Chapter 8
chapter
eight
Mike
My mind swims with thoughts, even more so than usual. I'm accustomed to the constant barrage of ideas that bounce around in my head. My brain has been a beehive of activity for as long as I can remember.
For years, I thought it meant I was crazy or that I had something seriously wrong with me.
When I'd questioned friends and my brother about similar experiences, they'd all looked at me like I'd grown an extra arm.
It didn't take me long to recognize that I was different.
Initially, that difference caused problems.
Problems at home with a dad who didn't understand me. Problems at school where there was too much and not enough structure, all at the same time. I'd been labeled and hated myself for a long damn time.
Therapy, a proper psychiatric diagnosis, and the appropriate medication turned my life around. Now I can use my powers for good, as Mitchell likes to say.
In any case, I'd intended to speak with Evelyn about our plan once we landed in Austin. Instead, I'd confessed to her.
Confessed that I wanted her. That I was attracted to her.
Thankfully, I managed to keep some of my thoughts unsaid. Like the ones about wanting to cross all the boundaries that involved her mouth, her being naked, and being completely at my mercy.
I'd kissed her forehead instead—an act of restraint that deserved some kind of medal.
Later, I'd promised.
Then we'd gotten separated on the flight despite my strongly worded protests to the crew. They wouldn’t let me buy another seat in First class and Evelyn refused to take my seat and send me to coach.
First class and coach might as well be different planets.
So I'd busied myself with work until we landed, all while wondering if she was okay back there.
If she was overthinking. If she was regretting.
Now, hours later, I'm parked in front of her ex-boyfriend's house. Kurt.
I don't like the way his name sits in my mouth. Too blunt. Too ordinary for the amount of space he seems to occupy in Evelyn's head.
"This is it?" I ask, staring at the beige single-story with its patchy lawn and sagging porch.
Evelyn unbuckles her seatbelt. "What were you expecting?"
"I don't know. Something more... menacing? I was picturing a gothic mansion. Maybe some gargoyles."
She snorts. "He's not a supervillain, Mike. He's just a guy."
"A guy who made you sleep on a couch in your own home."
"His home," she corrects quietly.
"Right." I kill the engine. "That's somehow worse." I pause. “Is he a big guy or…?”
“He’s normal, I guess.”
I look at her face. “Is he going to try to kick my ass?” If he does, it’s fine by me. When you’re on the autism spectrum and have ADHD, you tend to get into a lot of fights as a kid. I know how to take a punch. And how to throw one if need be.
She snorts again. “Only if he’s more of an idiot than I think he is. He’s not as big as you, that’s for sure. You look like you work out. A lot.”
I do my best not to preen under her observation, but damn it feels good to be seen. “I was scrawny growing up. And a weird kid. Got my fair share of ass kickings. Until Mitchell was old enough and in school with me. Then he—my younger brother—protected me. Fuck, that’s humiliating to admit.”
Her eyes soften and she gives me a genuine smile. “I was a late bloomer too. Didn’t really have boobs until the middle of high school. My curves showed up and then some. But don’t worry. Kurt is harmless.”
I nod.
I really had expected more.
More house. More presence. More of something worth being annoyed over.
Instead, Kurt answers the door in khakis and a colored p olo shirt embroidered with the Austin Armadillos’ emblem.
Interesting. I’ll have to ask Evelyn about that later.
There's a protein shake in his hand, and irritation is written all over his face when he sees Evelyn behind me—then flickers to confusion when he notices my hand resting casually at the small of her back.
"What's going on?" he asks, looking past me like I'm not even there. "You said you were just grabbing a few things."
"She is," I say evenly. "We're not staying long."
His eyes narrow, finally deigning to acknowledge my existence. "And you are?"
I don't offer my hand. "Mike."
"That's it?" He scoffs. "Just Mike?"
"That's sufficient."
Evelyn hides a grin by turning around. Smart woman.
Kurt looks between us, his expression shifting from confusion to something uglier. "Wait." He points at Evelyn. "Is this that murder mystery thing you were rambling about? Is he an actor?"
"I'm not an actor," I say.
"He's my husband," Evelyn adds as if she didn’t just drop a bomb on his ass.
The protein shake freezes halfway to Kurt's mouth.
I watch with great satisfaction as his brain visibly short-circuits. It's like watching a computer try to run software it wasn't designed for.
"Your what?”
"Husband," I repeat helpfully. "We got married in Vegas."
Kurt barks out a laugh—the kind that's supposed to sound dismissive but comes out a little too sharp. "That's insane. You don't just marry strangers in Vegas. That's something drunk sorority girls do."
"And yet." I hold up Evelyn's left hand, letting the diamond catch the light. "Here we are."
He stares at the ring like it personally offended him.
"That's not—" He shakes his head. "You don't even know her."
"I know enough."
"You've known her for what, a weekend? I was with her for fourteen months."
"And in those fourteen months," I say, keeping my voice pleasant, "you made her feel boring. Predictable. Like she was taking up too much space in her own life." I tilt my head. "Did I miss anything?"
Kurt's face goes red. "She told you that?"
"She didn't have to."
Evelyn tugs gently on my arm. "Mike, maybe we should just—"
"Get your things, princess,” I tell her softly. "I'll wait here."
She hesitates, looking between us like she's worried about leaving two territorial dogs in the same yard. Which is fair.
"I'll behave," I say. “I won’t touch him.”
Her quirk in a grin. “That's not reassuring."
"It's the best I can offer."
“I’ll be quick,” she says, then disappears down the hallway, her footsteps quick and purposeful.
Kurt and I stand in the doorway, sizing each other up. He's trying to look intimidating—arms crossed, jaw tight—but the effect is somewhat undermined by the protein shake and the fact that he's got a receding hairline.
"Look," he says, lowering his voice like we're suddenly conspirators. "I don't know what she told you, but Evelyn exaggerates. She's emotional. Dramatic."
"Interesting."
"She probably made our relationship sound worse than it was."
“What, like her mentioning the couch?"
His eye twitches. "That was temporary."
"For three months."
"She was comfortable there."
I laugh. I can't help it. "Comfortable. On a couch. In the living room. Of the house she was paying half the rent for."
"It's a nice couch!"
"I'm sure it is." I glance around the visible portion of the house—beige walls, generic furniture, not a single photo of Evelyn anywhere.
No colorful throw pillow, no drawings from her students on the fridge door.
No indication she ever existed here at all.
"Did you ever actually see her? Or was she just someone who happened to live in your space and occasionally cook dinner? "
Kurt's face cycles through several emotions before landing on defensive anger. "You don't know anything about our relationship."
"I know she lit up when she talked about teaching.
I know she hums when she's happy and goes quiet when she's nervous.
I know she thinks she's boring because someone told her she was, and I know that's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard.
" I step closer. "And I know that when I asked her to marry me, she said yes without hesitation. "
"She was probably drunk!”
“Oh, that was low. But I promised my wife I wouldn’t touch you. Just know this, that woman in there.” I point to the hallway where she disappeared. “Is walking sunshine. I knew the moment I saw her that I wanted her. Unlike you, I won’t be such a fool as to let her go.”
Kurt opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say dies when Evelyn reappears, hauling two suitcases and a laundry basket stuffed with books.
"That's everything?" I ask, already reaching for the heavier suitcase from her.
"I think so." She pauses, looking around the living room one last time. Her eyes land on the infamous couch—a perfectly ordinary gray sectional that I now hate on principle.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
She nods. "Yeah. It's just weird. I lived here for over a year, and I don't... feel anything. No sadness. No nostalgia." She shrugs. "It's like leaving a hotel room."
That tells me everything I need to know about what these fourteen months were for her.
"Evelyn," Kurt says, and something in his voice shifts. Softer. More calculated. "Maybe we should talk. Just the two of us. Get coffee sometime. We didn't really get closure."
I keep my mouth shut. This isn't my call to make.
Evelyn tilts her head, considering him. For a second, I see a flicker of the woman she must have been when they were together—uncertain, people-pleasing, worried about causing conflict.
Then she straightens her shoulders.
"You broke up with me three months ago and asked me to sleep on the couch because you 'needed space to think,'" she says calmly.
"You criticized my cooking, my clothes, my lesson plans, and the way I organized the dishwasher.
You told me I was predictable and boring, and when I cried, you said I was being dramatic. "
Kurt's mouth opens.
"I don't need closure from you, Kurt. I just needed to get my stuff." She hoists the laundry basket higher on her hip. "Also, you still owe me sixty dollars for that electric bill from November."
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.
"I'll Venmo you," Kurt says weakly.
"You'd better." She turns toward the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Kurt? I reorganized your spice cabinet before I left. Alphabetically. You're welcome.”
And then she winks at him. Fucking winks.
I think I might fall in love with her right then and there.
We're halfway to the car when I lose it.
The laugh erupts out of me—loud and uncontrolled and probably audible from the house. Evelyn shoots me a look, but she's smiling too, that real smile that lights up her whole face.
"Alphabetically?" I manage.
"He always complained that he could never find the cumin."
"So you passive-aggressively organized his kitchen."
"I like to think of it as a parting gift." She dumps her suitcase in the trunk. "Also, I may have hidden the cumin behind the paprika."
I stare at her. "You're diabolical."
She shrugs. “I teach kindergartners. You learn psychological warfare early."
I pull her into me and kiss her right there in Kurt's driveway, where I'm almost certain he's watching from the window. It's petty and possessive, and I don't care even a little bit.
When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed. "Was that for his benefit or mine?"
“Mine, actually.” I open the passenger door for her. “Aren’t spices normally organized alphabetically?”
“Exactly!”
“How was he organizing them?”
“By geographical origin and flavor profile,” she says.
“That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Ready to go home?"
She freezes for just a second—a tiny hitch in her movement that she probably thinks I don't notice.
"Home," she repeats quietly.
"My place. Our place. For the next six months." I pause. "Longer, if I have anything to say about it."
Her eyes search mine. "You really mean that, don't you?"
"Evelyn." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I accidentally married the wrong woman, and it turned out to be the best decision I never made. I'm not exactly eager to fix that mistake."
She laughs, but there's something shining in her eyes. "That's either incredibly romantic or deeply unhinged."
"Can't it be both?"
"Apparently." She slides into the passenger seat. "Take me home, husband."
I close her door, walk around to the driver's side, and catch a glimpse of Kurt standing in his front window.
I wave.
He doesn't wave back.
Good. He can fuck right off.
I may have married her by accident, but I’ll be damned if I let anyone treat her like she’s a mistake.