Like Real People Do - part sixteen

“I…” you cast a doubtful look over your shoulder, fingers clinging to the edge of the door like you’re caught in a head wind and holding on for dear life. Riley laughs from living room, at what he doesn’t know, but it lightens those lines of stress marring your beautiful face. You swallow. Take a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He says gently, steps inside as you gesture, soft click of the door closing behind him. The tension in your spine is so strong he can feel it, and he hates that he’s the cause, that there has to be this, in order move forward. The only way out is through. “It’s just dinner.” He reminds you, and you nod.

“Just dinner. Yeah.”

“Hi Simon!” Riley pipes up, stumbling around the couch and he smiles.

“Hey little Riley, how’s it going?” She beams at the nickname, something he called her last week on the way to school while you held onto your bag in the front seat with a death grip, glaring at him.

“Good! Daisy says you’re makin’ us spaghetti?” Your lips twist, and he nods.

“Convinced her to finally let me come hang out.” Convinced is a single word attempting to sum up a week of a full court press, breaking you down, enough cajoling and sweetening to rot his teeth.

“I don’t need you inserting yourself into my life. Our life.” You slam the locker. “And you shouldn’t even be in here!” You do need me, he wants to bark, but holds his tongue.

“I’m not inserting myself into your life, Daisy, I’m already in your life. We’re married.” You open your mouth to protest but he distracts you with a hand at the small of your back, guiding you out of the locker room to his office. You obsess over every footstep, every word echoing in the hall, terrified someone will see. You’re still holding onto this shield, this non explanation you’ve managed to give everyone, passing the ring off as something to be discussed later, always disappearing before anyone can ask anything but a superficial question. “I’m your husband.” He chides as he closes the door, and your gaze turns tormented, confused, trapped in a tug of war he needs to yank you out of. Your resistance is a fortress.

“On paper. For appearances.”

“Baby.” He moves as you do, mimicking the slide of your feet, the jerk of your shoulders, cutting you off.

“Don’t.” You stare past him, brow furrowed, mouth set in a firm line. “Don’t call me that it’s…”

“It’s what?” It gets to you, he knows. Softens you. Weakens you. Bends you a little bit, day by day. He’s been slow and methodical, carefully building up to the next explosion, preparing for your claws, your fight. “We need to spend time together. You don’t think no one noticed how distant we seemed at the charity gala?” Your hands clench into fists, and he strikes, a snake injecting venom into your veins by uncurling your fingers and wrapping them into his. “We need to spend time together, we should know each other.” He leaves out the part where he knows enough about you to fill a book, or two, an entire library maybe, and waits to see if it’s enough, or if he needs to push more. Harder.

“Just dinner.” You whisper, resigned, and he squeezes your hand.

“I’ll cook.” He rubs your knuckles, unwilling to release you, drawing the contact, the moment, out. You raise your eyebrows.

“You can cook?”

“A few things. ‘M not entirely useless.”

“Can you make spaghetti? It’s her favorite. Well, one of her favorites.” Easy enough.

“No problem.”

“This is really good.” Riley smiles, big glob sauce on her chin, and you lean over to wipe it with the pad of your thumb, rolling your eyes.

“Maybe we can get try getting everything in our mouth instead of on our face?” She laughs, but wiggles in her chair as she clumsily twists her fork into more noodles, barely managing to gather more than three together. It’s a fine motor skill, and she’s a little behind. Worry niggles in the back of his mind.

“Glad you like it.” You study your plate and take your own bite, keeping your gaze occupied by anything other than him, only giving him a glance here or there. It’s brutal, this fight for control, his grip on the reins constantly being tugged, trying to be pulled free.

“Do you like horses?” Riley grins at him, and he shrugs.

“Dunno. Haven’t really been around ‘em too much.”

“Oh right! You’re from…” her little brow knits together and she trails off.

“England.” You softly supply with an encouraging nod, and she catches up.

“England! Daisy, can we take him to meet Molly? Please?”

“Uh, maybe. Why don’t you focus on eating your dinner before we move onto other things.” Her lower lip rolls out, but you give her a look. “Riley.”

“Fine.” Simon doesn’t have much experience with horses, didn’t have any exposure to them growing up. They were for rich kids, snobby bastards whose parents sent them to private schools with drivers and the like. All he knows is they’re animals, big animals, and he doesn’t love animals.

But they’re a part of your life, so they’ll be a part of his.

Though he doesn’t plan on getting too close to them.

“Maybe I’ll take you to meet Mabel.” You smirk at some private joke, and Riley looks aghast.

“That’s mean!” She turns to him, fork clattering to the plate. “Mabel was my mom’s horse, but she’s not nice. Like Daisy.” Your facade cracks a little bit, a fissure of pain breaking through.

“Riley, don’t say that.” Her arms cross in front of her chest, chin down with agitation.

“It’s true! You’re mean like Mabel.” Hurt shatters your mask, something Riley doesn’t notice, but he does. He sees it all. Instead of pushing back, your shoulders drop in defeat.

“Please just finish your dinner.” She scowls, but listens, and the table goes quiet. You’re lost in your head somewhere, holding your breath, and he instinctively reaches under the table from where he sits on your left to fold his hand over your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. It drags you to the surface, releases the air from your lungs, and you lock eyes with him, letting him see it. Guilt. Pain. Sadness. He sees all of it and his heart breaks for you.

Oh baby, I’m so sorry.

You clear your throat and straighten, chasing it all away. “If you eat all of your dinner we can do hot chocolate, how’s that?” Riley’s sour mood switches and she nods excitedly.

“Okay!”

Hot chocolate is a tradition.

A few nights a week you make it on the stove from scratch along with a batch of whipped cream, and the two of you drink it together on the front porch, a blanket or two sprawled across your lap.

Tonight, you made three mugs, though there’s no room for him on the outdoor loveseat, so he sits in one of the chairs instead.

He sees the appeal of the American west more and more through your eyes. The porch looks out over the barn, the fields, and the hills in the distance, rolling with long grass and wildflowers. They’ll all turn brown soon, you mentioned offhandedly, cold moves in fast here. They’ll wither and die along with the grass, and the dust will take on a sharpness that stings your eyes worse than it does in the summer. The horses will wear blankets, and their water troughs will freeze overnight, which means every morning you’ll slide on some boots and take a hammer to them, breaking it up enough so they have something to drink before you make your rounds with the hose.

“What time do you usually get up in the morning?”

“Oh, early. Always way too early.”

The sunset streaks pink and orange across the clouds hanging low in the sky, and Riley yawns, tucking herself under your arm as she snuggles up into your side. “You ready for bed ladybug?” She nods, already finished her cocoa, and you abandon your own to pull her upright, set her on her feet.

“I’m gonna take her up. You can… wait? If you want?” He holds his enthusiasm back at the tepid offer.

“Goodnight Simon.” She smiles sleepily, already shuffling towards the door.

“Night Riley.” You rub her shoulder and he leans back in the chair. “Take your time, I’ll wait.” It’s nothing new, it’s all he’s done for years, now it’s just a different kind of waiting.

“Okay.”

“I promise she’s not usually bratty. She’s just going through a thing.” Your smile is weak like the shrug of your shoulders.

“Kids are like that.” The other side of the bench is empty, calling his name, tempting him, unsurprised when he gives in and settles next to you.

But the bigger surprise is that you don’t shift or create distance, you just sigh.

You’re fucking exhausted.

He wants to take you to bed, not because he wants to taste you, or make you come, but because he wants you to rest, wants to lay down beside you and ensure you sleep. You need a full REM cycle, or one hundred. Probably the latter.

His arm finds the back of the loveseat, fingertips grazing your shoulder, swirling the fabric of your jumper in methodical patterns. Gentle and slow, he’s tempting fate, letting it lead the dance as you lean into it, melting into his side, your hip against his, curling in against his ribs.

“Dinner was good.” The words vibrate against his skin, and he drags languid strokes up and down your spine. This is such a rare moment. This vulnerability you keep buried, hidden from prying eyes, exposed now like soft underbelly, ripe and warm and soft, waiting for him.

“Good, ‘m glad.”

“She’s a big fan.” You sit up, swing around to face him with a perplexed face. “Though I guess she should be. Simon…” you take a deep breath. Hold it, release it, and cock your head, “why didn’t you say anything?” Ah fuck.

“Could be asking you the same question.” He’s hesitant to diffuse this bomb, doesn’t want it to blow up in his face, but you’re signaling for more when you don’t respond and he can’t deny you. “You’ve had, you have, a lot going on. I didn’t want to box you into a situation where you’d be forced to confront somethin’ painful.”

“That’s… nice of you.” Is it? Because he’s boxing you in now, boxed you into this marriage, and won’t stop. Couldn’t if he tried, and that’s not nice at all. You roll your cheek onto his bicep, peering up between your lashes, expression delicate, hesitant, like you want to say more but you don’t know how. He strokes your cheek.

“What is it baby?”

“I don’t know what to do with this. With you.” He expects you to pull back, but you don’t. If anything, you lean into him harder. “I haven’t- I don’t- I’m confused.” You close your eyes with a big breath, a contemplative pause before your whisper. “It’s really complicated in my head right now.”

“I know.” He smooths his palm over your crown. “That’s okay. You don’t have to figure anything out right now. I just want you to trust me,” the protest builds in your throat so blatantly he can see it, and he shakes his head, thwarts it, gives himself enough room to continue, “trust that I’m here, with you, and everything is going to be okay.” You chew on your lower lip, anxious, indecisive.

“Because we’re married.” It’s hushed, and that’s how he knows it’s so much more than an acknowledgment. You know. It’s not for convenience, for insurance, for appearances.

It’s real.

It’s real, and it will be real up until the day your name is engraved next to his on the headstone.

He palms the back of your neck, works his thumb into the knot at the juncture where it meets your shoulder, before dragging you into his arms, lips settling against your forehead.

“Yes baby. Because we’re married.”