Page 58 of The Reason I Married Him
Giant oak behind the barn.
The son of a bitch.
He has to be a mentalist. This can’t be real. There is no way this man, who I can’t stand having around, has the same freaking favorite spot as me. He’s been here for two seconds, and he doesn’t even know the significance of it.
I shake my head and turn around to get back to painting—ignore, ignore, ignore.
After a few seconds, he says, “Well, I know where I’m going to propose now when you’re ready.”
“Don’t even think about it.” I grip my roller tighter as I continue, “That tree is sacred, and I don’t want you messing up my memories of it with some asinine, fake proposal that’ll mean nothing.”
He pauses, and I can feel him turn toward me, but I keep my back facing him. “Sacred?” he asks, his voice softening. “What kind of memories do you have under that tree?”
“Nothing I want to share with you,” I answer.
“Are they with Cassidy?” he presses.
I sigh. “I said I don’t want to share them with you, Wyatt.”
He’s silent for a moment—but I canhearhim thinking—and then he says, “Fair enough, Aubree. I am truly sorry you lost your sister. Cancer is fucked.”
He turns back and starts painting again.
Cancer is fucked.
God, he is so right. But as I allow more silence to continue, because I have no idea how to answer that comment, I begin to feel the weight of the oak tree between us. He doesn’t need to know why it means so much to me. He doesn’t need to know that I hate emotional tension, either. Or dealing with emotions. But he showed true sympathy just then.Which I appreciate and also hate.But I’m not good at them.
When Matt left me, that had been one of his complaints.“You need to learn to express your feelings, Aubree. No one likes being with someone who is so closed off. So...unavailable.”
That’s me.
Thanks for that, Matt.I’m sure Amanda is all about her emotions and feelings and all that other shit I just don’t deal with.
I do it if it’s necessary. Like when Hayes and Hattie split up, I was there for my sister. And the night that Ryland realized he was going to be Mac’s legal guardian and the weight of that hit him, I was there for him as well. But other than that, I just wish to keep my emotions to myself.
When we both end up on the same side, painting, Wyatt finally breaks the silence when he says, “I wrote a Halloween thriller once, a short story for my publisher about killer chickens.”
I glance up at him. “And you said your books were based in reality.”
He grins. “That one might have been a bit far-fetched.”
“Maybe a little,” I say as I keep rolling, grateful he broke the tension.
“Think you’ll have any killer chickens?”
“I can only hope because then I’d direct them toward you.”
He grips his chest over his heart. “The things you say to me, wife, they truly are a blessing.”
It’s so hot today.
Hotter than I want it to be.
Normally, if it were this hot on a Saturday, I’d call it a day and go back to my guest house, where I’d shower and then binge-watch some show I wanted to catch up on. Maybe take Mac to town to grab some ice cream or even to the beach to dip our toes in the water.
But there is no way in hell I’m calling it a day when Wyatt is still here working.
Currently, he’s on top of the chicken coop, installing shingles. How does he know how to do that? I have no idea. My guess is he spent last night watching YouTube videos over and over again, hoping he could apply the knowledge today.
