My nostrils flare as I put my hands behind my back, threading them tightly together while I reach for the depths of my willpower. I may have no treats without payment, and my payment is self-control in the face of extreme desire.
It burns as much as it delights.
“I’ve set up tea for us,” I say, not wholly surprised at the gritty quality of my voice.
Sarelia, however, flits wide, startled eyes toward me. Her pupils dilate as she takes me in, and her breaths shallow.
My eyelids lower.
“Tea,” I repeat firmly, bowing as I sweep an arm out toward the small round coffee table sitting before a green sofa, both relocated from what used to be a well-furnished guest room.
Sarelia, cheeks burning, moves to the sofa and sits primly on the edge of it, setting her papers on the cushion next to her. I sit across from her in a round chair meant for melting into, a state I rebel against, for if I melt, it will be only with my princess pressed against me.
In front of us lays as intricate of a tea as I could manage in the time left after transforming the room into a cozy set up we could properly enjoy. A three-tiered serving stand occupies mostof the table and holds a variety of finger sandwiches, scones, and sweets. Beside the stand, an antique teapot rests on an ornate gold-dusted tray with teacups, a sugar bowl, and a milk jar.
I pick up the teapot as I nod toward two porcelain dessert plates. “Choose your snacks, love,” I order softly, upturning a floral teacup on its saucer and pouring a measure of cinnamon black tea into it. A sugar crystal chunk and a small bit of milk follow the tea.
“What would you like?” Sarelia asks, hovering a pair of tongs over a cucumber sandwich while giving me a sidelong glance.
I smile. “Guess.”
She hesitates, then puts the sandwich on my plate. A scone with lemon curd lands beside it, then a piece of sponge cake. She passes it all to me slowly—shyly.
“Lovely,” I praise. “Exactly what I would have chosen for myself.”
Her eyes brighten.
I set her tea in front of her, then make my own—two sugars, a splash of milk.
“Let’s see,” I murmur, spreading lemon curd on my scone. “On our agenda, we have our goals for this marriage and working through the damage your parents inflicted this afternoon over the still-festering lashes they gave you only a couple of days ago. Is there anything else you wish to add?”
She takes a sip of steaming tea, then clears her throat. “Under that second point, we will need to discuss my parents’ desire to meet you.”
I sip at my own tea, careful not to let the emotions rioting in my gut touch my face.
Her parents love her. They want the best for her. They hurt her in their love for her, but they have good intentions, and good intentions matter a great deal. They arepeople, after all, flaws and shortcomings included. And parents areespeciallyfull of flaws and shortcomings, despite what our younger selves may believe, which means they areespeciallydeserving of understanding and grace when their intentions are only good.
More important than their good intentions, though, is the fact that Sarelia loves them. A great deal, even.
Which means I will cling tightly to my patience in my dealings with them so that I do not further strain my wife’s emotions where it concerns her relationship with her parents. I will cling, and I will make it clear that she is deserving of love in the way that is receivable to her.
I will also work to learn the lesson that I am trying to teach her—that just because a person shows love in a way that you cannot understand, that does not make their love any less. And learning how to accept that love is the first step to being able to communicate to them how best to love you. We must first believe that they are loving us asmuchas we would like them to so that when we ask them to love ushowwe would like them to, it doesn’t feel like they’re cheaply following our instructions to placate us. Anyone can follow clearly laid steps to show us that they love us, but if we do not already believe in that love, our silly little brains will say,Yes, but if they had to be told, do theyreallylove us?
Brains are such fickle things.
“We can add a parental visit to point two,” I decide, setting my tea down in favor of my scone. “We’ll do our goals first, then? You are ready to present yours?”
She freezes, and the rosy hue of her skin pales to nearly ghost-white.
I just barely keep my face blank.
“Um,” she hedges.
I put my chin in my hand and stare, eyes wide, waiting for her answer.
“Ummm.” Her voice quivers, and a bead of sweat forms on her temple as she glances at the papers beside her before nudging them ever-so-slightly behind her.
My lip twitches.
