The wind picks up, making my shirt stick to my sweaty skin. I need to go home and wash up before it gets too late. April will kill me if I fall asleep smelling like this in the bed we share.
***
“YOU COULD TAKEnight classes. Finish your high school diploma, if you want to.”
I shouldn’t have told Sid about this. He doesn’t understand mindless complaining. He’s immediately jumped into fix-it mode, each suggestion more overwhelming than the last.
“That’s your thing, not mine. Next you’re going to suggest I run for office.”
We’re writing letters. Sid asked for my help getting word about his campaign out to constituents, since my penmanship is significantly more legible than his. James used to help him with tasks like this, but Sid says he always had to check them for sex puns, so I’m a clear improvement. I’ve been writing the same message over and over—Do you have concerns about healthcare accessibility on our island?The task is repetitive enough that we both got bored. He asked if my run the other night helped me feel better, and soon I was rambling about envying April’s ambitions.
Big mistake. He’s got no sense of when to leave well enough alone.
“You could see if the agriculture department needs your expertise in foraging,” he suggests as he presses a wax seal over one of the completed letters.
“I’m not working for the government.” I’m not puttingmyself through another interview like the one with that asshole in charge of the border guard.
“Not even as a border guard? If you want to make money—”
“I don’t want anything, Sid! That’s the point.”
“You like cooking.”
This isn’t the first time he’s brought that up. I grind my molars as I start yet another letter.
Do you have concerns about healthcare accessibility on our island?
“Carlos lived with Mrs. Buckerfield for years. I almost took you to her café when we went out to eat. But I thought it might be too much pressure. Now I’m thinking I should have introduced you sooner.”
“You don’t have to do anything! I’m just bitching.”
“You’re scared.”
“You’re pushy.”
“It’s okay to be scared, Kayla. You’re starting over here. I remember when I came here—”
“You remember that you had…concerns about healthcare accessibility on our island?” I hold one of the letters up in front of my face. “If so, Sid Charles wants to hear fromyou.”
“When I came here, I felt lost for a while—”
“That’s probably because you don’t own any furniture. No landmarks.”
“Would you stop changing the topic?”
“Nope.” I pass him the finished letter. “Look, I know you’re trying to be nice, but it isn’t helping. I’m notthereyet.”
“You’re never going to getthereif you don’t do anything about it.”
“Carlos is teaching me,” I snap. “And why does something have to be my job, just because I like it?”
“It doesn’t, but if you’re not happy, shouldn’t something change?”
“You know what? You’re right. I like cooking. I’m complaining about nothing. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll shut up about it now.”
“That’s not—” But I throw him a glare, and he relents. “Fine! Never mind. You are impossible.”
It takes all my self-control not to reopen the argument just so I can have the last word. This feels—obnoxiously—like a real marriage. I can hear my parents in our voices, arguing behind closed doors about the Grand Astrologue and whether living in Astolia long term was safe. Only Sid and I are mad at each other over much stupider things. Aren’t we lucky? We’ve got all the petty annoyances of marriage with none of the make-up sex.
