Page 57 of The Reason I Married Him
I swat his hand, making him laugh. “Don’t call me that.”
He moves over to the rollers and sets them up while I open the paint, stir it, and then pour it into paint pans. Would it be easier to use a paint sprayer to get the job done? Yes, but I don’t have one, so we’re going with this. We work in silence together, prepping the area. The whole time, I ignore the glaring realization that we can accomplish a task together without talking. We somehow know what the other person will do and move around each other to prep.
Once we’re set, he hands me a roller, and I hand him a paint pan. “You start on that side. Paint everything, including the wire fencing.”
“You want me to paint the wire fencing?” he asks, looking confused. If he wasn’t so annoying, I’d think the crinkle of confusion in his nose was cute.
But it’s not.
“Yes, it will make it easier to see inside the coop. Trust me.”
“You’re the boss,” he says as he rolls his roller in the paint and starts painting, the sound of wet paint being spread out on wood and wire filling the silence between us.
It’s peaceful.
And for a moment, I almost forget he’s here as I get into the motion of painting, rolling up and down, dipping back into the paint, only to repeat the process, but then . . . he speaks.
“What’s your favorite part about the farm?” he asks.
I dip my roller into more paint. “You know, we don’t have to talk.”
“How am I supposed to get to know my future wife, then?” he asks.
This motherfucker.
I swear I’ve never met someone as persistent as he is. He’s nonstop. It’s actually—I hate to admit it—slightlyimpressive because he gives zero fucks. He just puts it out there, and if you don’t like it, he really doesn’t care. He just keeps moving forward. To live your life that way . . .
Ignoring his last comment, I say, “Why do you want to know? Besides your stupid future wife crap that’s not going to happen.”
He chuckles. “Well, because after being here for a few days, I think I have a place I like. It’s probably my favorite.”
“If you say your favorite place is being in my presence, I’ll honestly throw up on you.”
He laughs wholeheartedly. “Although a close second, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?” I ask.
“I asked you first.”
“How do I know that you’re not going to say the same place as mine when I answer just so you can go on some tirade about how we’re so meant to be and our marriage is made for the ages?”
“I like the way you think,” he says as he wiggles his eyebrows.
“Be serious.”
“Fine,” he says as he pulls a pencil out of his pocket and writes something on the post in front of him. He then faces me and says, “My answer is on the post behind me. Tell me your favorite place, and we can see if it’s mine.”
This is a very risky situation because if our places match by some chance, then I’d be wary of the universe trying to tell me something. And even though there is no way I’d ever say yes to his proposal, matching common favorite places would at least make me think deeper about my circumstances.
I set my roller down and brush off my hands before reaching for my mug of coffee and taking a sip. After a few seconds, I say, “The big oak tree out past the silos.”
The moment the words fall out of my mouth, I watch as a slow, knowing grin falls over his lips.
No freaking way.
He steps aside and smirks, gesturing to his answer. I don’t have to get close to know what it is.
It’s clear as day.
