Page 46 of Merging Wright

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Playlist: “Chasing After You” – Ryan Hurd, Maren Morris

[Mach]

When Ma suggested Jane and I go out, I didn’t like the idea. When Jane suggested she take a bath, I really didn’t like that idea, either. Imagining Jane wet in our room’s small tub instantly had me hard, especially as I’ve experienced her body fully saturated under a shower spray. Too many nights have passed without us talking, without us touching. The separation is driving me mad. And as Jane has been avoiding our bed, falling asleep on the couch instead, the wedge between us grows worse.

I want my wife in bed with me every night.

“Do you even know how to knit?” Ma had asked her. I have no idea if Jane knits. A husband should know these things about his wife. For all the things I know about Jane, the list of things I want to learn seems endless.

Does she always make that little gasp before she comes? Will she kiss me again like she never wants to let me go? Will she eventually mold her entire body to mine at night, not just hold my hand or hook ankles?

As we walked to Trophy’s, I nearly had a heart attack when Jane suggested we needed a house separate from Ma’s. My initial intention was not to remain in Wrightwood for more than a month. However, as each day passes and we wade through zoning, construction needs, and taxes surrounding the business district, I don’t know how I can hand this project over to another person. I’ve never done anything half-ass in my life, and I don’t intend to do it now, despite my dislike for this mission.

As for Jane’s suggestion she move out—fuck that. The separation at night has been rough enough. She isn’t going to be living separately from me, not even in a different bedroom from me.

Jane and I need to talk, and Trophy’s wasn’t what I had in mind. However, I thought maybe a casual dinner and a drink or two might loosen us up. I wasn’t prepared for all that happened as soon as we walked through the door.

First, Charlese Frasier, now Mitchell, is a little older and a lot rounder, yet her jovial smile and bright eyes are still exactly the same. She was Tracy’s best girlfriend, and her second apology said it all. All these years later, she was still sorry about Tracy. As she stood before me, stroking her hands over scars hidden under ink and my long-sleeved T-shirt, my body stiffened. Charlese knew the troubles Tracy and I faced during our younger years. She also knew the issues we had once we finally married.

Jane was watching me with Charlese. Her tell-tale sign of disapproval—chewing her lip—sent a strange ripple through my chest. Was she jealous of Charlese? She shouldn’t be. Charlese is married, as am I. As are we—Jane and me—and I wouldn’t look at another woman as long as Jane is my wife.

Then, there was Tracy’s younger sister, Ainsley Evans, now Boyd. Struck dumb by an expression that matched her older sister despite aging, I stared at a mirror image of my first wife like I was looking at a photograph from the past. Ainsley has blonde hair and bright green eyes, and for a moment, I imagined she looks now how her sister would have looked. Pretty, sweet, small-town.

Ainsley chattered away about her kids and re-introduced me to people I didn’t remember, all offering hugs, handshakes, and pats on the back, kisses to the cheek and soft sympathy in my ear. My head was swimming in memories of how small towns can be close-knit. People share a history, marry one another, and this could have been me. It was me for a bit, but I had plans bigger than this town.

The thought has me looking up, seeking my wife, and noticing the barstool where my brother sat is now vacant. The space beside him where Jane stood is also empty.

Fuck.

As Charlese rushes past me with a tray of drinks, I stop her. “Have you seen Jane?”

“Lost your wife already?” she teases good-naturedly. Her head tips toward the entrance. “I think I saw her leave a little while ago with Myles.”

That is not what I want to hear. “Are you serious?”

Clouds fill her eyes, bringing us both back to the same memory. A point in the past I don’t want to recall.

“I’m out of here,” I say to no one and everyone. Extracting my arm from Ainsley’s, I excuse myself, but not before receiving another sympathetic look from Charlese that has nothing to do with Fischer’s passing.

+ + +

Fortunately, it doesn’t take me long to find my brother . . . and my wife. The firelight glowing from behind the main house gives away their location. As I stalk up the hill and round the house, I pause when I find them sitting on opposite sides of a fire pit, updated with raised brick compared to the old barrel bottom we used to use.

“So, they were high school sweethearts,” Jane clarifies.

What the fuck? If she has questions, she should ask me. Then again, I should have told her this story. My head hangs with disappointment in myself while fear rolls around in my gut. She shouldn’t be hearing anything from my brother. His version will be skewed.

Everything in me says I need to interrupt, I need to interject, but I’m curious how Myles will twist this tale.

“She was the love of his life, and he was hers.” Myles pauses, taking a pull from a beer bottle. His interpretation surprises me. “He never thought he was good enough for her. We had a reputation for being trouble, although Mach got in twice as much as I did. Typical bad boy, good girl. They kept their relationship a secret at first.” Myles scoffs. “As much as you can keep a secret when it’s young love in a small town.”

Jane focuses on the fire. What must she be thinking?

“Mach went off to college. He was determined to make something of himself. Be better than this place.” Myles keeps his eyes on the dancing flames.

“I know the feeling,” Jane admits.