“Garrison filled out a questionnaire on his own accord, which was a rare event, and we’re both kind of questioning what his answers actually mean.” I pop up the questionnaire in a new window for them. “So as guys, what do you think?”
Ryke leans closer and points at the screen. “What the fuck is that supposed to be?” Oh Ryke. He doesn’t know that the less-than sign plus the number three is the heart symbol.
“A broken heart,” I explain.
“But you’re both still fucking together, right?” Ryke asks.
Willow nods. “Yeah.”
“Then why the fuck…” he trails off at my wide-eyes. Stand down, Ryke. He’s not very informed on Tumblr wit. I doubt he’s even gone on Tumblr more than a few times. He would’ve filled this questionnaire out plainly. Relationship Status: Married.
The end.
Lo is really the one who’d be able to understand Garrison. His harsh glare remains strong while he reads. He finishes and says, “He’s just upset that you’re not around. Seems like a natural reaction if he loves you.”
Willow says hurriedly, “I had sex with him the day before I left.” She buries her face in her pillow and mumbles out something else.
Ryke whispers to me, “Her first time?”
I nod, and Ryke rubs his temple and jaw before turning to Lo.
Lo is frozen with his hand partially covering his mouth. They both lean against the booth and whisper, literally, behind my back.
I ask Willow, “What was that last part?”
She moves the pillow off her mouth, but not her eyes. “I think he’s upset about that.”
“Hey,” I tell both guys, “stop, you two. She’s right here, and she didn’t have to tell you that, but she did and would like your advice.”
They return to the screen, but Willow, no longer in frame, angled her computer camera to her X-Men poster.
“Were you fucking safe?” Ryke asks. His words sound coarse but his voice isn’t.
“Yes.” A voice comes out in the distance.
“It was consensual?” Lo asks. It looks like he’s talking to the young, bald Professor Xavier.
“Yes.”
I cut in to alleviate some tension, “So what do you guys think? Would this be enough to make him upset?”
“I wouldn’t put a fucking broken heart thing in my relationship status.” Ryke is blunt, which isn’t always a good thing. “If you both knew you wouldn’t see each other for a while and slept together, I would’ve been like, look, this fucking girl is obviously showing me that I mean a lot to her.”
“I would’ve been upset,” Lo counters, “but not at the girl, just at the goddamn situation.”
“What can I do to make him feel better?” Willow asks off-screen.
“I know this sucks but…you can’t do anything, Willow. You just have to let him get used to the long-distance thing. He will after a while.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Willow wonders.
Lo snaps, “Then maybe he didn’t love you like you thought.”
“Fuck him,” Ryke adds.
I interject, “Let’s all remember that we like Garrison.” Ryke and Lo look murderous at these plausible scenarios where Garrison breaks their sister’s heart.
Willow pops her head back into the camera view. “Thanks, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up anything that’d make you guys uncomfortable.”
Lo and Ryke start laughing, and Lo is the first to say, “Like that’s possible.”
I’ve heard many, many stories before I entered the picture. Back when we weren’t famous. Like the time where Ryke just stood there while Lo had his hand halfway down Lily’s pants. He tried to run Ryke off, but Ryke isn’t easy to scare or make uncomfortable.
Before Willow and I sign off, she says to me, “Tomorrow, same time?”
“Yep. I’ll be at my house with the special guest star Sullivan Minnie Meadows.”
Willow smiles. “See ya.”
I shut my computer while Lo orders the “special burrito” and Ryke runs his hand through my hair. I set my chin on his arm with a growing smile.
[ 7 ]
October 2018
The Cobalt Estate
Philadelphia
ROSE COBALT
This is a battle I plan to lose.
I take a hearty swig of sparkling water from my wine glass. Then I eye the chessboard, set on our king-sized bed, the pale blue, satin comforter beneath.
Move your rook in his line of fire, Rose. Abandon your cavalry.
Losing on purpose is fucking painful. I finish off my sparkling water with another angered gulp and avoid my husband’s sagacious blue gaze. While bathing Charlie and Beckett this morning, he used that adjective on himself. I could fault Connor for his ego, but his self-description isn’t entirely inaccurate.
He’s frighteningly perceptive of his surroundings and me without seeming overly watchful.
Take this moment for instance. Instead of wearing my usual black negligee or chemise to bed, I chose one of his button-downs. The hem stops at my thighs, and my breasts push against the white fabric, two buttons popped. Connor has yet to mention my choice of nightwear, and I never catch him ogling me from head-to-toe. But I’m certain he’s mentally jotted this down: What is Rose up to?
I’m not about to simply tell him. I’ll only be spoon-feeding my infant children, thank you.
I try to take another sip of water, but my glass is empty.
My husband reaches over and drains a quarter of his sparkling water into my glass. Since I’ve been trying to get pregnant, Connor has kindly joined me on my “no wine” voyage. It’s hell, but a hell I’d endure again and again to bring a little gremlin into the world.
Avoid his eyes.
I do.
And then he says, “You’re nervous.”
I glare right at his stature and composure, at his unwavering confidence. “I’m thinking about how to defeat you.” I am thinking, but more so about how to hand him a win.
Without breaking eye contact, he takes a sip from his wine glass.
He knows.
No he doesn’t. He can’t know that I broke an enormous promise out of impulse. All day, I’ve been trying to figure out how to subtly explain what I’ve done, but I keep choking on my own betrayal. I’d slam a door in his face if he did what I did.
I inhale a tightened breath and finish off the sparkling water again, even the little drop that rolls slowly into my mouth. He doesn’t know.
Both of us in the middle of the bed, my legs are splayed to the side. His elbow is propped casually on his bent knee, just dressed in gray drawstring pants. While his abs aren’t horrible to look at, I actually lose focus by the two baby monitors next to him. On the screens, I can see Jane in her toddler bed and Beckett and Charlie in their cribs, our children sound asleep by 8:00 p.m. in their rooms.
“Do we need to put a time limit on moves?” Connor asks me. “Thinking shouldn’t take you this long. For other people, yes, but for you and me?” He arches a brow like I’ve lost a handful of brain cells in a short period of time.
I haven’t. “I don’t need a time stipulation, Richard.”
I collect my glossy hair onto one shoulder and shift my rook. I’m sorry for sacrificing you, but it’s for the best. After finishing, I look up, and Connor is fixated on the chessboard. His bishop can now capture my queen.
I think he’s confused, but I can’t be certain.
We always play with stakes, and we left this game open-ended. Winner can do anything they please, which is a higher stake than a narrowed goal. Connor could choose anything, and I’m prepared for it.
The quieter he is, the stiffer I become. I sit so straight, my neck and shoulders ache. I clutch my knees that are glued together, and my heart bangs violently.
Do what you must, Husband.
Connor slowly raises his gaze to mine. “Why would you put your queen in jeopardy?”
She deserves to be punished. I swallow that truth and just say, “That move fits my overall plan.”
Connor stretches to set his wine glass on an end table behind him. “What’s the capital of Norway?”
I thought he’d mentally chase me to find my true motives, but I forgot to include his dominance into the equation. His need to be in front and on top—or at the very least, right by my side. He’ll make me chase him around like we’re two lions wrestling in the fucking Sahara.