30. Tabitha
CHAPTER 30
TABITHA
“Don’t forget to use bug spray. I swear they like him extra because he’s so cute, and then he gets these super-sized lumps all over his arms and legs, and it’s so sad.”
My mom nods calmly, her eyes reflecting reassurance. “I don’t know that bugs will be a problem this time of year, hon. It is fall after all.”
I shift at on my parents’ front porch, hearing Milo’s giggles filter back as he and my dad chase each other around the house. Milo is thrilled about going camping in the trailer with his grandparents.
But I’m a nervous wreck.
“That’s true, but it’s better safe than sorry. And if there’s a super sunny day, just toss a little sunscreen on for good measure.”
My mom laughs now, shaking her head as though I’m ridiculous. “We’re going to be fine, Tabby. What’s gotten into you? We look after him all the time. We’ve raised two…”
She trails off with a flash of pain on her features. The sentiment flowed so easily, and then she caught herself. It’s like because they cut Erika off, they still don’t want to reminisce. Or can’t? I’m not sure which, but I think that’s what I’ve found in Rhys. Someone I can talk to about my sister who also has fond memories of her.
I don’t have to be the one who came out on top. I just get to be the girl who lost her sister.
“You raised two wonderful women, Mom. Both of us imperfect in our own ways.” God, I’m so tired of being treated like the perfect one . I look her dead in the eye. “And if Milo wants to talk about his mom, you’re going to need to engage with him. Forget the bug spray. Just please don’t pretend she never existed.”
Her eyes water. “It hurts.”
I nod, gritting my molars so I don’t cry. Partly because it angers me that their way of coping is pretending that she never existed. Like they could just… erase her from their life. It’s fucking bizarre and shitty, but I’m not about to tell them how to grieve when—like I said—I’m not perfect either. I still haven’t cried about Erika. I don’t know if I ever will, but at least I pay her homage where I can. I mean, hell, I’m going to therapy, and I have a plant named after her that I talk to sometimes.
If that’s not healthy, I don’t know what is.
“Yup. It hurts.”
She nods.
“Promise me. Don’t make it weird for him.”
“I promise, Tabby. I promise.”
With that, I give my mom a tight hug and make my departure with a lighthearted, “Have fun!” over my shoulder to ease any lingering tensions from our interaction. Years spent smoothing things over have made me an expert, but it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to see that I’m on edge today.
And so, I indulge in a little retail therapy to quell my nerves. After a quick stop at the antique shop in town, I have a bed frame and two nightstands set for delivery this afternoon. Another stop, and I have fresh bedding and a plush set of new towels. And once I get home, I really get crazy—I pull out my old sewing machine and whip up some curtains from a pretty fabric I bought for a project at the restaurant.
My basement may not have drywall, but goddammit, the next time Rhys is here, he will not sleep on a mattress on the floor in a place I assigned him just because I was angry.
It’s my way of saying I’m sorry for being so combative. Or maybe with Milo gone and two days off looking me dead in the eyes, I’m just fucking lonely. Or maybe, just maybe, I miss Rhys and want to see him smile when he eventually comes back.
Whatever it is, making the “guest room” feel like more than a dank dungeon eats up several hours of my day. It keeps me from being still, because if I’m too still, my mind will wander down paths I’d rather avoid.
At this stage of my life, busy is good. Busy hurts less.
I step back when the sun has set and dinnertime has passed, hands on my hips as I admire my handiwork in the basement. The concrete walls still give it a shabby-chic vibe, but I dug out a rug to cover the matching floor, leaned a tall mirror against the wall, and placed knickknacks and photos on the framing boards. There’s one of Milo, there’s one of Cleo, and there’s even one from our wedding day of us walking down the front steps of the church, looking suspiciously happy.
The space has warmth now, and the mismatched aesthetic adds charm, in my opinion.
It takes me back to the day he said he’s slept in worse conditions, and my heart clenches just thinking about it. I get the sense he’s not used to someone taking care of him, and he’s a grown-ass man, so I know he doesn’t require it. But now that he’s opened up to me, his backstory has the “acts of service” part of me in its grip.
Maybe our marriage wasn’t born from being madly in love, but I don’t think caring about him will hurt anything at this point.
My stomach grumbles, pulling me back to reality. Without Milo here, I’m terrible at remembering to eat, which—for a chef—is hilarious.
Upstairs, I make myself a ham sandwich and toss a couple of mini cucumbers on the side for some color. Very gourmet. Then I take my plate to the living room and waffle on whether I should watch Rhys tonight. The curiosity is killing me, and I’d be a big fat liar if I said watching him in character didn’t do something to me. The confidence, the swagger, the way he commands the emotions of an entire arena full of people—it’s thrilling.
But I also don’t want to watch him kiss another woman.
I click the program on and take an aggressive bite of my cucumber, ready to be entertained… or hurt. Depending on what happens tonight.
The show opens with Rhys’s entrance music. The heavy bass and ominous tones blare through the stadium as the lights go black. A bright white strobe light illuminates the crowd in pulsing flashes. Rhys’s hulking silhouette appears at the top of the ramp, the crowd screams, and butterflies erupt in my stomach.
I scoot closer to the edge of my couch as I watch him take a leisurely stroll down the ramp. Electricity sizzles around him, every step almost lazy in its confidence. His sleeve of swirling black tattoos shine on his tan skin, and his dark hair has a wet look to it where it frames his face.
He trails his fingers over fans’ outstretched hands as they scream and reach for him. Signs in the stands boast his name. Shirts on their chests proudly display his logo.
It chokes me up. I watch in awe, shaking my head with a soft smile on my lips. I wonder if he realizes how loved he is. I wonder if he knows that this might be a part of his family—his roots.
I’m not sure he does. I don’t know if Rhys has the confidence Wild Side possesses. It seems like he might hold the two versions of himself in such different regard that he doesn’t recognize they’re just two parts of one complex, perfectly lovable whole.
With practiced fluidity, he leaps into the ring, sliding under the ropes before popping up with ease. He steps up in the corner, holding a fist in the air as the beat to his music changes. The attendees hold their fists up too, mirroring his pose while singing along to his music so loudly that I almost can’t hear the original. Every corner follows suit.
Goose bumps roam up my arms. It’s magic.
Finally, someone hands him a mic, and the lights brighten as his music wanes.
“Minneapolis!” His voice is all gravel over the speakers. “Welcome to the Wild Siiide.”
The cheers are downright deafening, and the absurdity of the entire thing makes me laugh out loud in the privacy of my own living room.
A fucking professional wrestler.
He chuckles into the mic. His black-and-green mask conceals his face, but I can see his eyes, and the way his tongue pops into his cheek. For me, it’s obvious it’s him . I wonder how no one else sees it. His lips curve seductively, and it sends a zing of awareness down my spine that lands right in my core. I cross my legs and settle in to watch.
“I’ve been away for a few weeks, and I’ve missed you. But I’ve been busy.” The odd hoot sounds out, but Rhys carries on. “Busy preparing to take back what that spoiled goof in a suit has been playing with. What I’ve let a lesser man—if you can even call him that—borrow while I’ve been recovering. He may have knocked me down… but not. Hard. Enough.”
He turns to look into the main camera and points, my eyes snagging on the flash of his wedding ring. “That’s right, Will. You should have hit me so hard that I couldn’t get back up. You should have finished the goddamn job. That was your first mistake, because now I’m back—in my house, with my people—where you’ve been living comfortably for far too long. If you’d finished the job, I wouldn’t be here. Back for blood. Because everything you thought was yours? By the time Pure Pandemonium rolls around, it’s going to be mine .”
The crowd surges again, partly due to the message, and partly due to the two men who’ve popped up behind him.
One takes a cheap shot while the other one circles. Rhys folds under the blow, hitting the mat with a heavy thud as the mic goes flying. But he’s not down for long. He pops back up in an agile kip-up that a man his size should not be able to execute so gracefully.
He turns to the man who kicked him without missing a beat, lifting him into a chokeslam. The move takes the man high and curves him into a rainbow shape over Rhys’s body, his signature move that has everyone chanting, “Over! The! Mountain!”
When the guy hits the mat, he rolls from the ring, writhing and holding his neck.
The second goon has the good sense to look concerned. He’s overacting his response, but that doesn’t bother me one bit. It adds a dose of humor, a dose of drama that has me internally cheering even harder for Wild Side.
Rhys doesn’t hesitate like him, though. He turns fluidly into a high kick aimed at the other man’s head that drops him on the spot.
I lean closer, trying to see where he holds back. He’s masterful. Where some wrestlers are obvious with the space they leave to prevent injuring their opponent, Rhys is not. He’s a technician. It’s seamless, believable, and I’d say he’s so good that he makes the other two guys look a hell of a lot better than they are.
One is on all fours outside of the ring, pretending to cough and crawl away, while the other lies prone on the mat. Rhys climbs the ropes at the turnbuckle, and with his back to the man he just kicked, he circles a finger over his head in a let’s fucking go motion. Then he does a massive backflip off the top rope that has me shooting to standing, sandwich and cucumbers flying across the floor.
“Oh shit!” My hand flies to my chest as he lands on the man, lifting his hips ever so slightly, letting his elbows and knees take the brunt while the announcer screams about him having the best moonsault in the company.
But the celebration is short-lived when guy number two pops back up and kicks Rhys right in his very sizable penis. He doubles over with great theatrics, and I have to remind myself that he’s probably okay.
The guy is readying his attack when a flash of blond hair flies into the ring with a metal chair in her hand. She winds up and slams it into the face of Rhys’s attacker. I know I’m not supposed to like this storyline with Elle, but the anxious part of me is relieved someone came to help him. Because watching him throw himself around and take hits doesn’t feel fake at all. In fact, I’m more stressed by it than ever before.
The two of them make quick work of their foes, and once they’re both sprawled on the mat, she turns to grin at Rhys. He doesn’t return the gesture. Instead, he scowls, failing spectacularly at acting like she’s his partner.
And because I know him well enough to recognize the glare, I find it oddly… amusing? Reassuring?
But she doesn’t back down. She reaches for his hand and hefts it high in the air, pointing at him and mouthing, “ That’s my man ,” over and over again.
I twist my wedding band on my finger, relieved he’s leaving the ring unscathed.
And jealous because she’s holding his hand.
But I refuse to indulge that emotion. I’m not the jealous type, and I don’t want to start now. Plus, I truly have no reason to be jealous. What he’s doing in the arena is for show. Fake .
However, my budding feelings for him are not. Which is why I fire off a text message that even two weeks ago I would never have sent. Rhys and I are similar in a lot of ways, and I know what he needs to hear tonight.
Tabby:
I’m proud of you.
Then I go to bed without eating. My appetite is gone anyway.