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26
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MIA
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Over the next few weeks, Connor and I fall into a rhythm. We go to work, come home, and have dinner together. Then he either works for a few hours in his private office, which is weirdly always locked, or we watch TV.
Sometimes, we chat.
It’s during those quiet conversations I’ve been learning more about him. Tonight, I ask about his train set, which is laid out on a table in the far corner of the room.
“I started it about eight years ago. When I retired from the marines,” Connor says, staring across the room at it. “I’ve handmade every single piece.”
I’m surprised by that.
“I can’t imagine you having the patience to build models.”
He smiles slowly at me. “You think you know me, Mia Mancini?”
I shrug. “No, but you can’t tell me you’re a patient man. I know you’re not.”
Connor glances away. “I’m not. Which is why I need to do it. You should always push yourself in areas of weakness.”
I think about that. About how I can apply it to my life and future business. The one that doesn’t exist yet, but will one day.
“Also, it gets me out of my head. While I’m focusing on the details, I don’t think about anything else. It’s freeing.”
Freedom I can relate to, but what does Connor need to be free from? Is this about his past, I wonder?
I decide to ask.
“Is this about your family?”
He’s silent for a moment, and then his face hardens. “We should go to bed. It’s late.”
Then, just like that, he’s shut down. I want to demand he tell me something about himself, but what right do I have? Sure, I’m going to be his wife, but it’s not real. Yet every day we live and act like a couple. We fuck, we laugh, we get annoyed with one another, and we wake up the next day, entangled in each other’s arms.
So, tell me, what part of all that is fake?
Because I see the way he looks at me when he’s deep inside me, the way his eyes run over me when I step out of the bedroom in yet another gown to attend one of his business events, the way his hand slides over my hip protectively when another man looks at me.
The way he huffs when he has to get the breakfast bowl down for me each morning because I can’t reach his silly tall cupboards—and growls at me for climbing on a stool to get one. The way he won’t simply move them to another cupboard because I think helikesdoing it.
Or maybe I’m imagining it all.
