CHAPTER THIRTY
Divorce.
It’s a nasty word. Especially when you’ve been married less than seven days. I guess if I try to stay positive, it’s longer than some celebrity marriages.
I flip the channel on the television again and scowl at the innocent black box when I stop on a soccer tournament. Look, the wives of those men know where they are. What a novel concept.
The last message I received from Ryland came last night, almost twenty-four hours ago. I’ve been to work. I’ve had dinner. What I haven’t had is a conversation with my husband. The day started with me irritated, by lunch I hit frustrated, at dinner I became highly annoyed, and now I’m livid.
My fingers tap on the edge of the couch, but the motion loses effect when my nails don’t make sound on the soft fabric. I’m about to turn off the television when my phone vibrates.
Ryland:Where are you?
He didn’t? He didn’t text me demanding to know where I am. Did he? He’s not that dumb?
Me:My living room.
Ryland:Why are you over there when you should be here with me?
He wants to die. That’s the only explanation. He’s thought my comments were harmless threats before, but Ryland’s about to find out what happens when you piss me off.
Me:Maybe if I knew where that was. You know, if you TOLD ME these things.
His reply is almost instant as if he sent the text before reading mine.
Ryland:Kitten, I’m sitting on the couch in our place. Come over.
Oh I’ll come over. That’s for sure. This crap needs to be dealt with in person. Wood shakes as I push open Ryland’s door and allow it to hit the wall as I walk in like a hurricane ready to do damage.
“Ryland Bates!” I yell into the room even though I see his head above the back of the couch.
I round the side of the couch and stop to take in his outfit. He looks damn fine in the light grey two piece suit he’s wearing. There’s a pair of shoes and socks somewhere from the elevator to here by the looks of his bare feet. At least a days' worth of stubble covers his face and dark circles smudge below his eyes. The suit makes him hot, the tired overall appearance gives me a little compassion for him. Damn, why does he have to go and make me feel sympathy for him? I can’t yell at him when he’s hot and tired.Get it together, Marissa. He’s not cute. He’s in trouble for his shitty communication skills.
Ryland stands and I use the opportunity of his closeness to poke him in the chest. “Don’t call me Ki—” my words cut off by the seal of his lips on mine.
His tongue traces my top lip and I open, wrapping my arms around him and squeezing. My fears and worries from the last few days release into the room and I sigh, happy to have Ryland home. I fought the fact I love this man for way too long. I never knew love could feel this way. That it would make me feel so complete.
But I’m still cranky and Ryland needs to know he can’t do crap like this. Disappear for a few days and make decisions on his own. Not for this marriage to work. I push back ready to keep this argument going, but Ryland’s hands reach around my butt to lift me in the air. Before I work up a good struggle, he deposits me on my back on the couch his body over top of mine. He holds his weight off me, but lays close enough I can’t work up a good fight.
We’re lined up eye to eye and I narrow my brown ones at his deep blues. “I’m mad at you. Let me up.”
He shakes his head once. “No.”
“Ryland…” A good threat doesn’t come to mind, but I’ll think of one eventually and then he’s in trouble.
Rather than cower with worry, he smiles. “This way is safer for me.” When I don’t lose the irritated expression, he continues. "I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about England right away, but I wanted to say this in person, face to face.”
He’s not helping my annoyance level. “Fine. Here I am.” I widen my eyes and attempt to spread my arms but he’s too strong. “Tell me already.”
“We’re staying in San Francisco.”
My eyes narrow again. I’m suspicious. Did he find a kayaking team to join? “How?”
He grins and tightens his arms on either side of me. “You, Marissa, are married to the new assistant Men’s soccer coach for Stanford University.”
“What? You’re not going to play soccer anymore?” Friday he rushed off to resign a contract with his old team. Now he’s a coach?
“Nope.” His hand between me and the couch moves up my stomach lifting my yellow t-shirt with it.
