Part-Time Husband Page 6

  But Pop is evidently having to come to terms with the fact that my marriage to Trevor is a reality, and it’s going to be part of his life for at least a year. He’s angry about it. And he lets me know it.

  I keep my cool as I always do, but inside I’m stewing. How many more passive-aggressive comments about my deficiencies and poor decision-making can I handle without blowing up? I’m incredibly relieved when Trevor bluntly announces it’s time for us to leave, even before dessert is served. I usually stay at least an hour longer, but Trevor doesn’t let anyone argue with his decision.

  He gets me up and out the door in about five minutes, and we drive home in silence.

  I see him glancing over at me a couple of times during the drive, but I’m not in the mood to talk.

  We’ve been married for more than two weeks now, and he doesn’t feel like the enemy any longer. He feels familiar, almost companionable, but I’m too upset to have a conversation.

  Any conversation.

  When we get home, Trevor takes off his shoes in the entry hall like normal. He doesn’t wear a suit on weekends, and I’ve been surprised to discover that his casual clothes aren’t expensive like his suits. Right now he’s wearing a dark rust-colored T-shirt and a pair of khakis that fit him snugly. He looks great, but I’d be surprised if he didn’t get them at Target.

  He clearly only invests in his work clothes.

  He pulls his eyebrows together when he sees me looking at him. “You okay?” he asks softly.

  I nod. I still can’t talk.

  “Melissa, you can’t let Pop—”

  “Don’t.” The word interrupts him but isn’t sharp. It’s almost a plea. “I can’t right now.”

  “Okay. Do you need anything?”

  “No. I’m just tired. I’m going to take a bath and go to bed.”

  “Okay,” he murmurs again. His tone isn’t normal. It’s almost gentle, and it bothers me. It sounds like he thinks I need extra coddling tonight.

  I don’t like to be coddled.

  I’ve never needed to be coddled.

  I’ve always been the one who takes care of other people.

  I go through my normal routine of running the bath and then going to get my bath salts and pajamas. When the bath is ready, I get in and close my eyes, trying to breathe slowly, trying to forget how much Pop hurt me tonight.

  I wonder what it would be like to have a grandfather who isn’t always waging a battle against me, who loves me just because.

  The sad truth is I can’t even imagine it.

  A knock on the bathroom door surprises me. “Melissa?”

  “I’m in here!”

  “I know you’re in there. That’s why I knocked. Can I come in for a minute? I need something. I won’t look.”

  I don’t do bubbles in my bath, but I’m fully submerged and he’ll only be able to see details of my body if he’s really trying. “Okay,” I say, twisting my hips away from him and covering my breasts with one arm.

  He walks in carrying a glass of white wine, and he hands it to me. “I opened a bottle. I thought you might want some.”

  I take it. It’s light and slightly fruity, and it’s exactly right for my mood at the moment. “Thanks. I thought you needed something in here.”

  “I do.” He opens a drawer under the sink and pulls out a pair of nail clippers. “I have a hangnail.”

  “Oh.”

  I watch him idly as he clips one of his nails. Then he puts the clippers away and leans against the vanity.

  “I thought you weren’t going to look,” I say. I’ve taken several sips of my wine now, and it’s helping a little.

  “I’m using rigorous discipline and keeping my eyes at the level of your face. Aren’t you impressed?”

  I give a soft huff. “You think I’m supposed to be impressed because you manage not to ogle me?”

  “Of course. Remember those biological impulses I was talking about the other day? Well, I’m using all my discipline to fight against them at the moment. They really want me to look lower. A lesser man would just give in.”

  His tone is characteristically smug, and I know he’s waiting for me to counter it. I try to think of something clever to say, and I come up with nothing.

  “Really?” he asks after a minute. “You’re going to let me get away with that?”

  I swallow and swirl the remaining wine in my glass. “Sorry. I’m just not in the mood for our normal thing tonight.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shake my head and finish my wine.

  “You want more?” he asks softly.

  “No. Thanks though.”

  I hope he knows what I’m really thanking him for.

  He leaves me alone then, and I don’t feel much better when I get out. I change into my pajamas, brush my teeth, and crawl in the bed, hoping I’ll fall asleep quickly since I’m sure I’ll feel better about everything tomorrow morning.

  Tomorrow is Monday.

  Everyone grumbles about Mondays, but I’ve always liked them.

  They feel like a fresh start, a chance to do better.

  I need a fresh start right now.

  I huddle on my side, close my eyes, and try not to think about anything.

  I wish I could cry, since it seems like it might relieve some of this aching tension, but tears don’t come.

  They never do for me.

  I’ve been lying awake for about fifteen minutes when Trevor comes into the room. He takes a shower and gets ready for bed like normal, and then I feel him climbing into bed beside me.

  I don’t turn around.

  It feels like he’s watching me for a minute. I have no idea what he’s thinking.

  “Don’t overreact to this, okay?” he says at last.

  Then I feel his hand on my shoulder.

  I jerk in surprise, and my whole body tightens when he settles his body behind mine as his arms go around me. “Trevor!”

  “I told you not to overreact.”

  “But what are you doing?”

  I know what he’s doing. He’s holding me, spooning me from behind. I just don’t know why.

  “I’m not making a move on you. I promise. I’m just trying to help.”

  “Help?” My voice breaks on the one word as I start to understand.

  “Help. You seem... damaged.”

  “I’m not damaged.”

  “Not permanently damaged. I just mean right now. You’re hurting. I know you are, so don’t pretend you’re okay. You’re hurting, and I don’t know what to do to help. So I’m trying this. Don’t make a big deal about it.”

  It feels like a big deal. He’s big and warm and strong behind me, and his arms are holding me close.

  It is helping.

  And I’m not used to anyone helping me this way.

  “Jesus, you’re tense,” he murmurs, his mouth very close to my loose hair. “I told you I’m not making a move on you.”

  “I know you’re not. I’m just...”

  “Shit, Melissa, you’re shaking. Try to let some of it go.” He’s adjusting slightly behind me, and I feel him so acutely. I feel every inch of him.

  “I’m trying.” I swallow hard and attempt to relax my body, attempt to release the tight ball of pain in my chest. I can’t. I just can’t.

  “I’m not going to think you’re weak if you want to cry. If you’re holding it back because of me, then please don’t.”

  “I... can’t. I don’t do that.”

  “You don’t cry?”

  I shake my head. My hand has come up to hold on to one of his forearms.

  “Okay. But you’ve got to stop shaking like this. You’re killing me here. Maybe you can breathe it out.”

  “Breathe it out?”

  “Take it. Face it. And breathe it out. See if you can do that.”

  I’m in such a state that I don’t even try to argue. I do what he says. I take the whole painful evening. I hold it up in front of the eyes of my mind, recognizing it for wha
t it is. And then I exhale long and slow, trying to blow it out with my breath.

  “Good,” Trevor murmurs. “Do it again.”

  I do. And then again. And then again.

  I finally stop trembling.

  I’m afraid he’s going to let go of me now, but he doesn’t. He relaxes slightly as he says, “That’s better. Just keep breathing.”

  We lie in silence for several minutes until I’m completely relaxed. The pain is still there, but it’s not threatening to swallow me whole.

  It’s part of my life, and it’s never going to go away.

  “Maybe we just skip Sunday supper next week,” Trevor says, his tone not quite so gentle as it was earlier. He sounds more like himself, and his body has softened the way mine has.

  “No.”

  “Why the hell do we have to go there every week and give him the opportunity to hurt you more?”

  “We always do Sunday supper.”

  “But why do we have to?”

  “It’s a family tradition. It’s the only one we have.” I hesitate. “It’s all we have.”

  Those words must have gotten through to him. He must realize how important family is to me—even if it sometimes hurts me.

  “Okay. But I’m not going to sit there and watch it happen again. If he starts treating you like that again, I’m going to stop it.”

  “I don’t know if you can.”

  “I will.” He sounds almost grim.

  “Okay.” I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

  We don’t speak for a minute. Then I say, “He’s not always so bad. He’s just all upended because I got the better of him with this marriage. He’s used to getting his way. Everyone has always treated him like a king.”

  “He’s not the king of me.”

  I almost smile. “No. He’s not. I do think he loves me in his way. He just doesn’t know how to show it. It’s just his way.”

  “I don’t care if it’s his way. It’s wrong for him to treat you like that.”

  A flash of pain slices through me and then dissipates slowly.

  I do feel better though.

  Trevor believes it too.

  Pop shouldn’t treat me like this.

  I deserve better.

  We lay in silence together for a long time until I’m aware of a new sensation. Something is changing about Trevor’s body behind me.

  I realize what it is when I wriggle slightly and feel him hard against my bottom. He’s hard. Turned on.

  “I meant what I said about not making a move,” he says dryly. “Remember those biological impulses I was talking about?”

  I’m flushed and flustered and excited, and I don’t move even a little bit. “This is one of them?”

  “This is definitely one of them.” He finally lets go of me and eases his body away from mine. “Sorry. Any more of my helping in that way, and I’ll have trouble controlling myself.”

  “It’s fine.” I roll onto my back and smile at him in the mostly dark room. “You did help me. And I appreciate it.”

  He smiles back—not even the slightest hint of smugness in his expression. “Good. I’m glad.”

  Four

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING, I get back from work at six forty-five. It’s a little earlier than normal, and Trevor isn’t home yet.

  I’ve stopped to pick up some Chinese food on the way home, and I texted Trevor as I was leaving to tell him since one day last week both of us brought back food for dinner on the same night. Trevor texted me an immediate response, telling me he was leaving work soon, so I assume he won’t be long.

  I’m standing at the counter in front of my bag of takeout, wondering if I should do something to keep it warm until Trevor arrives, when I hear the front door open.

  I look over to see Trevor toeing off his shoes in the entryway.

  He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit today with a red-and-black tie. He looks as handsome as normal, but something triggers an instinct in my mind.

  It seems like something is off.

  “Hey,” I say as he stands there and looks at his shoes. “I’ve got dinner.”

  “Great.”

  I watch him for a minute as he pulls his tie loose and opens his collar. It looks like he takes a couple of deep breaths.

  Then he gives me a little smirk as he walks over. He’s trying to act normal, but he’s not.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Of course.” He checks out the containers of food in the bag. “This looks great.”

  I’m still keeping an eye on him as we get plates and utensils and start serving up the food. There’s nothing obvious in his expression or posture, but I know something isn’t right.

  “How was work?” I ask as I put my plate in front of the stool at the island where I always sit.

  “Fine.”

  He usually gives me more of a response than that. I’m frowning as I go to the refrigerator for sparkling water, which is what we normally drink for dinner on weeknights.

  I hesitate in front of the open refrigerator, and then I reach for the half-drunk bottle of Riesling Trevor opened last night. I show it to him. “You want some of this? We might as well finish it off.”

  “Sure.”

  I pour out the wine and bring the glasses over to our stools. When I sit down, I dart a quick glance over at him.

  He’s eating and not looking at me. “What?”

  “What what?”

  “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “How do you know I’m looking at you at all?”

  “I can feel it. You’re not the only one who has razor-sharp senses. Mine are razor-sharp when it comes to you.”

  He’s referring to our conversation in bed the other night, and it triggers a little ripple of pleasure I don’t understand. But it doesn’t distract me. Something is bothering Trevor right now, and I have absolutely no idea how to find out what it is.

  “Did you have a bad day?” I ask after a minute.

  “Why?”

  “Because you seem... strange.”

  He takes another deep breath and gives me a smile that feels intentional rather than authentic. “I’m just tired.”

  His obvious lies are starting to get on my nerves. “No, you’re not.”

  “You saying I’m not tired?”

  “I’m saying you’re not just tired. You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but don’t sit there and lie to my face.”

  He hesitates, a bite of his food poised just in front of his mouth. He eats it, chews, swallows. Then says, “I have a client who always makes me angry. I had a meeting with him today, and I’m having trouble shaking it off.”

  I relax slightly. Because he’s telling me the truth and because his explanation is both understandable and also not any sort of deep trauma. “Not the Carpet King.”

  “No. I like the Carpet King. This is...” He trails off as he sips his wine. “Jack Ford.”

  “Oh.” Jack Ford is a friend of Pop’s, although they’re not as close as they used to be. Jack owns a couple of upscale, local restaurants.

  “You know him?”

  “Yeah. He’s... patronizing as hell.”

  “Yes. He treats me like the help and questions everything I tell him.” Trevor shakes his head. “I can’t stand him.”

  “He’s like Pop. He’s used to everyone bowing and scraping for him. He’s not going to like it if you...” I’m not sure how to word my thought, so I think for a minute.

  “You think I did something to provoke his attitude toward me?”

  I stiffen slightly at the edge of defensiveness in Trevor’s tone. “No. Not really. He treats everyone the same way. But if you’re... smug with him, it’s going to make him worse.”

  “I know. I try not to be.” He gives me a little ironic smile that’s as close to the real thing as I’ve seen from him this evening. “You won’t believe me, but I really do. I’ve been working with him for three years now, and I learned pretty quick what sets him off. But no matter
how polite and respectful I am with him, he still treats me like I’m a lesser life-form. He’s paying me for help in advertising. I’m the expert here. I’m not just some... ignorant boy who needs his guidance and condescension.”

  I can feel very deeply how much Trevor is bothered by Jack’s attitude toward him. “Yeah. I know how that feels.”

  “I know you do.” Trevor starts eating again. “It’s probably worse for you because you’re a woman.”

  “It’s worse with some people. Not with Jack Ford though. He’s an equal opportunity condescender.”

  Trevor chuckles softly at my choice of words. He seems more relaxed now, as if talking about it is helping.

  I chew on a bite of rice as I think for a minute. “For the most part, Charleston is a good place to work. Most people aren’t too fake or too stuffy, and they just want to get their jobs done. But there are still pieces of that good-ole-boy network that hasn’t entirely gone away. I’m still having to deal with it with Pop’s. If you’re not in the network, you’re immediately suspect, and you have to work twice as hard.”

  “Yeah. That’s the truth.”

  “If it makes you feel better...”

  He glances over with a question in his eyes when I pause.

  “You’re white, you’re straight, you’re a man, and you were born and raised in Charleston. So guys like Jack Ford would be predisposed to think you’re one of them. If he doesn’t, it’s because he’s somehow sensed that you’re not. He knows you’re different.” I give him a slightly nervous smile since it feels like a risk to say this. “I think that’s a good thing. That he knows you’re different. He knows you’re not like him.”

  Trevor’s expression softens slightly. “Yeah. Thanks. I think so too.”

  We both go back to eating, and I feel like I’ve done something good.

  After a few minutes, I ask, “Why did you leave New York?”

  He looks slightly surprised by the question. “I wanted to move back here.”

  “But why? It seems like you’d fit in pretty well in New York.”

  “I guess so. I liked living there. I liked my job. And obviously I would have had more opportunity to advance if I’d stayed. But...”

  I wait for his answer.

  “I don’t know. I guess I moved back for the same reason you’ve always stayed here. Charleston feels like home.”