“How long has he been at Long Creek?”
“It’s been about four months, but he is getting moved into a wing with more care soon. I actually do need to go there tomorrow and deal with that.”
He absorbed that without interrupting.
“Does he still believe he works?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes he thinks I’m twelve. Sometimes he thinks I’m my mom.”
My voice didn’t even break when I talked about it anymore. I’d practiced that too well.
Raphael leaned forward slightly.
“And you manage this alone?”
It wasn’t an accusation. It was an observation.
“I manage,” I said, trying to avoid his gaze. Something about it was too much to bear.
Then, quieter, he said, “You will not manage it alone now.”
The words settled into the room. I didn’t argue. I didn’t feel the need to. And that was new.
Accepting help was not something I was great at. But Raphael Renault didn’t really give me a choice. He just helped. I liked it more than I should have.
Later that night,the house was quiet again.
The dishes had been done . . . by him, despite my protests. The ice pack had been refreshed twice. The brace adjusted once more with careful, methodical hands. He’d double-checked the physical therapy referral before disappearing down the hall with a quiet, “Rest.”
Now all I can do is lie in the first-floor guest bed, propped slightly on pillows. At least the sheets were cool and clean, the mattress supportive in a way that I almost forgot a bed could be. My knee ached, but not as much now.
The day replayed in fragments in my mind as I lay there, from the hospital lights to the MRI machines humming. I couldn't imagine six to eight weeks without derby, even if I did have a ‘minor meniscus tear.’ It was my outlet, my family, and what was I supposed to do now? Be locked up in this castle with the beast himself?
And then “I’ll take good care of my wife.”
I stared up at the ceiling. I got married today to get health insurance. Which, objectively, sounded unhinged.
And yet . . . I could not get the way he called me his wife out of my head. I flexed my fingers, looking at the simple band against my skin. It didn’t feel like a mistake.
It felt . . . safe.
He had paced the hospital lobby. He had read my discharge papers like they were a merger contract. He had all but demanded to take over making dinner. But the way he hadlistened to me talk about my dad, really listened, without trying to fix it, was the part I was finding most confusing. The idea of having someone like Raphael in my corner was an intoxicating thought.
I tried to fight the smile that kept trying to sneak across my face. This marriage was for insurance. For logistics. For survival.
Yet somewhere between the MRI and the pasta dinner, I had started to suspect something inconvenient. I might have a little crush on my husband. It was absurd . . . and entirely true.
I rolled carefully onto my side, adjusting the pillows around my knee.
It had been an interesting day for sure.
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow would bring physical therapy appointments and more logistics and probably more hovering.
But tonight I was married. And oddly, unexpectedly content.
16
