Page 55 of Breaking the Ice

I sigh. “Because I’m allergic to tree nuts.”

“Since when?” The words snap out of her mouth like sharpened darts. Why does she have to be this way?

Isabella sits up straighter, her eyes wide, but she lets me answer the question.

“I discovered it a few months ago.” I reach for Isabella’s hand, and she laces her fingers through mine. We leave them sitting on the table, and the show of solidarity gives me strength. “I know I was fine when I was a kid, but I guess this kind of allergy can develop later in life. I ate a burrito and started to get itchy, and it was hard to breathe. Bella figured out what was happening. She took me to the emergency room and made sure I got the care I needed.”

My dad gives Isabella an admiring look. “That was quick thinking. Way to keep calm under pressure. Evan, I’d love to see your chart, take a look at what the doctor decided.”

Before I can respond to him, my mom jumps in.

“You didn’t think that warranted a phone call? You were in the emergency room.” She gives an affronted sniff and puts her hand up to her neck. “Your father could have stepped in, pulled some strings.”

Her concern is not really for me at all. What strings needed pulled? It’s more that she likes to get special treatment. I didn’t say anything to her because why bother? I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, but I’m sick of the pattern where she makes my stuff all about her.

I take a deep breath. “You’re right. I should have called you. But I’m fine.”

My dad leans over and pats Isabella on the shoulder. “Thank you. I can see why Evan likes you—loves you—so much. Not only have you helped him study, it sounds like you take great care of him. Maybe even saved his life.”

Then he pins me in his stare.

“I hope you are prepared to be a good husband, son, and provide for your wife and support her. You’re both so young…” He trails off, and I try not to squirm. “Well, I’m sure you can figure things out together. I thought I had more time to give you advice, but if I can say anything, it’d be this: don’t let her down.”

The eggs in my mouth turn dry, and when I swallow, the bite feels too big for my throat.

I have a wife. Someone depending on me. I can barely show up for class, let alone pass enough of them to play hockey. Reliable has never been a word anyone would use to describe me. Am I prepared to be the husband Isabella deserves, even if it’s only for a few months? Can I do this? How can I convince her that I can be a good husband when I’m not even sure myself?

Chapter

Twenty-Four

ISABELLA

Mrs. Young stirs her coffee, frowning at it. I fight the urge to fill the silence or to fidget, and I try to give off professional, grown-up vibes. But since I’m wearing sweatpants and my hair is a mess, I don’t think it works.

“Well, I suppose we should be heading back,” she says, finally looking up from her mug. “It was nice to meet you, Isabella.”

Based on the way her mouth is pursed like she just bit into a lemon, I don’t think she means that, but what else can she say?

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mr. Young leans back in his chair. “I mean, we’re here. We’ve already taken the day off work. We could stay a little longer and get to know our new daughter-in-law.”

I swallow and lock eyes with Evan as panic buzzes in my chest. He and I have been married for what? Two days? Our new apartment is a mess of boxes and barely has room for us, let alone guests. What are we going to do with his uptight, stuffy parents?

“That’s really nice of you, but I’m sure you have work to do at home.” Evan taps the table with his fingertips until his mom shoots him a glare, and he stops, clasping his hands in his lap. “I don’t want to keep you.”

His mom gives a deep sigh. “No, your father is right. We should stay longer.”

Awesome. Exactly what I wanted.

His dad pulls out his phone. “I heard the basketball team is off to a good start, and they play throughout the week. Maybe there’s a game we can catch?”

“Yes!” I’m too loud, too enthusiastic, grasping onto that idea, until all the color drains from Evan’s face.

“Basketball,” he mutters, staring at his empty plate. “Sure. Sounds great. Never come to a hockey game, but let’s go cheer for the basketball team.”

His parents, already making plans, don’t hear him.

Slipping my hand under the table, I grasp his fingers and squeeze.