"I’ll meet you in your green room after your set. You can tell me all the ways to win over your parents when we’re in California next week for the award show." I internally shudder at the thought. If I can’t win her family over, I may as well call it quits.
When she first told me we weren’t going back to her hometown, a little part of me was relieved, but I couldn’t quite put my finger onwhy. When she told me her parents wanted to meet me, withbothsisters in attendance, my stomach fell out of my ass, and all the blood drained from my face.
I think the thought of meeting Cassandra Wingrove in real life terrifies me more than meeting her parents, Hank and Roxanne.
"You’ll be fine. They know what this is, so you don’t have to, you know…" She trails off, her expression changing to one I haven’t seen on her face before.
"I don’t know, actually. Want to elaborate?"
"You don’t have to pretend that you care about me inthatway." She sits up, turning around to reach for her clothes.
"What if I’m not pretending anymore, Olive?"
She stiffens, and I swear I can feel the heat rise off her skin. Right now, I’m glad I can’t see her face, because it would tell me everything I need to know.
"Avery," she says with a breathy pause, no doubt contemplating her next move.
Tell me you care about me too.I want to beg her.
Tell me I’m not alone in this.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she picks up her phone—a call coming through—bringing it to her ear. "Hello?"
A pause, then, "Yes. I can be there." She hangs up and stammers, "I have to get going. Something about soundcheck." She dresses in a hurry and rushes out the door before I can ask her anything else.
I don’t see her for the rest of the night.
***
The car ride to the venue is filled with half-finished thoughts and pointless chatter, just enough noise to keep the silence from swallowing us whole. Neither of us brings up what I said.
Eventually, I ask how she’s feeling about flying to California to present at the award show.
"I mean, I feel probably as good as you do about it." She shrugs, fingers tapping against her knees while they bounce. She’s nervous to be around me after our conversation yesterday, and I can’t say I blame her. I shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t the right time, and it probably wouldn’t ever be. But I needed her to know so I can tell myself I tried. Even if it meant she didn’t feel the same.
Yet, all I want to do is take that hand of hers, and hold it in mine. Let her know that it’s okay. That I’m okay. Thatweare okay no matter what.
Then I remember that she’s my wife, and that it would be completely natural for me to hold her hand, and let her know without words that I care.
Fuck it.
I thread her fingers through mine and rest both hands in her lap.
Her knee stills, and she grips my hand so tightly it almost cuts off my circulation.
"I’m sorry," she whispers, looking out the window at the busy streets of Florida. "I’ve never had anybody—"
"Please don’t apologize for something you didn’t do. It doesn’t matter if you don’t feel that way about me, Olive. I just needed you to know that I care about you. That you’re important to me."And probably always will be.
She turns to face me, hazel eyes rimmed red with tears threatening to fall down her cheeks. She gives me a weak, heartbreaking smile. "I care about you, too."
She cares about me, too.
***
Ever since she admitted it, I haven’t stopped thinking about what this could really become. But I also know it’s something I can’t rush—something I can’t force.
