Chapter 34 Girth Girl
girth girl
Liam
The look on her face was worth the ridiculous last-minute fare. It’s equal parts panic and relief. Check that, it’s five percent relief and ninety-five percent abject horror.
“No, no, no, no, no.” She shakes her head. “Nooooo.”
I stab what’s sure to be an over-priced salad with its four shrimp and stuff a bite in my mouth after saying, “The chicken at home would’ve been better.” I use the fork to point at my plate. “But we can have it on Sunday night.”
“Monday night.”
“Okay, Wifey. Monday night.”
She grits her teeth.
“Don’t go growling now. Five to zero is about the point where I start getting very creative. Speaking of…” I let it dangle just to mess with her. I also need the time to get my head together.
But it’s not my head that’s the problem.
I was wounded with the first arrow she landed. I was bruised with the next ones. By the end I was eviscerated with how hurt she is, all without saying a word.
And with how I failed her.
She’s pushed or requested. She’s stood firm or been soft when needed, by the magnitude of how much is coming against her and how she’s just taken it.
Most of it isn’t my fault. I didn’t cause it.
But the woman across from me—the brilliant researcher who cares deeply and sacrifices too much for other people—agreed to save me.
She agreed to break the waves that were coming against me.
Tiny, sassy, whole-hearted Lorien Anderson stepped between me and the lawsuits that could, and probably would, decimate me.
And I did nothing to protect her. Not since the day she blared Madonna and shook her ass.
I set my utensils down, extend my right hand across the table, and wait for her to place her left in mine.
She hesitates, staring between my face and my open palm, for a long minute.
I can see her calculate my behavior and hers.
She must hit comfortable on the scale, but she sets her hand lightly in mine, the diamond there reminds me of the commitment we made.
I hold her gaze and drop my voice. “I’m sorry.
You should never have to protect yourself from me.
For as long as you wear this—” I thumb the delicate band lined with diamonds to slide the center back and forth across her finger as her eyes drop to my finger.
When they return to me, I continue, “It’s my job to protect you.
From everything. Including myself. It will never happen again.
You are safe.” Leaning out of my seat, I kiss the knuckle that holds the ring in place.
Her pupils go wide as I release her hand, and toss back the last of the bourbon. It’s cheap, bitter, and missing all the toffee, woodiness that make it worth drinking.
She pulls her hand back, placing it in her free one, staring down at the ring I had flown in for her. A lone tear escapes her cheek and plops on the back of her hand before she looks up.
“Thank you. I planned to come back, you know.”
Lorien is the picture of responsibility. Of course she would come back. Her job and her home are here. I’d love to think that after a few nights away, she’d come back for me, but I can’t say I know that with certainty.
I dip my head in acknowledgment. “Tell me about your family. How deep does The Lord of the Rings love go?”
Her eyes slice to slits. “Are there cameras in my parents’ house too?”
“Your brother is Strider. Your sister is Sam. It’s a fair assumption the naming convention wasn’t S’s when they named you after Lothlórien, the Golden Woods and the home of Galadriel. They named you in birth order after the savior, the helper, and the sanctuary.”
“I was named after the place that mounted the resistance.” She sits taller.
“It was both,” I offer quietly.
“Yes.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I want to be both.”
“You already are, Wifey.” There’s no humor in her nickname, but there is honesty.
“My parents are superfans, but not in the cringy way. They met in college, way before the movies came out, in a group that loved the books. Our house isn’t covered in trinkets. But it’s kind of our moral compass. Some folks have a family bible. Ours has the trilogy.”
“And The Silmarillion?”
She leans forward and hisses in a whisper. “Don’t bring that up.” She looks around as if I said earth lives inside a large pyramid and our whole existence is a simulation.
I don’t even try to fight the smile on my lips. “Why? What’s wrong with it? Other than it’s too long.”
“One.” She lifts a finger and it’s obvious the woman I know is back. “It starts an argument between my parents. They differ in their opinions and sometimes they get animated about those differences. And two, we never discuss length.”
“So you’re a girth girl?”
Her face flushes red and it’s not in anger.
“Three, never say girth in front of my parents. They’re middle-America, family meal, Sunday protestants who have never heard that word spoken in their presence.”
“They’ve been married more than forty years. I’m betting they have a raunchy sex life. I’ll ask.” I’m poking the bear, but the look on her face is so worth it.
Her mouth falls open and shut, and she waves both hands as she stutters. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“We’ll see.” I lift one shoulder and gesture to the plates. “Did you want dessert?”
She scrunches her face and shakes her head. “Nah. I’ll eat Mom’s baking because it’s expected. And delicious, of course.” She extends a hand like she’s just revealed something she didn’t mean to. “But I’m not really a dessert person.”
Aside from her baking, I am. But if I tell her I like sweets, there will be attempts, and I can’t get on board with that.
My marriage is working out like a diet. I didn’t want either, but both could be good for me in the long run.
Lorien
The whole point of coming to the airport long before I needed to be here was to escape the man next to me. Since I can’t, I dread the mere thought of spending twelve hours or more here instead of sleeping in my own bed.
We’re wandering through the terminal when I finally cut my losses. “So, the flight isn’t until ten tomorrow…”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think we can leave and come back in the morning? Will they allow that? Or are we stuck?”
He lifts his phone, thumbs flying over the screen, before he replies, “We can go home.”
Home.
He continues, “It’s not an event ticket that’s one and done.
I suspect security will be worse in the morning, but you might be able to—” he pauses, biting the inside of his lip.
“Don’t take this wrong, because I like it, but you tend to present an image that I’m betting you would prefer to have when you land. ”
“What are you saying?” I lift my chin getting closer.
“Baby.” The tone is placating, but the word zips through me. “You’re wearing my shirt and mismatched shoes.”
What? I refused to look down but scrunching my toes in my socks proves he’s right. They’re not close. How did I miss that?
“And you like that?”
“Not the mismatched shoes.” His beard twitches as I get riled up.
I turn on a heel, not exactly limping but with a gait that I would’ve noticed had I not been all up in my head, and stomp off to the escalators.
The sound of his laughter is the soundtrack until I’m almost to the train.
We’re home. Ish. We always park in his garage. I don’t know why. There’s room in mine, and we wouldn’t have to do the gate-to-gate thing.
“Your place or mine?” I ask as I hop out of the Tahoe. “That sounded very barfly, didn’t it?”
I’d swear he repeats the word barfly, but I can’t be sure.
“Yours.” He says, holding open the gate for me.
I cock my head. “That surprises me.”
“Why?”
“I guess I figure you’d always rather be at your house.”
His voice is very near me as he says, “You’ve had a rough week and a shit day. I figure you’d like as much normal as you can have.”
I shiver at his nearness. And his kindness.
“And your other two shoes are here.”
Grrrr.
“Ah, another growl. That makes it five. What shall I do with you? What shall I do with you?” he mutters as if to himself but the humor in his voice is for me.
I whirl on him. But before I can say anything, he says, “Maybe you need a good spanking.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He leans close to my face. “Oh, Wifey, I would dare.” His voice drops to a hint above a whisper, and his eyes dip to my lips. “And you would love it.”
A shiver runs through me, ruining the conviction in my voice. “I would not.” I fight not to look at his mouth, at the bottom lip I want to suck on, at the beard that caresses his collar bone that twitches when he smiles.
“You would. And you’d beg me for more.” His voice is gravel as his eyes roam my face.
“I’m not into that,” my voice is breathy. “I’m into plain vanilla stuff.” I don’t have enough air to finish the words with how he’s looking at me.
He reaches up, cupping my chin and turning me so he’s the only thing filling my vision. “Is that because you like vanilla or because you’ve never been brave enough to try the thirty-one flavors?”
I close my eyes, fighting to break the thread that stretches between us. Fighting to stop the wetness pooling between my legs, fighting the burning in my belly that has bad decision written all over it. “I’m brave.” My voice is quiet. “I’m brave.”
I move closer, though I don’t know how much closer I can get.
His warmth surrounds me. His smell infuses my nostrils. The shadow of him blocks out the light in my kitchen.
At my belly, I feel his length swelling between us.
I gasp, my eyes flying open. With every bit of courage I possess, I surge up on my toes and press my mouth to his.
He goes statue still, and I freeze.
I can’t bear the rejection again. Can’t bear him teasing me only to say we shouldn’t.
Or worse, he doesn’t want me.
“I— I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
I spin and run.