Chapter 15
BELLE
By the time we got home, I was exhausted.
The steady knee throb in my knee reminded me with every step that I had, in fact, torn something important.
The crutches were still awkward under my arms, rubbing in unfamiliar places, throwing off my balance just enough to make me feel clumsy in my own body.
I hated feeling clumsy, but we had a deal. I cooked. He paid me well so I could keep my father in care. I refused to let today tip that balance.
I maneuvered carefully into the kitchen, setting the crutches against the island before bracing my weight against the counter for a moment.
The house was quiet as the late evening summer sun streamed in through the tall windows, catching the edge of the marble countertops.
My knee ached, but I ignored it as best I could.
Pasta and roasted veggies, it was something simple. I just needed to stand here and chop as the water boiled.
I opened the refrigerator and pulled out carrots, zucchini, and a red onion. I got ready to toss them in olive oil and fresh herbs. Familiar movements. Familiar rhythm. The comfort of muscle memory, even if the muscle itself was currently unreliable.
I moved slowly, deliberately, adjusting my stance every few minutes when the pressure became too sharp. The knife felt solid in my hand. The rock against the cutting board sounded normal. Steady.
I could do this.
The brace tugged uncomfortably as I shifted to reach for the baking sheet. I hissed under my breath but didn’t stop. I lined the vegetables on the pan and sprinkled salt with practiced fingers.
My knee hurt, but I kept going. Just like I always did. I would not let a minor tear take away the progress I was making.
I had just reached for the oven handle when he came in.
“Stop.” The command in his voice sent a chill down my spine in the best way possible. I had to close my eyes to find the composure I needed to deal with him.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You are not.”
“I’m just putting this in the oven.”
“You are standing on a torn meniscus,” he all but growled.
“It's a minor tear.”
“It is still torn.”
I hesitated just long enough for him to step forward and gently but firmly move me aside.
“Sit,” he commanded again.
I opened my mouth to argue. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t scold. He just held my gaze until the fight drained out of me.
“You’re angry.”
“Yes. I am angry.”
“Why? This was our arrangement.”
“Because you’re hurt and you’re not taking care of yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
He growled . . . He actually growled. Maybe that’s why people call him the Beast.
I let him guide me toward the chair. He moved it closer to the island and lifted my leg with surprising care, settling my heel onto another chair, so my knee was elevated.
“There,” he said.
I crossed my arms. “You’re bossy.”
“You’re reckless.”
I huffed, but when he turned back to the oven, I didn’t try to stand again. He set the tray carefully in the oven and glanced at me.
“How long were you roasting these for?”
“About thirty minutes.”
He set the timer and turned to me.
“You know how to cook,” I observed.
“I know how to follow instructions.”
He got to work stirring in the sauce and boiling the noodles. When the veggies were ready to come out of the oven, dinner was ready to go, and I sat here just watching him. It was an odd feeling, something warm unfurling in my chest.
Once all the food was in, he got me settled on the soft couch in the living room, paying close attention to my knee.
This is not what I was expecting. He was a very confusing man, but as much as I didn’t want to, I was discovering I liked being confused by him.
Soon, he brought me a plate to the living room, followed by a glass of water.
“I would bring wine,” he said, setting it down on the coffee table, “but your discharge instructions specify no alcohol while taking anti-inflammatories.”
I groaned. “Did you highlight that part?”
“Perhaps.” A smile turned his lips as he observed me. That unfamiliar warmth lingered under his gaze.
“You are insufferable.”
He gave a huff of laughter, and I liked the smile that crept across his face entirely too much.
“Believe it or not, I’ve been told that before.”
He disappeared briefly and returned with his own plate, settling into the chair across from me instead of the couch. My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I glanced toward it. Of course, it was just out of reach. He stood immediately, retrieved it, and handed it to me without asking who it was. He didn’t leave. It was a small thing, but I noticed.
“Hey, Dad,” I said.
His voice was calmer tonight.
“I can’t find my keys,” he said. “I need to get to work in the morning.”
My throat tightened.
“I have your keys. I’ll be there to take you in the morning.”
“You do?”
I swallowed. “Yep, it’s all taken care of.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, good. Goodnight, Bells, I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
The line went dead a few seconds later. I stared at the phone for a moment before lowering it.
“You’re not driving anywhere tomorrow,” Raphael said, voice low and tight.
I didn’t look at him yet. “It’s easier to say yes.”
“You cannot operate a vehicle safely.”
“I know.”
“Then why agree?”
“Because he won’t remember in five minutes. It keeps him calm in the moment.”
He didn’t respond immediately. When I finally looked at him, his posture had softened into something else. Concern, maybe.
“So you just lie to him?” he asked.
“I guess it just makes it easier, especially at night. He is safe in his apartment, and when he wakes up in the morning, he usually remembers where he is and that he retired years ago.”
He nodded slowly. I shifted my leg slightly on the chair, trying to get comfortable.
“He has Alzheimer’s,” I said. “Early-to-mid stage. Good days and bad days.”
“And in the memory care facility?”
I nodded as I twirled a bite of pasta onto her fork.
“How long has he been at Long Creek?”
“It’s been about four months, but he is getting moved into a wing with more care soon. I actually do need to go there tomorrow and deal with that.”
He absorbed that without interrupting.
“Does he still believe he works?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes he thinks I’m twelve. Sometimes he thinks I’m my mom.”
My voice didn’t even break when I talked about it anymore. I’d practiced that too well.
Raphael leaned forward slightly.
“And you manage this alone?”
It wasn’t an accusation. It was an observation.
“I manage,” I said, trying to avoid his gaze. Something about it was too much to bear.
Then, quieter, he said, “You will not manage it alone now.”
The words settled into the room. I didn’t argue. I didn’t feel the need to. And that was new.
Accepting help was not something I was great at. But Raphael Renault didn’t really give me a choice. He just helped. I liked it more than I should have.
Later that night, the house was quiet again.
The dishes had been done . . . by him, despite my protests. The ice pack had been refreshed twice. The brace adjusted once more with careful, methodical hands. He’d double-checked the physical therapy referral before disappearing down the hall with a quiet, “Rest.”
Now all I can do is lie in the first-floor guest bed, propped slightly on pillows. At least the sheets were cool and clean, the mattress supportive in a way that I almost forgot a bed could be. My knee ached, but not as much now.
The day replayed in fragments in my mind as I lay there, from the hospital lights to the MRI machines humming.
I couldn't imagine six to eight weeks without derby, even if I did have a ‘minor meniscus tear.’ It was my outlet, my family, and what was I supposed to do now?
Be locked up in this castle with the beast himself?
And then “I’ll take good care of my wife.”
I stared up at the ceiling. I got married today to get health insurance. Which, objectively, sounded unhinged.
And yet . . . I could not get the way he called me his wife out of my head. I flexed my fingers, looking at the simple band against my skin. It didn’t feel like a mistake.
It felt . . . safe.
He had paced the hospital lobby. He had read my discharge papers like they were a merger contract.
He had all but demanded to take over making dinner.
But the way he had listened to me talk about my dad, really listened, without trying to fix it, was the part I was finding most confusing.
The idea of having someone like Raphael in my corner was an intoxicating thought.
I tried to fight the smile that kept trying to sneak across my face. This marriage was for insurance. For logistics. For survival.
Yet somewhere between the MRI and the pasta dinner, I had started to suspect something inconvenient. I might have a little crush on my husband. It was absurd . . . and entirely true.
I rolled carefully onto my side, adjusting the pillows around my knee.
It had been an interesting day for sure.
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow would bring physical therapy appointments and more logistics and probably more hovering.
But tonight I was married. And oddly, unexpectedly content.