Ryder
Trust me, I know.
Danny
I’m rooting for you, hubby.
“Alright, you two, this should be pretty straightforward. Mabel, Whitney and I have gone over the list of no-go topics and she’s on board with everything. No food talk, no diet talk, no talk about your body, weight, pregnancy speculation or family planning. Ryder, you just sit there and look pretty and in love, okay?”
Trina taps away on her phone as she talks, no doubt responding to one of the billions of emails she gets on any given day. I can’t help but wonder if she’s possibly shutting down another baseless rumor about Mabel, since they seem to be popping up like wildfire. I also can’t help but feel responsible for the media shitshow we’ve found ourselves in, but goddamn. Who knew a woman being photographed eating tacos could create so many ridiculous threads of obscurity?
Mabel just nods, examining her nail beds as a man brushes powder over her cheeks under the bright studio lights. We’re filming a podcast today with one of the premier celebrity interviewers, an influencer turned journalist named Whitney Walker. Her show,Hot Girl Walk, is a guilty pleasure of mine, because her topics range from interviewing presidential candidates about their opinions on women’s rights and their stance on the LGBTQ+ community to asking wellness influencers for anal-sex tips.
It’s a buffet of human interest topics, and today, Mabel and I are here to give the people what they want—an inside look at our marriage.
Unfortunately, the people also want to know if Mabel is hiding a pregnancy, since that seems to be the only logical explanation as to why she would get married and eat a taco in the same week. Not to mention the stupid listicle comparing my wife to every person whose direction I’ve ever once glanced in. Mabel says she’s fine, that she’s used to this kind of scrutiny in her life, but she’s barely spoken to me or anyone else since those damn articles came out.
I can’t blame her, but I also can’t help but feel that every time we take one step forward, the universe pushes us five steps back.
There was a moment that night on the mountain,when she jumped into my arms, that I thought maybe…maybe she was finally seeing me for what I am, for how I feel, but that moment feels light years away now.
“You sure you’re okay?” I murmur, leaning over on the waiting room couch to tap shoulders with my wife. “We don’t have to do this. I’m not scared of Trina—” Lie. I’m fucking terrified of the woman, but I’ll pretend not to be for Mabel. “She’s distracted. We can slip out, get in the car and?—”
“And what, Rye Bread? Find another costume shop? Get a few wigs and try to be someone else for a while? That didn’t exactly work out for us the last time.”
“I know. I wasn’t suggesting?—”
“This is my life, Ryder. This is what it’s like to be me. I do something, even something as small as eat a meal that the general public deems unfit for an athlete of my caliber, and that’s the news story. ‘Mabel Quinn eats a handful of fried tortilla chips! Is she stable enough for Team USA? Mabel Quinn marries a gorgeous man who she’s known since the day she was born! She must be crazy, or pregnant, or hiding some big secret! Don’t worry, folks, we’ll scour the dumpsters outside of her apartment building until we find out what she’s keeping from us!’” She shrugs, still staring down at the cuticle she’spushing down with her thumb. “It’s my life, which means it’s your life now, too.”
I grab her thigh, squeezing the tight, muscular limb. I run a thumb over the sheer black stockings she wears under her skin-tight mini skirt and cropped, collared shirt with the pearl buttons down the front. She looks incredible, polished and grown up and unbearably sexy, especially with her thick, copper hair pulled back into a ponytail, exposing her neck. Her wedding band is the only jewelry she wears, but she doesn’t need anything more than the simple gold ring to make her shine. Mabel does that all on her own.
My wife is gorgeous, a knockout. Even pissed off and picking at her fingers, she drives me goddamn wild. I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’ve restrained myself from jerking off since I moved into her condo. All this pent-up energy is made worse by the fact that Mabel is a total cock tease when she’s simply existing. If I were a better man, I wouldn’t have to cross one knee over the other to hide the obvious effect she has on me.
“It’s my life too,” I agree, nerves buzzing as I continue to stroke her thigh with my thumb. “I’ll follow your lead, Mabes. You’re the boss.”
That gets her attention, it seems. She finally looks at me, something dark and curious swimming in herdoe-brown eyes, and to my absolute delight, she puts her hand on mine and squeezes. An almost smile threatens the corners of her plum-colored lips as her gaze softens.
“Thank you, Ryder. I just…thank you. For everything.”
I don’t have time to ask her what she means before the two of us are being corralled into the studio and set up in front of two boom mics on a small couch, our host across from us making polite small talk as the crew counts us down to go-time.
“What is up, Hot Girls? My name is Whitney Walker, and I’m inviting you to take a Hot Girl Walk with me. Today’s episode is very special because I have got not one, but two Hot Girls in the studio with me. Both pro-snowboarders, both gold-medal winners, and now, both halves of the hottest couple headed to Milan for the Winter Games. Please join me in welcoming Ryder Finch and Mabel Quinn!” Whitney gives a compulsory golf clap in our direction, and Mabel links her fingers in mine. “Ryder, I hope you don’t mind being called a Hot Girl. It’s a gender-neutral term around here.”
“Not at all. I’m a big fan of the show, so I’m honored. We’re all Hot Girls here.”
“Shut up. I am fangirling so hard. I had a picture of you on my bedroom wall in high school. And youtoo, Mabel. Actually, I still have the photo of you holding up your first gold medal in Pyeongchang framed in my gym at home.”
“Oh my god, stop. That is too sweet. I don’t even have that photo framed; I still had braces in South Korea.” Mabel covers her face with her free hand and we all have a laugh and exchange a few more niceties before Whitney moves the show along.
“So, we have to talk about the elephant in the room. Las Vegas.” Whitney pulls up a tablet from the couch seat next to her and taps a few times before turning the screen towards us. It’s the video we posted that night outside the chapel, where I loudly and drunkenly declared to the world that Mabel Quinn is in fact, my wife.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t watched it several times since our return to Colorado. Even if we’re both shit-faced and glassy-eyed on screen, we look happy, carefree, infatuated with each other. Everything that a newlywed couple should be.
Not to mention the way Mabel grabs my face and kisses me. That part lives in heavy rotation on my phone when I’m trying to fall asleep on her lumpy couch at night, while I desperately try to recall what her lips felt like on mine.
“I think you guys kind of took the world by storm when that video dropped a few weeks ago. I know Iwas shook,” Whitney says when the clip comes to an end.
“Me too,” I quip. “Never in a million years did I think I’d be lucky enough to marry the girl of my dreams.”
