Page 57 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“Ow,” she says, lurching to the side before I catch her.
I’d been so distracted by finding her in another man’s arms that I hadn’t noticed how her ankle is purpling.
“Oh, Gen.” I crouch to gently palpate the area, letting her brace my shoulders for balance. “I’ve got an ACE wrap in the truck, but let’s get some ice from the bar first.”
Before she can protest, I slip a hand under her knees, swooping her off her feet.
“You’re annoying,” she tells me, poking my chest.
“The worst,” I agree, kissing her temple as I steer us through the dwindling crowd.
The bartender yells for last call, so it’s perfect timing to grab some ice and get out of there. Once Geneva is comfortably in the passenger seat, I cover her legs with an extra t-shirt and perform a full exam using the penlight from my medical bag. Predictably, Geneva doesn’t squirm or complain, just fists the seatbelt and grits her teeth as I rotate her foot. I wrap her ankle gently before propping it up on the truck bench and covering it with ice. Before I put my bag in the back, I give her a dose of ibuprofen.
“You’ll need to keep off of it for a few days, but it only looks like a mild sprain. Can you teach while seated on Monday?”
“I guess,” she says with the petulance of a cranky teenager.
I gently palm the back of her head and bring her forehead to my lips. “I’ve got you in the meantime.”
“Don’t I get a treat or something for being a good patient?” she asks as I lean back.
My eyebrows inch up, prepared to tease her, but then Geneva fists the collar of my shirt and crushes her mouth to mine. I brace one hand on the side of the truck, so I don’t collapse onto her, and then fervently return her kiss.
We’re only ten minutes into the drive home when Geneva huffs. “I reallydidwant a treat.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “I know of a 24-hour wing place. It won’t be as good as Hotties, but—”
“Yes,” she cuts me off, digging her phone from her small purse. “Need me to navigate?”
My smile blooms. “That would be helpful.”
As a computerized voice instructs me on which turns to take, I let my palm fall onto Geneva’s outstretched calf, pleased when she doesn’t pull away. A country song hums in the background—one that Geneva would usually berate me for—as I brush my thumb back and forth over her smooth skin. She shifts in her seat, relaxing against the passenger door with a pleased sigh.I’m certain she’s unaware of her serene expression, of how much she’s softened from my touch alone.
And all I can think about as we ramble through the quiet streets of Virginia Beach is this is what happiness must be—taking your wife to get wings at two in the morning. But then, my mind jumps forward too fast, thinking of Geneva with a swollen belly and the other middle-of-the-night cravings that I’d be more than happy to drive to the mainland to satiate.
I drag a deliberate breath into my lungs, hold it, and exhale slowly. There’s no guarantee that she’ll want to be with me after our agreed three-month time limit. Geneva is one of the strongest women I’ve ever met, but she also spooks easily. Bringing up anything about our relationship before then will only send her running in the other direction. Geneva not being able to accept that Ilike heris proof enough of that.
If I push forward too fast, I’ll ruin this.
Instead, I focus on now—on staying in the moment. One of my favorite songwriters is singing his best love ballad on the radio. The mid-September air sneaks through the slightly cracked windows, bringing a cool breeze and the crisp scent of leaves circulating through the cab. Stars wink in the distance beyond the wan streetlights.
I release another breath, but this one is full of contentment.
“I think I’ll try a spicier sauce this time,” I say, my lips already twitching as I anticipate Geneva’s response.
When she simply snorts, my grin fully blooms, feeling a whole lot like sunlight radiating from the center of my chest.
twenty-four
Geneva
“I’ll order a car to drive me,” I tell Van the following Tuesday, reaching for the crutch Noah brought over as soon as the news swept town.
In the Wilks Beach gossip version, I injured my ankle while high-kicking a man in the throat in order to save Vivian from an unsavory encounter in a darkened alley. A few of the town’s matriarchs came by to offer thanks by way of healing salves and fresh baked sweets before I set the story straight. Judith Abernathy insisted I keep the salve and asked if I’d like a boxing-themed quilt since the weather is finally starting to turn. I politely refused, but after Van propped my foot up on the coffee table with a frozen bag of lima beans, they spoke outside forwaytoo long.
This sprained ankle is really messing with me. I could accept when I had the flu and barely had the energy to stand thatI needed to rest. And then, no one from town saw me in that vulnerable state except Van. But having to teach my class on Monday sitting down—even if it was on a countertop—was demoralizing. I can’t check people’s form and help them get the most out of their workouts when I’m twenty feet away.
“I can easily drive you,” Van tells me as he finishes the last of the breakfast dishes like the jerk he is.
