With a laugh, he pulls me back against his side. “I think the reverse is the more likely scenario—you’re the one who hates seafood, after all. And I don’t know of anything that you like that I don’t. So I’m really not worried. If I were, I wouldn’t have left it entirely in your hands.”
“I appreciate your faith in me.” I say it as a quip, but he takes it seriously.
He tilts up my chin and kisses me—one of those long, lingering kisses, but no tongue—then pulls back and says, “OfcourseI have faith in you. You’re amazing and talented and driven. Whywouldn’tI have faith in you?”
I have to blink a few times because my eyes suddenly get suspiciously moist. Sitting up, I clear my throat and give him the best smile I can muster in the moment—which is admittedly not much of one. I don’t know that anyone’s ever so unequivocally believed in me. Because that statement is about so much more than picking appetizers or napkin colors for our upcoming reception.
He has faith inme. As a person, as a musician, as … everything. And it lands with a thunk in a hollow place I hadn’t realized was so echoing. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I whisper.
Concern stamped on his face, he reaches for me. “What’d I say? Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. I mean, yeah. Nothing. It’s …”
“Hailey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”
“No, no. Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re … well, you’re perfect.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I practically flee to the bathroom. I need a minute to get ahold of myself.
He is perfect. He does and says all the right things. It seems ridiculous that it’s so painful, but it is. And I don’t know how to explain that it’s hard for me to hear him tell me all the good things he sees in me. That it’s hard to believe him. Or that it’s hard to believe he sees me that way, I guess, because then it sounds like I’m calling him a liar, which isn’t what I mean at all.
And then I feel even worse because I’m internally flailing, and all he’s doing is being his normal, wonderful self.
God, I’m a mess.
When I come out of the bathroom, he’s not in the bedroom. I grab my pants and shirt and pull them on, heading out to theliving room to find him in the kitchen, scooping cookie dough onto a baking sheet.
“You really are too perfect, aren’t you?” I murmur at the sight of him shirtless in his low-slung plaid lounge pants.
“I hope nottooperfect,” he says, licking his finger and sliding the cookie sheet into the oven. “That sounds boring.”
I lean against the counter. “Boring is the last thing I’d call you.”
Closing the distance between us, he wraps his arms loosely around my waist. “Good.” Then he drops a kiss on my lips. “I’d hate to bore you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Jason
“I’m still disappointedwe couldn’t be there for the real thing,” my mom says over the phone. I’m about to go on the road again, and we’re chatting about the upcoming reception.
The week I’ve spent at home with Hailey has been amazing. We won our first game of the season at home, and I got to celebrate with my team afterward and then with Hailey at home. And she’s slept in my bed every night since I got back.
Hearing my mom refer to our little park wedding as “the real thing” makes me smile. “I know, Mom, and I’m sorry about that. It all happened so quickly. There wasn’t time for you and Dad to fly out.”
“I know.” Mom sniffs. “Still. I’m glad you’re at least having this reception.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that we’ll do a vow renewal or a big ceremony for family, but I don’t want to promise that without running it by Hailey first. Plus … despite how things have progressed, I’m still not sure she’s in this for keeps.
Yes, we’re married. Yes, we’re acting like a couple. But … there’s still hesitation around so many things.
She’s been sleeping in my room, but all her things are still in her room. She still primarily uses her own bathroom, unless I suggest taking a shower together. I know she likes my shower, but I also know she won’t use it when I’m gone for this next stretch of away games.
And the way she reacts when I compliment her? I’m not really sure what that’s about. She always clams up and shuts down, which is … odd to me.
But I don’t get the feeling she’s upset. More like she doesn’t know how to respond. She’ll usually at least murmur a quiet, “Thank you,” but every so often she runs away while trying to make it look like she’s not.
I want to talk to someone about it, but I don’t know who. Or even how to bring it up. “Hey, my wife—who’s really more my roommate who I’ve started fucking—acts funny when I give her compliments and tell her I like her. What do you think I should do?”
Considering everyone assumes we’re happy newlyweds, it’s impossible to find someone to discuss it with. I’ve thought about talking to Bouchard, but I know he won’t be any help. He’ll just congratulate me.
