Chapter 5 #2
I laugh all the way into the bathroom and through my shower.
My ribs ache by the time the laughter subsides, and I’m tugging on my cock all the faster to the thought of Mirabeth in that dress.
That’s another thing I haven’t done in five years—laughing until tears well in my eyes—and it’s all thanks to my gorgeous, luck of the draw, legal wife.
I jiggle the car keys in my hand after taking them out of the ignition, parked down the street from my childhood home that faces the baseball field where my siblings and I once spent every waking moment of our free time growing up.
Vehicles line both sides of the wide street, while those with big trucks and SUVs have hopped the curb to park on the grass.
I slouch in my seat when a few familiar faces stride past on the sidewalk toward Mom’s house.
“Are you ok?” Mirabeth asks from the passenger seat, twisted to the side to stare at me.
I should be the one to ask her that, since the closer we got here, the quieter she became, picking at her cuticles.
“Yeah, just…” I blow out a breath and comb my hair back on my head. “I haven’t seen most of them since I was arrested. I didn’t know there would be this many people.”
She rests her hand on my arm. “We can wait a little longer, if you’re not ready yet.”
I’ve already stalled long enough as it is, having dragged out our time at a clothing store on the way here so I wouldn’t have to wear my old clothes for the second day in a row.
If I avoid going home any longer, Mom will be disappointed.
She was my biggest supporter during my trial and the only one who regularly visited me in prison.
I jump out of the car before I can talk myself into leaving, and hurry to open the door for Mirabeth, giving her my hand to help her out.
I don’t give her much room, though, and her body slides up along mine when she stands.
Suddenly, it doesn’t matter who the hell has shown up at the party.
All that matters is that she’s here. A stranger who feels less and less so by the minute.
“Ready?” Mirabeth asks, twisting her hands together, as equally nervous as I am.
It’s nice not to feel so alone, and I set a hand on her hip, scrunching up the slinky material of her light pink dress that’s tight and falls to her ankles, hugging all of her gentle curves.
Because of the thin straps that go over her shoulders and crisscross her mostly bare back like a loose corset, she isn’t wearing a bra.
I’m second-guessing the choice I made when it came to her dress selection, not only because I don’t want anyone to see how drop-dead sexy she is, but also because my new, correctly fitted blue jeans are starting to feel tight with my rising erection.
“You look beautiful,” I say, as I’ve already done no less than ten times since I got out of the shower and found her dressed.
“You too,” she says with a blush, ducking her head and tugging on the hem of my bright white T-shirt, the toes of her white sandals bumping against my fancy new sneakers.
I’ll admit, the sneakers are pretty spiffy, if not pricey, and I promised to pay her back once I talk to my old boss.
He had told me I’d be able to start back right where I had left off at work when I got out.
Mirabeth lets me hold her hand when we cross the street, as if we’re a real couple, and I slow my much longer stride so she doesn’t have to jog to keep up.
On the porch of the German schmear brick rancher built some time in the late eighties, Mirabeth and I both take one last steadying breath before I knock three times as Mom instructed—our signal to let her know I’m here—then push through the freshly painted blue door.
“Welcome home, Conrad!” the crowd screams when I pull Mirabeth inside behind me.
Mom is the first to charge across the seashell-patterned living room rug to throw her arms over my shoulders, rocking me violently from left to right as she begins crying against my chest. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, baby,” she says, hugging my neck tight enough to choke me—longer than the guards ever allowed us to embrace. Such freedom.
I return her fierce hug and pat her back, trying to breathe through her puff of thick red hair in my face. “I saw you two weekends ago.”
“Too long!” she crows, then suddenly steps back, pushing her scalloped, blue eyeglasses up to swipe the tears falling from her kind, light brown eyes.
“Now, tell me who this lucky lady is,” she says, taking Mirabeth’s right hand in between both of hers and shaking it vigorously.
“My, my, you are beautiful. A little young, though. You’re not an axe murderer, or anything, are you?
” Mom asks after I make introductions, and I snort.
“No?” Mirabeth answers, casting me a questioning look.
“No?” Mom asks with a growing smile. “You’re not sure if you’re—”
“I am not an axe murderer, or, like, any kind of murderer.”
“Well, that’s good.” Mom leans in and says, “Because truthfully, I was thinking, what kind of person would sign up to marry someone sight unseen unless there was something seriously wrong with them?” She laughs it off, though I’m sure she’d been genuinely worried.
“I thought I was signing up for a dance,” Mirabeth says with a grimace. “Not getting married.”
“Oh, well, what a happy little accident!” Mom looks back and forth between us with a twinkle in her eye.
She finally lets go of Mirabeth when I pull my wife into my side, if only so my mom will leave some feeling in Mirabeth’s hand.
And also, if Mirabeth passes out, I’ll be able to catch her.
“Not that it matters or anything, I’d still love them the same, but it’s nice to know more of my future grandbabies are going to be gorgeous.
Just gorgeous.” Mom even claps her hands with a little squeal.
Mirabeth’s mouth falls open, the same as mine does.
“I’m only twenty-three,” Mirabeth says. “Why is everyone so obsessed with me getting pregnant?”
Mom tilts her head to the side, curious as she studies Mirabeth’s face. “You look familiar. Have we met?” She snaps her fingers. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Nurse Perkins, would you?”
Mirabeth gapes. “You know my mom?”
“Oh my, yes! I ran into her several times at the prison.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. “She was the one who encouraged me to get Conrad to sign up for the marriage program. Lovely woman.”
The rest of the guests, who had waited patiently during my reunion with Mom, finally surge forward, cutting into what other revelations might have been made.
They create a circle around us as congrats and well-wishes fly my way, hands patting my shoulders, while Mom moves on to hosting.
It doesn’t escape my notice that many of them can’t hold eye contact with me for long.
I don’t realize I’m gripping Mirabeth’s waist too tightly until she pinches my side, then twines her clammy fingers between mine. From the side of her mouth, she whispers, “Relax. We got this.”
I squeeze her hand, finding myself even more grateful that she’s here, wondering how it is that this strange, argumentative woman is the one giving me the strength to keep going.
My older brother, Brad, is the first to yank me out of the inner circle into a hug, forcing me to let go of Mirabeth’s hand so she doesn’t stumble forward. He pounds my back while I loosely mimic his actions, reminding myself to lock down my expression.
“Glad you’re home.” He squeezes my upper arms and cuts his gaze to Mirabeth, who has stepped forward.
With Brad’s history, and the fact that he looks like me if I were to eat my weight in protein powder and shave my beard, I instinctively drop an arm over Mirabeth’s shoulders when they shake hands.
It irks me, his eyes on my wife while he smiles with teeth that are straighter and unnaturally brighter than mine, wearing an outfit that is just as casual but likely costs twice as much.
The only thing I’ve got over him is a felony and one inch in height.
I don’t look directly at Alisa beside Brad until she inches forward and says to Mirabeth, “Hi, I’m Alisa, Conrad’s—” She stops abruptly, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles of her short, white dress. I’m pretty sure it’s the same one she wore to our engagement party. “Sister-in-law.”
I think Brad and I both know she was, mistakenly, going to say fiancée, though neither of us reacts, other than when Brad slides his arm around Alisa’s back possessively.
Alisa tips her chin up, shaking out her curled, long blonde hair, as she smiles serenely at Brad, whose jaw ticks.
There’s genuine warmth between them, but I’m sure I’d be just as anxious right now about this little reunion if I had been the one to steal her from my brother.
“This is Drew,” Brad says, relaxing some and nodding to the little boy hugging his mother’s leg.
Just about to turn four years old, Drew is a carbon copy of his dad, me, and most heartbreakingly, his Uncle Andrew, too, with a touch of red in his brown hair.
I can’t take my eyes off him; Mom’s pictures have never done him justice.
I wish I could. I really do. But it’s like Andrew has come back to life.
I would fall to my knees and weep after pulling my nephew in for a hug if it weren’t for Brad staring so hard at me, scrutinizing my reaction.
“Right. Alisa. I’m Mirabeth, Conrad’s wife,” Mirabeth says loudly.
She curls into my side and rests her left palm on my stomach as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to do, giving me something other than little Drew to focus on.
Gone is the shy, screechy creature from yesterday when Mirabeth says with a chuckle, “I guess I have you to thank, sis.”
Alisa asks, “For what?”
“Well, if it weren’t for you…” Mirabeth walks her fingertips up my stomach to lay her hand flat over my heart that’s still beating too fast as I try to curtail my emotions. “I wouldn’t have met my wonderful husband. So, thank you.”
If it weren’t for the crowd making small talk around us, we’d be able to hear a pin drop as the four of us go silent.
“Oh,” Alisa eventually says while Brad’s hand tightens around her ribs. Her laugh is as strained and weak as Brad’s smile when she says, “You’re welcome.”
Mom pops up at my side, saving us from any further awkwardness. “I’m afraid Bridget couldn’t make it, but your dad is outside grilling. Come on.”
“That was smooth,” I say to Mirabeth as Mom drags the two of us through the house painted in a variety of blues, decorated from wall to wall in seashells and pelicans, to the backyard. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“Of course,” she says simply. “Who’s Bridget?” she asks, trying to let go of my hand.
“My sister. She’s the oldest. Works at the Capitol in Austin,” I answer, holding tighter to Mirabeth’s hand.
I can’t let it go when she’s my lifeline as Mom leads us past the rows of plastic picnic tables of seated guests to the left side of the expansive yard, where Dad is talking to my old little league coach while manning the grill.
Dad doesn’t look up when Mom says, “Tripp. Tripp, honey, look who’s here!”
He takes his time flipping the steaks and barbecue chicken thighs before he finally meets my eyes, staring down his strong nose at me, a few inches taller but just as fit. “Conrad,” Dad says, giving me a short nod.
I knew not to expect much, since he only visited me once to tell me it would be the one and only time he would, but it doesn’t hurt any less when he flicks his gaze away dismissively. “This the wife?” he asks, motioning to Mirabeth.
“Yes! Isn’t she just lovely?” Mom says, beaming twice as hard to make up for Dad’s lack of enthusiasm.
He grunts, his thinning brown hair cut to military precision, only a few years from retirement as a local recruiter for the Marines. “Sure.” He sucks his teeth, and though he’s speaking to Mirabeth, he finally looks straight at me when he says, “Be careful with this one.”
“Oh, Tripp,” Mom says softly.
“Why?” Mirabeth asks hesitantly.
Dad looks away, disgusted when he says, “Can’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth.”
“Tripp!” Mom exclaims, her face falling.
With my heart shredded to ribbons, as I knew it would be, I manage to keep from running when I drop Mirabeth's hand, turn back toward the house, and wind my way through the guests, past the open kitchen, and down the hall.