Chapter 22
twenty-two
. . .
Riley
The aquarium was a big hit with Al, who looked around the place with wide eyes and a smile on his face.
Much less so with Emmy. She was not a fan of the touch tank.
As much as she enjoys splashing in the bathtub, she hated every second of the petting pool, and she let everyone know.
I think people three miles away could hear her displeasure. My eardrums are still ringing.
Back at the house, he takes over the childcare so I can have some time to myself.
I don’t go far, though. He’s curled up on the couch, the baby sprawled on his chest and playing with his beard as he reads books to her, and I settle on the floor beside them to paint my nails.
It’s something I got out of the habit of doing, but I can’t deny the sparkly gold glitter polish makes me happy.
There’s laundry that needs doing, and I should probably unload the dishwasher, but sitting here like this—like a family—feels so nice. I would never want to intrude on Al’s time with Emmy. He includes me, though, and has never made me feel like I’m not welcome.
I just don’t know why. I don’t belong here, not really.
Even with his ring on my finger, I know my role is temporary.
As soon as Al’s officially on the amended birth certificate and custody has been awarded, we can get divorced.
I know he says he won’t keep Emmy from me, but he’ll have to get bored of being married sooner or later.
He’s a young, hot, soon-to-be single dad and a hockey player.
I’m sure he’ll have women falling all over themselves to be a mother to his child.
… Kind of like I did.
He might need me right now, while I have temporary custody, but as soon as the ink is dry, I know he’ll kick me out. Nobody ever wants to keep me. I can’t expect him to be any different.
Emmy sits in her high chair and babbles at him as he feeds her. Most of the time, we let her pick up the food directly from the tray table, but tonight he’s making airplane noises as he feeds her a veggie puree with a hot-pink spoon.
All of her toys and accessories are pink.
Anything that can come in gendered color profiles, she has the pink version.
Even her diaper bag. I didn’t pick it, Carter did, and the presents from the team were all pink, too.
My personal preference is a more neutral color scheme, but he’s never shied away from the pink.
If anything, I think he’s embraced it more than she has.
“Do you mind handling bath and bedtime tonight?” he asks as he guides the spoon to her mouth. “There’s something I’ve got to take care of.”
“Oh. Sure.”
I thought he’d like to do it, since he doesn’t get to most nights, but it’s not surprising he’s all babied out. Even on his days off, there’s usually practice and other things filling up his time. Today has been all Emmy, all day.
Once her belly is full, I take her upstairs and clean her up. She snuggles close to me, clutching at my arm as I read her stories until she finally drifts off. She doesn’t stir when I transfer her into her crib or tiptoe downstairs.
The heady scent of garlic perfumes the air. Tyler’s meals don’t typically come with a lot of garlic. Maybe he tried a new recipe?
Dim light shines from above, and candles flicker on nearly every surface, casting a soft, romantic glow throughout the room.
I count at least seven dancing flames before a sound from the kitchen draws my attention.
Al stands in front of the stove, stirring something in an enormous pot.
A bottle of white wine sits on the counter next to two glasses, and he’s flipping tortillas on a flat skillet.
“What are you doing?” I ask, and he jumps.
“Shit. I’m not ready.” He winces. “I need, like, ten more minutes.”
“What is all this?”
“I’m making us dinner. Do you want a drink?”
“I can get it. I mean… this.” I wave at the candles, the low lighting. “You have prepared meals from Tyler. Why are you cooking?”
“Felt like it.” He shrugs, not looking at me. “Is that a problem?”
“No. Just… unexpected.” I take a seat at the kitchen table, my eyes roving over his burly body.
He’s wearing a dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt, the sleeves pushed up his thick forearms, and a pair of slutty gray joggers with white socks. Casual, comfortable. Gorgeous. I have to force myself not to stare at the impressive dick-print in the front of his sweats.
Al pulls down two bowls from the cabinet.
He dishes brown rice into each one, then adds a generous helping of a green stew and tops them both with avocado slices.
He brings them to the table, setting one in front of me, before darting back into the kitchen and returning with a tortilla warmer and a bottle of white wine.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks, lifting the bottle.
“Sure.” I’m still not sure what’s going on. Wine should help.
He pours us each a glass, then settles across from me at the small Formica table. Our knees brush, and I sit up straight, pulling my legs away.
“Smells good,” I say, reaching for my silverware. He’s even laid out the little fork alongside the little spoon. How does he know I don’t like the big silverware, preferring the little salad fork and dessert spoon? We’ve only shared a few meals together…
“It’s my abuela’s recipe. Pollo con chile verde. I did cheat and use store-bought sauce, since it’s not tomatillo season.”
“I’m surprised your abuela taught you to cook. Don’t most grandmothers refuse to let anyone help?”
I never had a grandmother, but that’s what I’ve seen in movies and TV shows; the doting older woman who carries the family on her back. Or the evil witch. There really is no in-between. But with the way Al talks about her, I don’t think she’s a villain in his origin story.
“Oh, no, she didn’t teach me. She would kick me out of the kitchen every time I got close.
Boys don’t cook in our culture, which is ridiculous,” Al says, shaking his head with a frown.
“Then I moved out for college, and I could barely make a quesadilla or grilled cheese. I had to learn, quick. When I came home for the summer, I sat at this table and watched as my abuela cooked, and I made her go slow so I could write everything down. When faced with the option of teaching me or letting me starve, she came around quick.”
“Tyler makes all your food, though.”
“During the season, I don’t have the time or energy to cook. Last year, when Tony and Cari still lived here, the three of us would rotate meal prep, but once I connected with Tyler, I switched to his service. It’s easier. I miss it sometimes, so now I cook because I want to, not because I have to.”
“That makes sense.” I spoon some of the chicken, rice, and poblano peppers onto a tortilla with a slice of avocado, and nearly groan at the flavor. “This is delicious.”
Al chokes, his cheeks going pink. “Thanks.”
“One thing I’ve definitely missed since being out here is the Mexican food. I haven’t been brave enough to try it yet.”
Compared to back home, where there was a taco shop or truck on nearly every street corner, it’s a pretty big culture shock.
There are food trucks here, and there might even be a few Mexican food ones, but I’m so afraid they won’t compare.
Boston isn’t exactly known for having a large Mexican population, and other types of Latin and Central American food don’t scratch the same nostalgic itch.
As much as I love a good ropa vieja or picadillo, nothing beats the northwestern Mexican food I grew up eating.
“There are some decent places out this way. We should go sometime,” he says.
Digging into my bowl, I try to pass off my reddening face as a reaction from the spicy chiles. “That would be nice.”
“And of course, anytime you want authentic Mexican food, I can always cook for you.” His dark eyes meet mine, his gaze lingering. “Anytime.”
“I can’t ask you to do that. Not with—”
“Riley,” he says, reaching across the table and taking my hand.
His thumb traces over the ring on my left hand.
“This thing we’re doing? We’re married. My job is to make you happy.
If you want authentic Mexican food, the things I grew up on, I’ll make it for you.
If you want ten million dollars, I’ll do a wire transfer.
Whatever you want, it’s yours. We’re together in this. What’s mine is yours.”
“But—”
He squeezes my hand. “Whatever you want.”
“I want Emmy.” Once the words are out, I can’t take them back. “When this is over, I don’t want to lose her. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“Why are you talking about this ending?” His forehead creases. “Do you want out?”
“No. I’m in this until you’re ready. Until the custody is transferred and everything.”
“But then you want to end it?” His voice sounds… almost hollow. He looks away, his eyes downcast.
“I mean, don’t you? You’ll have your pick of women. Puck bunnies are probably already throwing themselves at you, but you’ll be free to pursue them. You won’t need me.”
Al pushes back his chair, rounding the table to kneel in front of me.
“Riley, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he says, taking my hands in his.
His thumb strokes over the ring on my finger, and my stomach flutters.
“I have no intention of ending this until—unless—we both want it. We need to stay married until the paternity is resolved and they won’t take Emmy away from me.
But I will never, ever take her away from you.
You are her mom now, and the last thing I want to do is take her away from the person who loves her unconditionally. ”
“But Carter—”
“Is dead.”
I flinch at his harsh delivery.
“I know. I’m sorry. But Carter is gone, and you’re the only mother Emmy knows now.” He sets his finger beneath my chin, tilting my head until I meet his eyes. “I swear to you, I will never take our girl away from you. You have my word.”
“But—the divorce. She’s your kid.”
“And now she’s yours,” he says, like it’s that easy. “She’s ours. Both of us. Whenever the divorce happens, if it happens—”
I freeze. “If?”
We have an agreement: until his custody is resolved, plus a year. Maybe two. Just long enough that a quickie divorce won’t burn him in the press. Then I go back to my everyday life and he… moves on. He finds someone else to take care of Emmy. Someone else to be her mom.
Fuck. Why does it feel like someone just grabbed my heart with icy hands and yanked? I don’t even want to consider a world in which I’m not her mom. Not anymore.
Al clears his throat. “If you still want out, we’ll get you out. But if you want to stay in this…”
Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
“You are my wife, and now the mother of my child. We’re doing this backward.
But just because we’re in this situation doesn’t mean we can’t make the most of it.
” His face flames, and he looks away. “It turns out, I kind of like being married to you. As long as you’re still okay with it, I thought maybe we could table the divorce. Maybe… see where this could go.”
My throat feels tight. Itchy. I pull at the V-neck of my shirt. The room seems to close in on me, and it’s getting harder to breathe. I exhale slowly, but that doesn’t make the nausea recede. If anything, it makes it worse. My stomach turns. “I need to think about this.”
Disappointment flashes across his face, and he tries to blank his expression, but he can’t hide it from me. “Oh. Right. Of course.”
He looks like a kicked puppy dog, crestfallen. The last thing I want to do is hurt him. But I have to protect myself. Nobody else will do it for me. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way, over and over and over again.
“I’m not saying no. I just need to think it over.”
“No, yeah, I get it. It’s a lot to spring on you.” He releases my hands and settles back in his seat. “Consider it dropped. When you’re ready to talk about it, I’ll be here. Until then, we just… go back to normal.”
Whatever normal is, anyway.