Chapter 17 #2
I flipped the salmon, lowered the heat, and started a quick pan sauce.
I sautéed asparagus in another pan with garlic and a pinch of red pepper flakes, then killed the heat and shaved parmesan over it.
I plated it pretty. Joia Jones swore that mattered—“We eat with our eyes first,” she had drilled into me.
I set the meal in front of my wife with a fork. “Eat.”
She was full of questions; I could tell. I could hear her thinking, Why you being nice now? What you want? What you planning? I didn’t blame her, but I didn’t like it.
“‘Sit.’ ‘Eat.’ You gon’ stroke my head and give me treats?” she asked sarcastically.
I looked at her. “My stroke is the treat. You know that, malyshka,” I murmured.
That warm honey skin immediately went red, and she looked down at the plate. She picked up her fork and took a little bite like she was scared. Then she glanced up at me like she didn’t want to admit it was good. Smiling, I nodded.
“Uh-huh. Fooled yo’ ass, didn’t I?”
I leaned on the counter across from her, arms folded, watching her.
“Don’t stare at me,” she mumbled around a bite.
“I’m not staring,” I lied.
She shot me a look. “You staring.”
“I’m making sure you eating.”
She rolled her eyes. “You could look somewhere else.”
“I could. I don’t want to. Nothing here is as beautiful. Nothing anywhere is.”
Her fork paused. She glanced up at me, and for a second, I thought she was going to snap on me for being corny. Instead, she looked back down and kept eating. When she finished, she pushed the plate away like she was annoyed at herself for enjoying it.
“I’m done.”
I looked at the plate—damn near clean. “Yeah, you are.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t piss me off.”
I decided to ignore that, slid her a glass of water instead. “Drink.”
“Targen!” she snapped.
“I’m sorry. I guess I am used to giving orders.”
“I’m not your employee. I’m your w—”
She stopped herself as I gave her a triumphant little smile. Yeah, I’d heard her little slip. I was gon’ have her part of the “My husband, my husband, my husband,” brigade real soon. I cleaned up while she sat there watching me. When I was done, I turned to her.
“You can shower. I—”
She interrupted me. “Separately.”
I gritted my teeth. I hated that part, too. I hated that she needed distance from me in a house that was supposed to be ours.
“I was about to say I’ll be in another bathroom, so, yeah. Separately,” I agreed dryly.
She stood and walked upstairs without another word. I showered fast, because if I took too long, my mind would start doing what it always did when it had too much quiet in the last year: think about her body, think about her mouth, think about all the things I’d do if she’d let me.
She wasn’t going to let me. Not tonight.
I exhaled as I walked back into the bedroom.
She was already in bed, all the way on the edge.
I just looked at her pretty ass, her skin a pretty golden-brown against the white sheets.
She stared at the ceiling like she was pretending I didn’t exist. I shut the door gently and crossed the room.
“You good?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
Honesty. I could respect it. I pulled back the covers on my side and slid in, careful and slow. No sudden movements. No touching. I lay on my back at first, hands folded over my stomach and listened to the silence.
Theory’s voice finally cut through it. “So… this is it?”
I turned my head slightly. “What’s ‘it’?”
“This marriage. You got what you wanted. Now I’m here.”
“I didn’t want you like this,” I said quietly.
She let out a bitter laugh. “But you did it.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I did.”
“I want some things, too. Some concessions.”
I squeezed my eyes closed. “Let me hear this.”
“I want to talk to my family whenever I want,” she began.
“That’s not a problem now, Theory. You not a prisoner.”
“I can’t tell,” she mumbled. I let it go.
“What else?”
A long pause. “I don’t want you using things I told you against me. I don’t want you to talk about having babies or none of that,” she whispered.
My reply took longer this time, because I wasn’t expecting that. I didn’t want her denying what she had longed for to spite me. I didn't want her to feel like I was weaponizing her words against her. But arguing with her would do no good. A little bit her way and a lot mine for now.
“You keep the doula because you need the relaxation. But I won’t talk about pregnancy until you ready,” I agreed.
“And you won’t try to get me pregnant either,” she pressed.
I rolled over to stare at her. Slowly, I stroked my hand down the curve of her side. Fuck! She felt so good. And her scent…
“How I’ma get you pregnant when you ain’t planning on letting me touch you?” I murmured.
She shivered lightly under my touch, but those honey eyes held my gaze defiantly.
“I’m stupid enough to find you attractive. I’ll probably be really stupid one day, weak enough to let you fuck. But never without a condom.”
I lay back again, worked to hold on to my damn temper. I didn’t like the way she was talking about having sex with me. She’d have to be stupid? Weak? And she’d once sworn she wanted nothing between us. Patience, I reminded myself.
“Whatever, milaya,” I said evenly.
She looked at me like she’d really said something profound before continuing. “And I want to know the real reason for this sham of a marriage. I wanna know why the guards and how y’all got the money. I know something is up.”
This one was easier. “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I promised. And I would. Some of it, anyway.
She went still, probably surprised that I didn’t argue. Then, her voice came softer. “The stuff in this house… you picked it, didn’t you?”
I cleared my throat. “Through my mama, yeah.”
“From our talks?”
“Yes.”
She blinked a few times, like she was trying to hold tears back.
“Why?” she whispered.
My brain flooded with the truths I could tell her… I knew you were mine since I saw you in a living room in the country. You looked scared in that kitchen but still chose to breathe with me. Anyway, you said you wanted a soft life, and I’m gon’ be the one to give it to you.
She’d run screaming. I kept it simple.
“Because you said what you wanted, and I listened,” I told her.
“Then why couldn't you listen when I said what I didn't want?”
For that, I had no answer. She swallowed and looked away. Both of us stared at the ceiling.
“This is not how I imagined my wedding night,” she mumbled eventually.
I looked at her again. “What did you imagine?”
“Not sleeping with a mile of bed between my husband and me.”
“That’s your choice,” I returned softly.
Her head turned and she scowled at me. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m making free choices. Act like I’m not making the choices that make sense for me in the context you put me in.
My choice to be distant is based on your choices, like your disappearing.
You disappeared, Targen! You were gone. I didn’t know if you were dead.
I didn’t know if you left me. I didn’t know—”
Her voice caught. She recovered fast, lifting her chin like she hated that it almost cracked.
That fucked with me, hit me right in the heart. All I could say was, “I know. I’m sorry.”
Theory’s laugh came out dry. “Sorry don’t fix it.”
“No. But I gotta start there.”
“You left me,” she repeated. “And then you came back and started… designing things and building things and making decisions and acting like I’m supposed to trust you.”
My jaw tightened. “I’m not acting like you supposed to trust me.”
“You are,” she snapped.
“Nah, shorty. I’m showing you that I’m gon’ earn your trust.”
“Well, until you earn it, the sleeping arrangements will stay me in New York and you in LA,” she said, patting the space between us.
I chuckled softly. “I’m good with that. My non-negotiable was you sleeping with me. That don’t mean sex. It means you wake up and know you not alone.”
She drew in a breath, the soft sound almost inaudible. When she didn’t say anything, I continued. “You can hate me. You can ice me out. You can tell me this is in name only. But you not sleeping by yourself. Not tonight. Not ever. I hope my pretty, petty little wife understands that.”
She scoffed. “Always the emphasis on what I am to you. Moya milaya, your wife, your responsibility. I’m not property.”
I closed my eyes for a second. She kept saying that. I didn’t know how to let her know she was mine, but not some random property. Nah, Theory was my treasure. “I’m not trying to own you, Theory.”
She laughed softly. “That’s funny. I can’t tell.”
“It’s not funny,” I said, opening my eyes again. “It’s frustrating as hell, actually.”
She didn’t say anything else for a long time. Neither did I.
A while later, I shifted just enough to face her side of the bed, still keeping my distance. We couldn’t go on like this. She jumped as I moved. That fucked with me, just as it had earlier.
“I want to make peace.”
Her laugh was quiet. Tired. “Peace don’t come free with y’all.”
“I’m not my brother,” I said.
“You just like him, with melanin and manners, because you know Ms. Joia ain’t going.”
Her accuracy about my mama made me smile. “Can I?” I asked suddenly, pointing at her hand.
She rolled her eyes. “You and this ‘Can I,” she mumbled.
But she held out her hand. I took it gently and pressed my lips to her knuckles. Theory’s eyes fluttered shut for half a second. When she opened them again, her voice was a whisper.
“What am I going to do with you?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
I let go of her hand, but our eyes held.
“Good night, wife,” I said.
She sighed, closed her eyes. Then, so low that I could barely hear it, she murmured, “Good night, husband.”
I smiled. Peace. Not perfect, but on this unorthodox wedding night, I’d take it.