Page 38 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
We hung the curtains downstairs. After a bit of arguing, I convinced her to have my new friend Nick—resident surfer and construction foreman—bring us blackout curtains for her bedroom and the small upstairs guest room that’s stuffed with unpacked boxes. The upstairs guest bathroom I’ve been using finally has a towel bar, a newly installed medicine cabinet, and a shower head that doesn’t squirt water all over the walls. I never did get those boxwoods planted, but Wendy has been coming over in the morning with a watering can and freshly baked muffins.
The one thing Geneva complained about was missing the Labor Day parade yesterday. Apparently, Wilks Beach is chock full of quirky town festivals, and their anything-but-a-decoration-themed Labor Day parade is one of her favorites. Participating townspeople cover their cars in elaborate float-like displays but are prohibited from using anything that could be considered a typical decoration. We squeezed in front of the single window in the guest bedroom, barely able to see the ‘floats’ as they passed on Sand Bend Road.
Geneva gave me a rundown on each entrant and commented on who she thought should win. Aldon’s truck—the owner of WB Renovations—was covered with orange five-gallon buckets, resembling a giant sandcastle. Camille—a middle school art teacher—used her students’ painting aprons to give her sedan a colorful second skin. Judith and Bonnie—two quiltmakers who work on their creations at the library—attached various quilts to broomsticks making the car look like a porcupine who’d tumbled through a fabric store. Geneva’s favorite, though, was from the Wilks Beach Garden Society who used watering hoses, plastic plant pots, empty soil bags, and rakes to create a jungle theme.
A part of me wished that we could’ve attended the spectacle roadside, like everyone else, but I know in my core that if we’d been surrounded by others, Geneva wouldn’t have been chatty while describing the floats or borderline gleeful when each design came into view. These last few days have been a behind-the-scenes look into who Geneva really is, and like the selfish jerk I am, I don’t want to share her with anyone.
At least not yet.
Early this morning, Geneva’s fever broke. I would have rejoiced, but mine popped into existence overnight. But honestly, I’ve never been happier to have full-body chills and aches, because Geneva is letting me rest on her incredibly comfortable king bed for the moment. After having my feet dangle off the couch, this is a luxury accommodation. That, and her sheets carry the delectable scent of her sandalwood perfume. I’d never known a woman to wear such an earthy scent, but it’s heady on Geneva.
“I told you you should have worn a mask,” she says from the ensuite bathroom.
I close my eyes, wincing. The water splashing in the sink is entirely too loud. How does a tiny faucet sound like Niagara Falls?
Geneva lets out that long-suffering sigh as her weight dips the bed, but then a cool washcloth swaths my forehead, and all thought leaves my fiery brain.
“That is the best sensation in the world.”
She hums as her fingertips tilt my face toward her to use the cloth on my cheeks. My mind automatically corrects itself.No, you touching me is the best sensation in the world.Her fingers are cold from the sink water, and they make me want to weep as they sift through my sweaty hair. I feel my facial muscles slack, my lips part slightly.
“For someone who’s supposed to be brilliant, you’re pretty stupid.” The words aren’t cutting, though. They’re soft and accompanied by tender passes of her fingers through my hair. “This fever is going to fry your genius brain.”
“My brain can handle it,” I say, not opening my eyes.
She snorts, and the corner of my mouth lifts.
“There you go, being all cocky aga—”
“Confident. I’m confident, Geneva.”
There’s a long pause where my semi-melted brain assumes that Geneva decided to give me a pass on this particular tête-à-tête. I am in the throes of the flu after all.
“Gen.”
The word is barely a whisper, making my eyes fly open. But Geneva is already heading back to the bathroom, running the sink before returning to the bedside with the washcloth, a glass of water, and pills.
“It’s time to take more medicine. And you should probably finish that glass since you essentially waterboarded me the last few days.”
My mouth quirks again as I push up on an elbow. “Encouraging fluid intake and waterboarding are two very different things.”
She rolls her eyes. “Tomato. Potato.”
“Even with a raging fever I know those are different vegetables.”
Geneva sets her hand on her hip, that upper-handed smirk of hers returning. “You said anything under 103°F isn’t that serious, but now your fever israging?”
“I said…” I push up farther and then stop because the motion causes the sparse sweat on my chest to accumulate and slide down the center of my breastbone. I look down in time to see it veer left over my ribs and plop onto the sheets.
When I glance up, Geneva is staring at the damp spot, jaw tight.
“I’m sorry. I’ll clean that up. Actually, let me throw these in the washing machine so you’ll have clean sheets tonight.” I sit up, ignoring the military band that’s beating drums in my head.
Her hand on my shoulder is so blessedly cold as it stops me from sliding off the bed—cold and firm. Before I can say anything, her other hand smoothes the washcloth over my face again. I’m slightly embarrassed by the sound that leaves my throat, but surely this is what bliss feels like.
“You’re not sleeping on the couch when you’re this sick, so there’s no reason to wash the sheets yet.”
I’m not sure I heard her correctly, but it’s hard to focus on anything when Geneva is pressing the washcloth to the back of my neck. My head bows forward helplessly.
