and soapy sponge in his hands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And then I proceed to tug at my sweater and reposition my hands from my lap to my shoulders to crossed like a person who’s unfamiliar with how fingers work.
The grin on Van’s face can only be described as delighted. “Are you ashamed of watchingCelebrity Circuit? Of course you are,” he answers before I can say anything. “You’re Geneva, strongest woman alive. You subsist on sunlight and Hank snuggles alone.Heaven forbidyou enjoy yourself every once in a while.”
He rushes to put the dishes in the sink, turn off the water, and plop next to me. “Where’s the remote?”
I point to the stairs with one hand while burying my face in the other.
A burst of bright laughter fills my small living room, almost making my head hurt again.
“Oh, Gen.”
The words are so affectionate I almost look up. Almost. I focus on staying motionless until I feel his weight dip the couch beside me. Even then, I keep my eyes screwed shut. It’s not until Tasha Frazier’s voice announces the rundown of top stories over a B-roll of video recaps that I blink one eye open. Van isn’t looking at me, though. He’s watching the screen, genuinely enraptured.
“I knew Gregory James was going to bow out of his last concert dates. That man is having a thyroid crisis if I ever saw one. I even emailed his team to check his TSH since the goiter was visible from—”
Van cuts off when Tasha reports the singer’s dangerous hyperthyroidism and recent hospitalization.
