“Marissa, my mom saved everything. I have boxes of trophies in the other room. They’re pointless.” He waves the jersey around in front of him.
“If you need more room, get rid of the nerd shirts.” I point to his current attire.
A horrified expression greets me when his head raises from his shirt. “No. We’ll get rid of the jerseys to make room for more of these shirts as I buy them.”
I grab two more jerseys from the top of the pile so I have more in my hands than him. It’s petty, but whatever. “Ryland! These are your accomplishments. There’s an extra bedroom with nothing in it. We’ll store them in there. Maybe get shadowboxes.”
“What the fuck is a shadowbox?”
I put my arms out trying to make the shape without dropping a jersey. “It’s this thing…” Giving up, I shake my hands. "It doesn’t matter. I’ll get a few.”
“I have more soccer crap coming from England, and I’ve made plans for the extra room.”
What’s more important than retaining these memories? “Plans for what?” I ask with my hand back on a hip, the jersey hanging from a few fingers.
His answering sigh could be heard around the world. Paired with his open mouth and raised eyebrow expression, I start to feel if I’m the one missing a major point.
“Kids. Isn’t that what a newly married woman thinks about?”
Holy shit. Kids?I try to breathe through my clenched stomach to help my heart restart. “Not this married woman.” The rumors are true you can't be married for more than a week before people start asking about kids. Who knew it’d come from my husband too.
“Well we’ll need the space until we can get the apartment turned into an extra bedroom.” He sounds so logical, but I worry he's developed a fever.
“We’re turning the apartment into another bedroom? I thought we were letting Amanda rent it out.”
“Amanda?” he asks tilting his head like I’m crazy.
We discussed this, didn’t we? I swear Ryland and I talked this through… although maybe it was with Aspen. Either way, Amanda is a brilliant idea. Much better than filling the extra room with babies. At least right now.
After two calming breaths, I decide to reasonably talk about this without running from the room screaming. “Yeah. I haven’t talked to her yet, but I’d like to give her the chance at it. She’s the last one of us not in the city.”
He throws the jersey back on the donate pile. “Then we definitely do not have space for a trophy room. And I suppose I’ll need to change the lease to take out the rules.”
“Hell no.” My response is quick. “The rules are staying. I’ve heard the type of music Amanda listens to. No one should enjoy Bieber that much.”
Ryland laughs. He has no idea what we’d be subjected to if Amanda had her way.
“Let’s keep the stuff for now. When the England boxes get here, we’ll pick out your favorite items and display those.” Look at us and our first marriage compromise. I’ve got this wife gig in the bag.
He throws the jersey back on the bed and reaches to take the others out of the donate pile. “Fine.” There’s a ding from somewhere near him and Ryland reaches in his pants pulling out his black cell phone. It’s only seconds before his smile turns into a grimace and he tosses the phone on the bed.
It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s read more crap about us, most specifically me, by the media. I said I wouldn’t read the blog posts, but it's easier said than done. Today’s favorite revolved around me being the Yoko Ono to professional soccer. It’s a step above two days ago when everyone took bets on how long our marriage would last.
“You shouldn’t read that shit, Mr. Lennon.” I give Ryland my best smile with my attempted joke.
He’s quick to figure out the reference and crosses the slight distance between us in a heartbeat. One hand cradles my chin while the other wraps around my back pulling me to him. “Hey.” I relax against his chest and the movement created from his breathing until we’re in sync.
When his hand prompts my head up, I don’t resist and instead meet his unguarded eyes with my own vision blurred from the tears building in them. “I’ve dealt with the media for years. It will blow over and they’ll forget about us until something major happens.”
His lips find my forehead in a soft sweet kiss he lets linger. Of all the best Ryland traits, his ability to be gentle and caring when I need him to is my favorite. When the kiss ends, he lines up our foreheads pressing them together. “Trust me, Marissa. Someone more famous will fuck up eventually and they’ll move on.”
I nod. He’s probably right, but in my current mindset it’s hard to accept. “I’m okay.”
“No you’re not.” He wipes at a tear and caresses my cheek. “But you will be. We both will. We’ll be the ones laughing in fifty years.”
Those words settle with me and I chuckle with a sniffle so he won’t see how much I’ve let the talk eat at me over the last few days. Right now being in Ryland’s arms is enough and he’s right. In fifty years we’ll be giving the doubters the middle finger.
“And we’ll need a whole new set of rules,” he continues on.
“No.”
“Yes. Rule number one — always listen to your husband and do as he says.” Ryland chuckles at my unexcited expression.
“No.”
“Rule number two — no reading gossip blogs,” he continues to ignore me. “These are great. We’ll need to write these down.”
“This is not happening, Ryland.”
He squeezes me tighter. “This is so happening, Marissa.”
