Page 36 of Forever Fighting
Thankfully, she’s wearing shorts over her bottoms, but I’m starting to think that hanging out by the pool wasn’t my smartest move.
“Happy birthday, husband,” she singsongs, making me crack up the way I only do with her. Her arm swings around from behind her back to hand me a wrapped package. “I would have wished you this earlier, but you know, hangover and remembering I was suddenly married made it difficult to focus on other things.”
She’s handling the marriage part better than I would have expected. Probably because it’s not the least bit real to her. She’s treating it as a practical joke, if anything. A stupid dare she followed through with that will magically disappear like it never happened once we return to Boston and get divorced.
I take the gift, my eyes all over the silver wrapping. “You didn’t need to do this.”
“What are besties and wives for? Just so you know, you’re as impossible to shop for this year as you were last. I mean, whatdo you get the man who has everything or could buy it himself?”
I roll my eyes and get up to hug her. “Thank you. This is incredible.”
“You haven’t opened it yet.”
She takes the seat across from me, and I waste no time tearing at the paper. There are two things, both of which might be the best gifts anyone has ever bought me. The first is a travel watch holder that can accommodate up to five watches. Watches are sort of my weakness, and I have an extensive collection, both modern and vintage. It’s brown leather and engraved with my initials.
“I love it,” I tell her.
“You don’t already have one?”
I shake my head. “No. Really. This is perfect. But where on earth did you get this picture?”
It’s a framed photograph of the two of us. It had to have been the summer Nash died, but it’s me holding Braelyn above my head,Dirty Dancingstyle. She was obsessed with that movie and made us watch it at least a hundred times with her. Nash and Adam weren’t as big as I was. It took us almost a week to perfect that move, and on more than one occasion, she nearly ate sand or grass when I’d drop her or fall backward. Nash thought it was hysterical.
Back then, I didn’t notice Braelyn as anything more than my little brother’s girl. This was all just fun, and I almost miss that time. A time when I wasn’t in love with the girl I could never have. The woman I just made my wife.
“Your mom,” she explains, her voice soft, and now that I think back to this picture, I know why. Nash took it. It was on his phone. My mom must have saved all of the pictures he had on there. Neither of us had our phones with us that day on the water. Maybe if we had, I might have been able to call for help when the storm came out of nowhere.
I clear my throat. “Thank you. This is my favorite gift ever.”
A soft smile tickles her lips. “I’m glad. It’s a small gesture and I’m not very good at saying thank you?—”
“Really? You don’t say?”
I get an eye roll similar to what I gave her. “Har, har. Some days I’m better at it than others. Anyway, thank you. For everything that you do for me and everything that you are. You’re just… you’re the perfect guy, my best friend, my ride or die, and I’d be lost without you. I hope you know that.”
Warmth slithers through my veins, only to catch on three words. My best friend. I am that. I’ll always be that. But I’d like to add to that title if I could. Then I think of Adam, and my insides plummet.
“Is that why you married me?”
“One of many reasons.” She winks at me.
I hand Brae her food, and she immediately scarfs down her crab eggs Benedict while I pick at an omelet and sourdough toast.
“Have you checked yet?” she asks as she swallows a bite, her eyebrows bouncing.
“Obviously. Why do you think I was up before you? I couldn’t sleep.”
Her head tilts, and an indulgent smile curls up the corner of her lips. “Aw, you’re cute, but self-doubt doesn’t suit you.”
It never did, but over the past week, I’ve been questioning everything. And imposter syndrome is real, no matter how many restaurants you open or how many awards you win.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
I take a sip of my coffee, and she huffs out a breath at my evasiveness.
“Fine. I’ll do the digging myself.” She sets her fork and knife down, wipes her mouth with her napkin, and leans back in her seat, her phone in one hand, her coffee in her other. She types with her thumb, her eyes glued to her screen, and when shefinds what she’s looking for, her face lights up. “Holy shit! Oh my god!” She sets her mug down and leans halfway across the table, which makes more of her tits spill out, and I wish she’d sit back as she was. “This chick is practically composing a symphony to you. And that prickly ass from the Chronicle is weeping over how creative, original, and inspiring your dishes are. Dude, he gave you an A.”
“Minus,” I correct.
