Page 43 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“I think we’ve done a good job of mostly sticking to the truth about Vegas,” I murmur as we wash the dinner dishes.
Or rather, I’m washing, the sleeves of my shirt rolled up. She’s waiting with one hand on her hip and the other open-palmed to accept the next clean dish to dry. Geneva makes the pose simultaneously impatient and alluring, but I missmy Geneva. All of the softness she’d exhibited at home wisped away like tendrils of smoke the second we walked out of her backyard gate earlier. When it’s just the two of us, Geneva is still snarky and whip-smart, but she’s also unguarded. It should be physically impossible, but she’s even more breathtakingly beautiful when she lets me in.
Geneva snorts. “It’s not like I could say we got drunk, thought we were playing pretend, and accidentally ended up husband and wife.”
A few days ago, I’d thought she wanted that—to come clean, to have me out of her life.
“I think focusing on Elvis as our officiant, what the chapel looked like, and how fun it was was a safer bet.” I keep my voice low because though Joanna excused herself to find her grandmother’s ring, she could be back at any second.
Geneva’s dismissive huff makes me smile. I wait for one of her poisoned zingers, but she stares out the tiny window over the sink, lost in thought. When her fingertips whiten on the edge of the farmhouse sink, I bump her with my shoulder.
“Breathe, darlin’. You’re doing fine.”
Then Geneva sways toward me, her shoulder lightly resting on mine, and I drop a kiss on her temple. It feels like the most natural thing in the world, the absolute right course of action. But when Geneva’s chin snaps up, her eyes wide, I realize that though I’ve thought about it dozens of times, I’ve never kissed her before.
Our eyes meet for a halting breath before Joanna’s distraught voice distracts us both. “It’sgone.”
“What’s gone?” Geneva asks, all but running across the room.
“The ring. My family’s ring. I always keep it in the bottom drawer of my jewelry box, and it’s not there.” She releases a frantic breath. “It should be there.”
I quickly dry my hands and move to where Joanna is leaning against the door jamb like it’s the only thing holding her up. “Is there any chance that you moved it somewhere else? A sock drawer perhaps?”
“I—I don’t think so, but maybe?” Joanna says, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Okay.” I give her arm a little squeeze. “We’ll find it. Let’s all look together.”
The three of us spend the next thirty minutes overturning every purse, hatbox, and storage bin in Joanna’s walk-in closet.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Joanna mutters to herself, digging to the bottom of a built-in drawer filled with outdated workout clothes.
It’s a small space with the three of us in here, even though half of the closet is completely empty.
“Is there any chance it’s in one of these drawers?” I point toward what must be theHisportion of the closet. The only thing on these shelves is a fine layer of dust.
“Those were cleared out years ago,” Geneva says, kneeling on the carpet, folding Joanna’s neon leotards into neat stacks. “When Joanna kicked my father out.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if I looked through them?”
Her fingers nearly rip a leg warmer in half. “Not sure what good it would do. The only thing that man left behind were broken promises.”
Joanna’s gaze flits up to me, her fingers trembling slightly. “But maybe we should check? I never went through them.”
Geneva’s expression shutters, and she blinks at Joanna. “You didn’t?”
“No. I figured…” She shuffles toward the drawers, but it’s like watching a person walking against the force of a wind tunnel.
“Let me.” Geneva sets a hand on Joanna’s shoulder while sliding hers back.
It’s a posture I’ve seen before—Geneva preparing to go into battle for someone else. But in this moment—heck, in all future moments—I wantto be the one to protect Geneva. Even though she’s fierce, even though she can handle everything herself,I wantto be the one.
“I can do it.”
I expect an irritated glare in response, but Geneva’s expression actually softens. “It’s okay.”
Geneva hesitates in front of the drawer like she’s expecting it to be full of jumping snakes. There might as well be tense movie music playing as she slowly slides the top drawer open. Joanna clutches at my forearm before I sling a reassuring arm around her shoulder. Unlike Geneva, Joanna is short, the crown of her head not even clearing my collarbones.
A tight exhale leaves Geneva’s nose as she turns around holding an antique burgundy ring box out to Joanna.
