To be fair, that probably doesn’t happen very often. I’m guessing I won’t find a chapter in my new marriage book on how to handle that specific circumstance. Still. I’m going for authenticity here. Being real with Loren. And in a healthy, committed relationship, both partners need to feel safe expressing their frustration as much as their happiness.
Was that on the back cover of the book I just bought?
You bet.
That’s the only part I got to read so far.
“I’m not Foster,” I say, gruffly.
She rises from her crouch. “I know that.”
“Do you?” My right hand fists, just thinking about him. “Because I gotta tell you, he was so smug yesterday at Book Smart, standing there in his sunglasses and bike shorts, acting like he cared. I wanted to murder the guy for what he did, making you doubt your instincts, ruining your ability to trust. But now I think that has to beyourjob.”
She tips her chin.
“Metaphorically,” I add. “Don’t actually murder that idiot.”
Her lip quirks. Just the tiniest bit. But still.
“My point is, you’re way too strong to let a troll like him keep you in a basement.” I cock my head. “Again, a metaphor. But what I’m saying is, you aren’t broken, Loren Cane Adams.”
She pulls in a breath.
“You never were.” I fix her with a stare. “And yeah, I know life won’t be perfect for us. We’ll have plenty of obstacles to face. Maybe even some terrible ones. But I promise to spend the rest of my days proving that we can get through anything together. If you’ll let me.”
Her eyes are soft and shining, wet at the edges. “I want to let you,” she says. “It’s just … all so … messy.”
I duck my head. “Hence the book on marital communication.”
For a moment, we’re both quiet. Then Loren presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Tonight,” she says. “I’ll come back tonight, and we’ll talk.”
My shoulders sag, a release of tension, but the war isn’t won yet. Compared to most conflicts involving my mother, this was barely even a battle. “And you’ll still be there, Saturday,” I say. Not a question. More like a desperate imperative.
“It’s your thirtieth birthday,” she says. “And you’re still mybest friend. I’m not leaving your life right now. I’m leaving the house.”
As she heads to the door, I follow her. The duffel’s back in the closet. A good sign, I decide.
So I hazard a small smile.
“Take the space you need,” I say. “Breathe. Think. Whatever. Just promise me, while you’re gone, you won’t forget you’re my wife.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Loren
I want to believe Bridger is right.
He says good stuff is all around us, happening all the time if we just take the time to notice.
So I spend the whole day looking.
And my husband has a point.
I play three full games of chess out in the garden with my dad, and he remembers the rules well enough to beat me. Twice. As for the third game, I’m pretty sure he lets me win. This gesture, plus old memories of him teaching me to play in the first place, makes my heart swell with the sweetness.
Afterward, we eat lunch together in the open-air restaurant. Just him, me, and his fellas. The chicken salad is delightful. So is the conversation. By the time we leave for my dad’s pottery class, both my stomach and my heart are full. I stay for the whole class. And my dad’s lopsided bowl going into the kiln pulls a teary-eyed laugh from me.