9. Weland
Chapter nine
Weland
I have a boyfriend.
I have a husband who is also kind of a boyfriend.
I have a husband who is also kind of a boyfriend but who is also kind of neither.
A few days ago, I thought my life was complicated. But I had no idea what that word even truly meant.
I still haven’t figured it out. Part of me can’t even believe this is real. There’s this huge part of my brain that keeps giving me the same foul thought pattern over and over again, which is that Sterling is just going to disappear. That he’s going to just leave and go back to his life. I don’t even know his last name yet. Then again, I didn’t ask. He asked me if it was okay if he checked into his hotel after my parents’ house in order to give me time to process everything, and it truly felt like a dismissal.
I mean, what was I supposed to say? That no, it wasn’t actually okay because I went to freaking bat for him with my family, and him leaving felt like a rejection, and no, I didn’t want to go home to my tiny little condo and resume my pathetic, boring, lonely, boyfriendless, and childless life? Was I supposed to tell him I had my doubts and that I thought he’d be on the first plane out of here, leaving me in his rearview mirror, never to think of me again except when he should ever need me because you know…evil cousins?
But of course I didn’t say any of that. Of course I didn’t ask for his last name so I could internet stalk him all night and then maybe stalk him some more if he should happen to ghost me. There are things I don’t do, and they’re mostly to tell people what I need. I just don’t do that. I don’t have a long list of things I need, but even if I did, I wouldn’t put it out there. I’m the one who fixes problems. I’m the strong one. I’m the one who has it all together and needs to have it all together so I can repair what’s broken.
When I look at the past few days, it’s pretty obvious to me that I don’t have it together. That I haven’t been so good at fixing what’s broken for myself. And that I do have a list of things I need. The venting I did to Smitty might not have just been a product of my frustration. There might have been a lot of truth and need in it too.
After an evening with Beans where I tried to shut down my overactive brain and then had a night of restless sleep, I opened the door the next morning to a fresh, sparkling, sunny-eyed, bushy-tailed, real-life, real-in-person, didn’t-skip-town husband holding a bouquet of sunflowers and a huge bag of chocolates—the ball kind that are all different flavors wrapped in brightly colored foil—and by a huge bag of chocolates, I mean a white sleeve thing so big that it looks like it weighs at least twenty pounds.
“I sent a care package to your parents’ house too.”
I block the doorway with my body, which is hard because I don’t want to advertise that my nipples are suddenly going into full-on piercing mode, and there’s a wild heat flooding through me in the most disturbing and consuming manner.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think they can be bought with chocolates and flowers.”
“It’s probably a good thing I also included three new tablets, a seventy-two-inch TV, one adorable snail purse, and eighty-seven greeting cards because I sponsored eighty-seven rescue cats. When you donate, the site automatically generates e-cards. I donated in your parents and brother’s names.”
My jaw slowly moves toward unhinging, but I have things under control. I’m not going to let it go flapping all over. The same goes for my nipples and ovaries. It doesn’t matter that my husband is real and here, and he didn’t leave, or that he brought me chocolates and flowers because he thought of me. Or that he looks so deliciously hot that he might as well be a twice-baked potato with hot dogs on top, all smothered in cheese and homemade salsa with a side of sour cream and barbeque sauce because, yes, that is my favorite food and, yes, my mouth is watering right now.
It doesn’t matter that he’s tall or that his Henley clearly shows off his masculine shoulder goodness and his muscly arms. It doesn’t matter that jeans do something for him that is definitely unnatural because it’s so smoking hot. He’s like a god wrapped up in a baked potato, in hot dogs, and then smothered in cheese with a side of extra smoking eye candy, ovary-busting goodness.
It also doesn’t matter that he thinks the way to my family’s hearts is through helping homeless cats.
Nope. Not one bit. That burn in the back of my throat and that sting at the back of my eyeballs? Not happening. I’m sure it’s not happening for my parents either. And I’m sure my brother doesn’t really like the new tablet or the new TV. Sterling was probably kidding about those things anyway.
“How did you get their emails?” I ask.
“I printed off every single one it generated, folded them up—they each come with a photo of the specific cat you helped save—and put them with the pile of stuff that got couriered over.”
“Gah. And snails? How do you know my mom has a thing for snails?”
“They were everywhere in the house,” he replies nonchalantly.
That makes it sound like my parents’ house has some kind of problem, but by everywhere, he means the décor. My mom has been collecting snails for a long time. Little knick-knacks and ornaments, stuffies, paintings, whatever we can find for her that is snails…we usually pick it up if the price isn’t crazy. A lot of her collection came from thrift stores and garage sales.
I don’t want to show him how touched I am or how hopeful I am that my parents and my brother will come around to this because I most certainly should not be hopeful, and what this is hasn’t even been defined yet. I want to put on my best ambivalent face, but I swear I fail.
“How’s Beans doing? Any change in his digestion yet?” he asks.
Ugh, damn it. He has to hit me right where it hurts. Right in the soft, feeling spots with all his masculine, nice guy, food-smothered, god-like body charm.
How is it possible to look that good at nine in the morning? I’m over here in an oversized sweater and leggings because it’s human and comfortable, and he’s all freaking red-carpet worthy. I mean, no one wears jeans to the red carpet, but I think they’ll all make an exception in his case, and jeans will suddenly become the new tuxedo the way forty is supposed to be the new twenty. I’ve been twenty. It wasn’t all that great. I hope forty is better.
That just makes me think of what life could look like ten years from now, which makes me feel all hot and bothered, fantastical and hopeful, and slightly depressed because I still don’t feel like any of this is real.
“Would it be okay if I came in? Or would you rather go out? We could have breakfast. Or take Beans for a walk and discuss the merits of probiotics that are hopefully working. We could talk about—”
“About what your real name is, where you live, what you do, your past, your life, your family, your history, and everything that led you to this point?” I can feel my right eye start to twitch.
I put myself out there yesterday with my family. I know if this doesn’t work out—and this is still pretty undetermined—they won’t rub anything in for me, but I’ll rub it in for myself. They now know I lied to them. Yes, they think this man drove me to do it, but they’re going to be confused and hurting for a good while yet, and they’re not going to trust me the way they used to. They’re not going to see me the way they used to, and okay, maybe that’s not entirely me being fair to myself because I know they’ll think about the sacrifice I made, but still. Maybe I’m being hard on myself. They won’t be hard on me. They love me. If this doesn’t work, they’ll be there for me. Now they know the truth, and it’s such a relief.
“Weland?”
I’m brought back to reality by the sound of my name said with perfect cadence, like a song.
“We can uh…take Beans for a walk.” I don’t know if I’m ready to share such a tiny space with this much hotness again. It’s kind of like crawling up into Satan’s arsehole itself, at least as far as the fiery, burning-from-the-inside-out factor goes.
“Alright. Do you want this?” He holds out the flowers and the chocolate.
Darn it, I do. I love flowers. And who doesn’t love chocolate? Somehow, he knew they were my favorite kind, and no, I don’t recall ever mentioning it to Smitty. It’s like the snails thing. Sterling notices things the way other people just don’t.
I grab the chocolate and flowers from his hands. Then, I give him the universal wavering eyebrow sign that means stay right there, please and leave the door open because shutting it in his face just feels rude.
My face is probably hotter than the inside of any arsehole as I get a big juice pitcher down for the flowers, fill it up, and then stick the flowers into it. I stash the chocolate in the pantry, slip Beans’ leash on, and get into my dog-walking runners, which have just been designated as such in the past few days of having a dog. They’re comfy, and they’re always going to be my go-to for walks, so I think it fits.
Sterling falls into step beside me as soon as I step out and lock the door. When he starts whistling a perfectly in-tune happy tune, it’s more than I can take.
“Beans is good,” I finally answer. “Really good. His farts smell like uh…more like Beans and less like rotting Armageddon to the exponent of death, multiplied by sixty-four.”
His smile is so genuine that it melts the icy bits inside me that are still lingering over the past four years and the fresh ice that frosted over from worrying that maybe he was just going to up and abandon me. Although it wouldn’t make any sense for him to do that given that if he wanted to, he could have just done it already and not gone to all that trouble with my family.
“I’m glad.”
Beans marks a signpost and then turns to me, his tongue lolling out, his stumpy tail wagging. He looks like he’s feeling better this morning too.
“And I’m glad that if you’re truly serious about us trying to make this work, you’re going to open up and start making the past four years make some kind of sense. You seem to know everything about me. Now I want to know about you. It might be rude and painful, and I’m sorry about that, but it’s also necessary. I need a crash course in all things Sterling so my husband isn’t a total stranger. Even if we take the time to date and get to know each other like regular people, which probably isn’t in the cards for us because that’s normal, and nothing about us or this or anything has been the way anyone else on this earth would do it, then I still know nothing, and I’m at a huge disadvantage.”
I half expect some brush-off or non-committal answer, but Sterling surprises me. He lets out a sigh that makes him sound like he’s been constipated for eight thousand years—might I recommend dog probiotics, but the people variety—and nods.
“Alright,” he says tightly. “Let’s walk, and I’ll tell you everything.”