I take a deep, steadying breath. "Now, he tolerates it. Like he said, it’s just become a part of his everyday routine." I would love to tell her that Orlando has developed a tolerance for it. That his skin doesn’t react in that way anymore, but I can’t bring myself to lie to her. So I don’t.
Instead, I just smile and hope it’s enough. Her eyes seem to gleam with a flicker of faith that I know she so desperately needs to hold onto.
"The ones on my stomach are starting to make little dents in my skin. I think the more I do, the worse they become. They’re more noticeable now. I don’t think I’ll be able to hide them evenif I tried." She moves the sheet out of the way to show me, and I see what she’s talking about without her needing to point it out.
The marks on her skin are subtle. But who am I to tell her that she has no right to feel self-conscious? Who am I to tell her that her feelings are invalid? That she should ignore the changes happening to her own body, and just move on? ??That’s not, and never will be, my call to make.
If that’s how she feels, I will make damn sure every single day we spend together, that she feels like the most beautiful girl in the room. Because to me, she is.
Fake wife or not.
She seems to gather her emotions before throwing herself back onto my chest, the sheet barely covering either of us.
"No major plans over the next few days, by the way. Akira wants to take me and some of her crew to some secluded beach the morning after our last show. Then, I guess, freedom for a couple of weeks before it all ends," she says, taking the conversation back to where it started.
I’m glad she was able to make that shift away from something that obviously made her feel uneasy. And selfishly, I’m grateful she chose me to open up to.
"What about you?"
"Honestly, I had no plans other than to come see you play. You know, supportive husband and all that."
She snickers, and I pull her closer to me, feeling her eyelashes brushing my chest as she blinks.
"I might pick up a ball and go down to a basketball court nearby that I know of. It’s out of the way and rundown, so no one really uses it. But I miss playing for just me, you know?" I’m looking forward to putting my headphones in, blaring hype music, and playing the game I used to love so much without an audience.
I haven’t done it in years.
"I know exactly how you feel."
It’s all she says, but it’s enough to leave me curious about what she could mean, but I don’t need to ask.
Apparently, she’s in the giving mood. "I’ve had writer’s block since the tour started. I keep telling myself that it’s because I don’t have my lucky guitar. But I know that’s bullshit." She shakes her head with a soft laugh, and it’s suddenly the sweetest sound I think I’ve ever heard.
I want to point out that she met me on the night the tour started. And her writer’s block may have something to do with that. But if she realizes that, she may want to see me less.
I'm selfish, so I let her think her guitar is to blame.
"Where do you draw your inspiration from?" I ask carefully. This is my gateway to finding out if there’s anyone else in her life.
Anyone who broke her heart, if she might still be holding on, hoping they’ll have aone day.
"Life, I guess. People around me, friends, family. Gosh, even celebrities." She scrunches up her nose and shakes her head as if she can’t believe she’s admitting that last part out loud.
"You never write songs for you?Aboutyou?" I tilt my head to the side, looking at her brown locks splayed across my arm.
"Never. And I feel like that part of me could be missing, you know? I think I need to write songs about my life. Write songs I personally relate to, for me and nobody else. But I don’t think people want to hear about that. Aboutthis," she says, gesturing to the marks on her body.
I place a soft kiss on the top of her head.
"The label already doesn’t find my lyrics and music exciting. If I wrote about me and my life, they would probably discard me with the next load of trash they leave in the gutter to be collected." This time, her laughter is laced with…fear, I think, and it rips my heart out of my chest.
How can she still, even after seeing the reaction from the crowd night after night, think she isn’t worthy? "Promise me you’ll try. They’resongs for you, and nobody else. Who cares if they don’t like them? Hell, they don’t even need to hear them. Nobody does."
Apart from me, because I have a feeling my yearly Spotify Wrapped playlist will have Olive taking all five top spots. "But if you feel like sharing them with somebody someday, share them with me. They might be songs for you, but I selfishly want them for me, too." I grin as her laughter vibrates against my chest.
"Thanks, Avery. For everything. For a fake husband, you sure know how to make your fake wife feel special."
There’s a long silence, one heartbeat passes, then two, before I find the courage to say something.
