Part of me has always wanted them so I could give them a parent different from mine, but a bigger part of me knows how hard I’ve worked to get where I am and how much I’ve had to prove that I am more than the vagina between my legs and uterus inside me.
It’s been an exhausting and grueling process over the years. It still is. My partners undermine me every chance they get, and now that they know I’ve shacked up with the infamous Grayson Garrison, it’s only gotten worse.
The pointed questions and statements about getting home at a reasonable hour to cook dinner has become the topic of every conversation. Coupled with:Well, my wife does this. Mine does that. You should talk to Cindy. She stays at home now and can help you learn to run a household. Keeps ours tidy and the kids in order.
I fucking hate it.
It’s why I freeze up every time Gray mentions our future progressing past where we are now. Marriage and kids and more dogs and a new picket fence. It’s all so much sometimes.
And the men in that office aren’t going to respect me more for proving I can do it all. That’s not how chauvinism works. They’ll chastise me for not performing as a traditional wife. For spreading myself too thin.
They’ll continue to point out how tired I am or that I haven’t taken a vacation in years.
I don’t want that, no matter how much I want everything with Gray.
Gray went to go meet with Tate a few hours ago. A conversation I insisted he go have. I needed time alone and they need to bury the damn hatchet.
But mostly it was space. I needed space from his constant apologies and the plea in his eyes and the way he wants to talk about everything.
I don’t want to talk about why I’m reluctant to start a future with him. My own deficiencies aren’t something I desire to harp on.
I don’t want to talk about my family being in town for the night to celebrate Gran’s eightieth.
The assholes I work with don’t deserve to breathe the same air as me, let alone live through my words.
I just want quiet. I want the carefree relationship we seemed to have when all this started.
But I guess this is what happens when you move forward with someone. The real shit comes up and you have to find a way to navigate it together.
The shutting of the front door and the click of nails over the hardwood floors pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“River, babe,” Gray calls, the thump of his boots growing louder the closer he gets. “Hey, where are you? You ready?”
He barges into the bedroom. Though there had been happiness in his tone, his features don’t match it.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, fine.” He brushes it off. A sign he is still parsing through his feelings over how his talk with Tate went. “You ready? We need to pick up Gran’s cake on the way.”
“Yeah, of course.” I grab my purse from the bed beside me before smoothing the front of my purple floral dress.
Gray pulls me into his chest, one arm across the middle of my back, a soft kiss pressed to my lips. “You look beautiful.” And I melt. Every concern I’d been wading through earlier, abandoned and ignored, because this man makes my heart soar.
And that’s the problem. I can’t be the woman I created and the one who loves how he brought the real me back out at the same time. I have to choose because I don’t know how to blend the two.
“Thanks, baby. Let’s get going.” I try to pull away, but Gray holds me in place, tucking a curl behind my ear.
“Your eyes are my favorite feature. You know that?” I nod. He’s told me countless times. “It’s not just the mesmerizing color that’s uniquely yours, but it’s how they tell me everything I need to know.” That part he’s never told me, and my heart hammers in response to his words. “I know you don’t want to see your family today, but it’s not about them. It’s about Gran and the people who will be there who genuinely care for that loony tune.” A soft laugh leaves me. She is in fact a bit cooky. “So don’t worry about them. They’ll be gone by morning, and we can go back to life as we know it.”
Running my hand over Gray’s cheek, the words thank you don’t seem like enough. How he sees me just as I am, without judgment, and only love is beyond me. “I love you, Gray.”
“I know, baby.” He turns to kiss my palm. “I love you more. Now let’s go.”
There are several cars parked out front when we pull up to Gran’s house. The Crawley truck. Several of her friends. A few others that are likely from around town.
Then there are three others: one with Florida plates, one from Michigan, and the last from California.
The muscles in my jaw tense, my bite so sharp my molars ache. But Gray just grabs my hand, balancing the cake on the palm of the other and leads me inside.
