Page 67 of Seale the Deal

When do you go back full-time?

After the wedding, I say, quick and simple.

Brandt glances at Walter, and they exchange a look that says more than I want to hear.

The sex, Brandt declares with a grin.

I groan. Can we not?

But it’s too late. My brain is already there, spiralling into every damn sinful thought I’ve had since she arrived. The way her skin would feel beneath my hands, warm and smooth, like satin over muscle. The way she’d taste if I kissed down the curve of her neck. I imagine her arching into me, her breath catching as her nipples pebble beneath my fingers, her mouth forming my name like it’s a prayer she’s been waiting a lifetime to say.

I adjust my grip on the cue, trying to focus. I want to spend time with my wife, I say instead. That’s all.

I line up my shot and sink the yellow solid in the corner pocket. Finally. A small win.

I move around the table, eyes scanning for the next opportunity, when Walter speaks again. Just be careful, Ruger. This is a big thing. She’s changing a lot to be here with you. Don’t take that for granted. Ever.

My cue slips. The white ball veers left, grazes a stripe, and sinks it instead of the yellow solid.

Foul, Brandt announces with a smug grin.

But I’m not even listening anymore because Walter’s words hit me like a punch to the sternum. She is changing a lot. She’s leaving a whole life behind. She’s leaving a bustling city to land in a town where we get more moose than mail and where healthcare isn’t just expensive, it’s damn near impossible without coverage.

I think about that moment when I hit her in the face with a water bottle, and her instinct was to worry about affording a clinic visit. The guilt of it—her concerns, her sacrifices—tightens around my chest like a vise. She shouldn’t have to worry about any of it. I’ll add her to my insurance the second the paperwork goes through, no questions asked. But what happens after we divorce?

I school my expression and force a smile in Walter’s direction. You’re right, I say. But we’re working on it.

I line up another shot.

She’s worth it. And God help me, she really is.

When I get home, Remi and Wrenley are in the living room, drinking tea. Remi’s perched on one end of the couch with her laptop open, typing furiously. Wrenley’s on the floor, surrounded by black fabric, bits of it cut into intricate shapes and pinned into something I can’t quite picture yet. Her tongue peeks out each time she slides a pin into place, and I watch her a few seconds longer than I should.

An ache settles in my chest.

The longer I stand here watching them, the more it feels like this is a glimpse of what her life will be when all’s said and done. Quiet nights with Remi in her living room. And I’ll just be the guy who helped for a while. The best friend’s brother. Not the one she stays for. Not the one she chooses.

Hey, I say, finally announcing myself.

They both look up. Remi’s expression is somewhere between neutral and annoyed. Wrenley, though—she smiles.

You look surprisingly sober after cheap beer night, I tease as I cross the room and grab a beer from the fridge.

Who needs to get drunk when you have the kind of friendship that makes you act like you are anyway? Remi asks.

Wrenley laughs softly.

I shake my head and twist the cap off my beer, sitting at the table in the kitchen, where I have a clear view into the living room.

What are you two up to? I ask, taking a drink.

Tandem playing, Remi says.

Wrenley lifts a brow at her. More like tandem working.

Remi scoffs. Maybe you’re working. I can’t with my brother yapping like a Chihuahua over there.

I frown. Isn’t tandem playing what toddlers do?