It makes my throat swell with pain.
But why?
I’m not a player or coach. Iownthe team. I can charter a plane whenever I want. I can take my family’s jet, if I really want to. This distance? It’s nothing.
If Sean doesn’t want it to be.
I put my hand on Sean’s beard, letting my fingers dig into the soft whiskers. “Sean, I need to be honest: I love being with you, but I can handle it. I didn’t marry you to hold you back. You deserve this. You’ve worked your whole life to get here. And I’ll be at every game. Wearing your jersey. Cheering you on. Heck, maybe I’ll even go full face paint.”
He doesn’t crack a smile. “What if it hurts your case with the town? What if they say it affects your residency?”
“I don’t care. I’ll sue them into oblivion. But … are you really worried about that? Or are you having second thoughts?”
He stares up at the ceiling. I reach over to grab his arm, and I remember he’s not wearing a shirt.
That’s nothing new. It’s summer in the South. Even with air conditioning, it can get muggy, and his A/C isn’t exactly world class.
But as much as I’ve seen him shirtless in the month and a half we’ve been married, I haven’t been in bed with him shirtless. Because we’re not there yet.
I mean, we’re not there. Full stop.
Yet means wewillbe.
And yeah, just because the idea of this marriage ending makes my bones feel like jelly and my heart feel like it’s been flattened by a steamroller, doesn’t mean I’m letting myself think about theyetpart.
Yet.
I can’t think aboutyetwhen I don’t know what comes next. When I’m lying here, worried about him walking away.
If he walks away?—
“Sean, talk to me,” I say, because I can’t let my head think these thoughts.
“I’m nervous." It’s so soft, I could almost think I’m dreaming it. “What if I mess up?”
“What if you succeed?” I counter. “What if you blow their socks off?”
“That scares me even worse.”
I hate knowing that he sees me more clearly than anyone ever has, and yet I have no idea what’s going on in his head right now.
“Why?” I whisper. “Help me understand.”
I reach for his face, cupping his cheek. His beard is soft and warm against my palm, and his breath tickles my wrist.
He closes his eyes for a beat. When he opens them, they’re shadowed but steady.
“I don’t know how to say it,” he says. I don’t respond, giving him space to process. “I feel like I should be excited but I don’t know how to let myself be. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
My heart aches. I want to tell him he doesn’t have to do anything with it. That I see him. That I understand more than he thinks, and everything I don’t understand, I’m willing to learn.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I whisper, “Then I’ll be excited for you.”
He sniffs, a weak laugh. It’s not enough, but at least it’s something.
“Come here,” he says.
