She ignores my simmering temper tantrum and climbs into the driver's seat. The engine turns over with a utilitarian rush. She doesn't look at me as she shifts into reverse.
Then, my beautiful, infuriating wife actually drives away.
Aspen
I went back for him. I nearly peed my pants at the look on his face in the rearview mirror when he actually thought I was leaving him stranded. I just needed to show him that I don’t respond to force. Not that kind, anyway. I don't care what the fine print of this marriage says, I won't be treated like anything less than an equal partner. And this partner has a community to serve.
On the drive to the park, he apologized for being an idiot. I forgave him, but I made it clear that if he ever raised his voice at me like that again, I’d throw him out of my moving van.
He didn't miss a beat. He told me that if I raised my voice at him again, he’d stick two fingers inside my mouth and make me beg. I’m not entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean, but my panties have been drenched for the entire twenty-five minute drive.
I can’t believe I actually masturbated while thinking about him. I can’t believe how undeniably cute we were on that damn screen, or that he was actually willing to walk away from all of that. I can’t believe he just walks around the house with his shirt off like it’s not a public health hazard. And I really can’t believe that despite every instinct inside me screaming to run, I still want this man.
He pulls things out of me, challenges me, and reshapes me in ways I never thought possible. I hate him. I hate him so much that I never want to be anywhere but by his side.
He’s been on the phone with friends and teammates all morning, and I can’t believe how calm he is. He’s exactly like he was in Vegas—unfazed, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s tied his life to mine. Back then, just like me, he was only there for the adventure. But it still feels like he’s treating this like one.
I, on the other hand, am a vibrating mess of nerves. I don’t do public spectacles. I loathe the idea of people passing judgment and drawing conclusions about a part of my life I never invited them into.
My phone has been ringing incessantly since last night. My mother has officially threatened to disown me, calling so many times that I eventually just shut the device off to stop the ambush. The girl voted “Most Likely to Succeed” in high school has officially become a reality television spectacle. A woman with a husband she barely knows. A husband she introduced herself to by burping.
Mother-dearest must be so proud.
But, I shake thoughts of side eyes and scrutiny out of my mind. Today is about the children. I told myself my mom could wait until I was done with my big day. Or, perhaps she’d finally have a heart attack she’s been threatening and I wouldn’t have to address her at all.
I glance over at Luca as we pull into a parking spot.
“Do you need help getting out of the van?” I ask, remembering how much he leaned on my shoulder just to climb in.
“I’m fine,” he says. He hops out and completely neglects to grab his crutches.
I shake my head. The man is determined to re-injure himself.
I grab my bag of medical supplies and head toward the auditorium of Chapman Park, the oldest park in Cinnamon Grove. The town founder refused to tear it down because it was once the only place Black children were allowed to play before the neighborhood was gentrified. The Rose family was actually responsible for refurbishing it and ensuring the grounds remained safe and clean for everyone. It’s how Ms. Lilly got us the permission to use it.
I reach into the back of the van, my fingers fumbling with the strap of my medical bag. My mind is still a chaotic loop of lastnight’s footage and the way my husband is able to unnerve me. I take a breath, trying to center myself before I have to face a room full of energetic kids and the judgmental eyes of the town's elite.
When I pull the bag out and kick the door shut, the world suddenly explodes.
“Aspen! Mrs. Chidubem! Ms. Hunter, over here!”
“Is the marriage a PR stunt for the Strikers? For Luca, since he’s been causing so much trouble?”
“How does it feel to be the most hated woman in Cinnamon Grove for scooping up the most valuable player in the game?”
I freeze. The click of camera shutters sounds like rapid-fire drumming, and the flashbulbs turn the morning sun into a blinding white. I am surrounded in seconds. Microphones are shoved toward my face, and the air is sucked out of the space between me and a dozen strangers with press badges.
I’ve never been a story before.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and a cold prickle of panic rises in my throat. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
“Please! Just let me go! I don’t have anything to say!”
I’ve always wondered how I’d handle a “fight or flight” situation and I’m ready to fight. It’s taking everything in me not to remind these people that Georgia is an open-carry state. I’ve got a piece on me at all times, but I’m fairly certain drawing it wouldn’t bode well for Luca’s image.
Then, the sea of reporters parts as if it’s been hit by a hurricane.
A massive, warm weight settles against my side. A heavy arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me flush against a chest that feels like solid granite.
