Chapter 40
Chapter forty
Avery
"You okay?" I murmur, lips brushing her temple.
She nods, but I don’t let it stop there.
"Really okay?" I press. "No dizziness? Muscle aches? Numbness?"
She goes quiet for a second, then she exhales. "No dizziness. There’s some weakness in my legs, but nothing I can’t handle."
I nod, already adjusting our position, shoving the spare pillows under her knees, and pulling the blanket up to relieve whatever pressure I can. "Tell me if anything changes."
She looks up at me, eyes wide and soft and full of something I know she isn't ready to say out loud. "I knew you wouldn’t forget, I just didn’t expect you to…care as much as you do."
I press my forehead to hers. "Of course I care." I care more than she's ready to hear.
She exhales again, like that truth let something go inside her, like she can finally rest.
So I hold her while she does.
"What are your plans for the next few days?
" I ask after a long silence between us. Olive’s eyes flutter open ever so slightly at the sound of my voice.
My fingers roam lazily over her skin, tracing the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, everything I can reach without moving.
But when I brush the top of her thigh, she gently pushes my hand away.
I shift, resting my hand on her stomach instead, but she turns slightly, pulling away just enough that I feel the distance.
I know exactly what she’s doing, and I know why she’s doing it: her injection sites.
The ones that leave marks, lumps, bumps and bruises on her skin for days—sometimes weeks—after.
Orlando used to get them when he first started his medication.
Even now, I see it. The discoloration on the backs of his arms when he wears a singlet, the dents in his stomach when he trains shirtless with me.
I always knew they still bothered him. Shit like that doesn’t just disappear.
But with Olive…I don’t know.
I guess I wanted to believe she’d be spared. That her body would take it all without flinching, without pain. That she’d come out the other side untouched.
I hate it down to my very core.
Logically, I know that it was stupid of me to make that type of assumption, stupid of me to think of her as unbreakable. I just hoped, deep down, that she wouldn’t be as impacted as he was, because he took it really fucking hard. She seems to be braving it so well.
I guess I subconsciously told myself that her body could handle it, because I didn’t want to imagine it for her any other way.
Given how she flinched at the lightest brush of my fingertips, I’d bet the mask she wears is harder than she’ll ever admit.
She inches away from me ever so slightly, but I notice, because my hands miss the feeling of her skin against them. Miss the warmth she exudes beside me, even though she’s still there.
"It’s from my meds," she says with a sigh, guiding my hand away from her body altogether, and I hate myself for making her feel like having those scars is something to hide, something to be embarrassed about. "They make me feel a little self-conscious. It sometimes looks like I’ve hurt myself somehow, with how red and swollen my skin can get. I don’t know if everybody has these types of reactions or if I’m allergic to them, but I guess it’s something I have to ask my doctor at my next appointment. "
Her sigh is deep enough to take me with her. Over the edge and somewhere far, far away, to a universe where she doesn’t have to go through this. Somewhere where she doesn’t have to worry and wonder what her life will be like in ten years’ time.
I grip her chin gently, tilting her head to look at me. "It’s not you. Orlando used to react badly to it all when he first started, too." I place a kiss gently on her lips.
She pulls away, her hazel eyes staring into mine. There’s hurt there, a bit of fear, too, and I wish more than anything that I could take it all away from her. "And now?"
I take a deep, steadying breath. "Now, he tolerates it. Like he said, it’s just become a part of his everyday routine." I would love to tell her that Orlando has developed a tolerance for it. That his skin doesn’t react in that way anymore, but I can’t bring myself to lie to her. So I don’t.
Instead, I just smile and hope it’s enough. Her eyes seem to gleam with a flicker of faith that I know she so desperately needs to hold onto.
"The ones on my stomach are starting to make little dents in my skin. I think the more I do, the worse they become. They’re more noticeable now.
I don’t think I’ll be able to hide them even if I tried.
" She moves the sheet out of the way to show me, and I see what she’s talking about without her needing to point it out.
The marks on her skin are subtle. But who am I to tell her that she has no right to feel self-conscious? Who am I to tell her that her feelings are invalid? That she should ignore the changes happening to her own body, and just move on? That’s not, and never will be, my call to make.
If that’s how she feels, I will make damn sure every single day we spend together, that she feels like the most beautiful girl in the room. Because to me, she is.
Fake wife or not.
She seems to gather her emotions before throwing herself back onto my chest, the sheet barely covering either of us.
"No major plans over the next few days, by the way. Akira wants to take me and some of her crew to some secluded beach the morning after our last show. Then, I guess, freedom for a couple of weeks before it all ends," she says, taking the conversation back to where it started.
I’m glad she was able to make that shift away from something that obviously made her feel uneasy. And selfishly, I’m grateful she chose me to open up to.
"What about you?"
"Honestly, I had no plans other than to come see you play. You know, supportive husband and all that."
She snickers, and I pull her closer to me, feeling her eyelashes brushing my chest as she blinks.
"I might pick up a ball and go down to a basketball court nearby that I know of. It’s out of the way and rundown, so no one really uses it.
But I miss playing for just me, you know?
" I’m looking forward to putting my headphones in, blaring hype music, and playing the game I used to love so much without an audience.
I haven’t done it in years.
"I know exactly how you feel."
It’s all she says, but it’s enough to leave me curious about what she could mean, but I don’t need to ask.
Apparently, she’s in the giving mood. "I’ve had writer’s block since the tour started. I keep telling myself that it’s because I don’t have my lucky guitar. But I know that’s bullshit." She shakes her head with a soft laugh, and it’s suddenly the sweetest sound I think I’ve ever heard.
I want to point out that she met me on the night the tour started. And her writer’s block may have something to do with that. But if she realizes that, she may want to see me less.
I'm selfish, so I let her think her guitar is to blame.
"Where do you draw your inspiration from?" I ask carefully. This is my gateway to finding out if there’s anyone else in her life.
Anyone who broke her heart, if she might still be holding on, hoping they’ll have a one day.
"Life, I guess. People around me, friends, family. Gosh, even celebrities." She scrunches up her nose and shakes her head as if she can’t believe she’s admitting that last part out loud.
"You never write songs for you? About you?" I tilt my head to the side, looking at her brown locks splayed across my arm.
"Never. And I feel like that part of me could be missing, you know? I think I need to write songs about my life. Write songs I personally relate to, for me and nobody else. But I don’t think people want to hear about that. About this," she says, gesturing to the marks on her body.
I place a soft kiss on the top of her head.
"The label already doesn’t find my lyrics and music exciting. If I wrote about me and my life, they would probably discard me with the next load of trash they leave in the gutter to be collected." This time, her laughter is laced with…fear, I think, and it rips my heart out of my chest.
How can she still, even after seeing the reaction from the crowd night after night, think she isn’t worthy? "Promise me you’ll try. They’re songs for you, and nobody else. Who cares if they don’t like them? Hell, they don’t even need to hear them. Nobody does."
Apart from me, because I have a feeling my yearly Spotify Wrapped playlist will have Olive taking all five top spots.
"But if you feel like sharing them with somebody someday, share them with me.
They might be songs for you, but I selfishly want them for me, too.
" I grin as her laughter vibrates against my chest.
"Thanks, Avery. For everything. For a fake husband, you sure know how to make your fake wife feel special."
There’s a long silence, one heartbeat passes, then two, before I find the courage to say something.
"I’ll meet you in your green room after your set. You can tell me all the ways to win over your parents when we’re in California next week for the award show." I internally shudder at the thought. If I can’t win her family over, I may as well call it quits.
When she first told me we weren’t going back to her hometown, a little part of me was relieved, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. When she told me her parents wanted to meet me, with both sisters in attendance, my stomach fell out of my ass, and all the blood drained from my face.
I think the thought of meeting Cassandra Wingrove in real life terrifies me more than meeting her parents, Hank and Roxanne.
"You’ll be fine. They know what this is, so you don’t have to, you know…" She trails off, her expression changing to one I haven’t seen on her face before.
"I don’t know, actually. Want to elaborate?"
"You don’t have to pretend that you care about me in that way." She sits up, turning around to reach for her clothes.
"What if I’m not pretending anymore, Olive?"