Limits (21 page)

I dig my fingers into his arm, then loosen my hand completely. “Oh, I see.”

He stares out the window at the scrubby yard we haven’t put any effort into yet. “I just want you to grow as a person, I want you to—”

I fold the dishtowel on the edge of the sink in an attempt to control my shaking
hands. “You want me to fuck you, and also make sure I’m smart enough for you to take out in public,” I say, my voice stretched thin.

He stares at me, his face a mask of confusion. “No, that’s not it at all. I didn’t say that.”
              I’ve lost the ability to control my shaking hands and my wild voice, and I don’t give  damn. I unleash it all on him, let him know that I see through this entire ‘I want you to do better for yourself’ thing. I know exactly what Adam is saying and why.

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face. Five years from now, when you’re a famous scientist, you’d be embarrassed to take me to your colleagues’ houses and have them ask what I do. You don’t want to tell them that I make the best carnitas and give the best head. No, no, no. That’s not impressive enough. You need to make sure you can brag that I understand quantum physics, and string theory and whatever other bullshit—”

The knock on the door interrupts my yelling, and stops my index finger—which is about to slam into Adam’s chest—mid-poke.

“I’ll get it.” He levels me with another look of sheer disappointment, straightens his posture, and walks toward the door.

I grip onto the counter to steady myself, the rage-filled blood pounding in my ears.

“Hey, come on in,” Adam says, his voice flat but polite.

He steps aside and Whit walks through the door looking like she just stepped out of a 1960s Mod ad. Her hair is parted deeply across her face and then pulled back into a neat nub of a pony tail. Her eye makeup is smoky and her lips—pursed in their signature pout—are highlighted with a tiny bit of gloss. Whit is like a chameleon. Every time I see her, she looks different. Except for that mouth, which naturally droops into a frown—except when Deo walks into the room. I guess they are perfect for each other.

“Am I interrupting something? I should have called, it’s just on the way home from work so I took a chance...Sorry?” Whit’s words are low, almost embarrassed.

“You’re fine, Whit,” I say. I wave her over to the kitchen table.

“You’re sure?” She takes a few cautious steps toward me. “Wow, it smells amazing. Genevieve. Did you make all of this? Greek is my favorite, but you know—”

“Deo hates Greek,” I finish for her, unable to catch the words before they tumble awkwardly out of my mouth.

Adam and I meet eyes from across the room, and his are pure bitter jealousy. I blush hot.

“Have a seat, Whit,” Adam says, striding over, his eyes still locked on me. He pulls a chair out for Whit just as I set down the fritters and salad.

“This looks incredible.” Whit clears her throat and twists her napkin around her fingers. “I can’t seem to get Deo to move past sushi and pizza most nights. I had no idea you cooked like this, Gen.”

“You should join her. There’s plenty for two.” Adam’s voice is as icy as his eyes. He pulls his sweater from the closet and tugs it on.

“Um, I don’t want to intrude.” Whit half stands, but Adam waves her back down.

“Not an intrusion. Besides, I was just leaving, and I’m sure Gen could use a friend.”

I wouldn’t exactly call Whit a
friend
, but I’m sort of glad she interrupted the crazy that was going on.

He leans in close to me as he scoops up his keys. His face dips a half inch away from mine and he growls in a low whisper only I can hear, “You look really nice, by the way. I was looking forward to having you for dessert.”

I feel the blush creep across my face and down my neck, and I dart a look at Whit, who clearly missed my husband’s provocative words.

He slams the door on his way out, and I stand, shocked. Adam is usually really good at controlling his temper, especially in front of other people. I wish our fight didn’t end the way it did. I wish we’d been able to resolve things before Whit showed up.

“I’m really sorry if I interrupted you guys,” Whit says, and I rush back to the kitchen area, feeling flustered and exposed.

I pull two plates down from the cupboard and set one in front of Whit and one at my place at the table, then slide into the chair across from her, ready to cover my domestic blowout with girl talk. I feel torn apart, but I don’t want to show it. And I won’t. I plaster a smile on my face.

“You didn’t. What’s up? I don’t usually get visits from you, is everything okay?”

It’s surreal to be sitting here in the aftermath of my first real married fight with Whit of all people.

Whit looks at me for a long second, like she wants to ask something, but seems to change her mind. “Everything’s fine. I just needed some help plotting Maren’s bachelorette party.”

“Already?” I ask, trying to remember when Cohen said the official date for the wedding would be. My own wedding and marriage had been consuming every single extra brain cell I had lately. I scoop a piece of chicken out of the pan and onto Whit’s plate and try to click back into hostess mode. “Help yourself to the salad and stuff. And drink? What can I get you?”

“Water’s fine. I know it’s early, but I’d like to do something really special for her. She wouldn’t dig a Vegas thing, but I wanted to know if you had any other ideas?” Her mouth falls into her signature frown, and I realize that it’s not because she’s angry that she makes that face. At least not all the time. Right now it’s just that she’s lost in thought.

I put the water bottle next to her plate, take my seat across from Whit, and stare at my food. I’m no longer hungry, and the last thing I want to talk about is weddings and parties. “I’ll give it some thought, and let you know.”

“Okay, thanks. Maybe, like, up to San Francisco or something? Isn’t her mom up in Nor Cal? We could do Napa? What do you think about that?” Whit cuts a bite of chicken, and I notice the saran wrap on her wrist.

I think about how much I’d hate to leave Adam, and then I think about how pathetic that thought is, so I attempt to distract my fragmented brain.

“New tattoo?” I ask as I take a tiny bite.

She swallows and nods. “Yeah, you want to see?” Before I can answer she peels the tape that’s securing the plastic wrap and holds her wrist up proudly. The fresh dark ink is bleeding into the red skin. “I just had
Rocko do it tonight.” Looking at the tattoo brings a full, real smile to her lips.

I reach over and take her wrist in my hand, careful not to touch the raw skin. It’s a compass, with the words, “be the one to guide me,” around it and a small anchor that’s encircled by the words, “but never hold me down.”

“Nice.” I read the words, but don’t fully process what they could mean. “It goes with the anchor tats you and Deo have, right?”

Whit shrugs and pulls her arm back, looking at the tattoos with a whole different frown. This one seems defiant. “Sort of. This marriage thing is hard, right?” she asks suddenly, her eyes pinning me.

Panic makes me feel exposed. The last thing I need is Whit realizing what a failure I am at this. She and Deo are attached at the hip. If she mentions anything to him, he’ll tell my brother, who will pass it on to my family. I cannot prove them right: they will
never
let me live it down if their fears—that I got married too young and too quickly to a guy I didn’t know long or well enough—are confirmed.

“I guess. I mean, Adam and I are just starting out.”

She re-wraps her wrist and nods. “I think that’s the hardest time of all. When you’re still figuring each other out. How to live together. How to be good for each other without stifling what the other person wants.” She picks up her fork and takes another bite of chicken, chewing slowly. “So, when Deo and I first moved in together, that was my biggest worry. That we might try to change each other. I sort of had this vision of what I thought we’d be like as a married couple, and what it actually turned out to be was a lot different than what I had in mind. And probably the same for Deo, too. And honestly,  it’s hard to not be annoyed with this person that you’re around all the time, you know?”

“Yep,” I say, pushing my food around my plate.

I wish Adam didn’t storm out like that. I wish
he
was sitting here and not Whit. I don’t want to fight with him, and I don’t want to hear about how hard marriage is from the one person I’ve invested so much time into not liking.

“Genevieve?” She wipes her mouth and puts her fork down. “I heard you guys arguing.”

I tense up, blushing hot, not sure what to do. Deny it? Order her to leave? Demand to know why she was eavesdropping? Beg her not to mention this to anyone in my family? Or anyone who might tell anyone in my family? The panic rolls in like a slow, choking fog.

“I mean, I didn’t hear everything you were saying, but I heard you yelling.” She fiddles with her own wedding band, twisting it around and around on her finger. Her voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it before.” And I just...I just want you to know that I haven’t been married that long, but it’s work. Everyday it’s work. Even on the days that I’m so damn head-over-heels in love with Deo I can’t see straight. But I see—we all see—how Adam looks at you, hon. And it’s so obvious how much he loves you.”

“Yeah?” I don’t mean to ask with such pathetic enthusiasm,, but there it is. Evidence of how unsure I am about Adam’s feelings.

“Yeah. So, I hope you guys can find a way to bend together, without trying to change each other. Because that’s the biggest trick of it all, and that’s what this tattoo means to me.” She runs her fingers over the crinkly saran wrap. “That Deo loves me enough to stand with me and help me when I need him, but he isn’t trying to change me. He isn’t ever trying to hold me back from anything. He just wants to be beside me. And I need to remind myself to do the same for him. For us, at least, it’s the key to our happiness. It’s what keeps us in a good place. Together.”

I lean back in my chair, realizing that I haven’t given Whit near the credit she deserves. “I think I know what you mean,” I admit.

The rush of relief feels that comes with saying those words makes me feel like an enormous weight has been lifted off my neck.

“You do?” She eats her last bite of chicken and nods. “Well, good then. And, I really am sorry for barging in like this.”

“No, not at all. I’m actually really glad that you came by, Whit.” I make sure I meet her eyes when I say, “Thank you.”

“Okay. Good. I’d better take off, I just meant to stay for a minute. I didn’t even tell Deo I wouldn’t be coming straight home.” She piles her fork and knife on her plate and clangs them together, flustered. “But thank you for dinner.” She carries the plate to the sink before I can get it and says, her eyes on the faucet, “You’re pretty incredible, Genevieve. You always surprise me. Adam is really lucky to have you.”

Whit turns around and smiles a genuine smile that catches me off guard, and I instinctively throw my arms around her. She takes a minute to recover from the shock of my touch, and then hugs me back.

“You guys are going to be okay, Gen. Just remember all the reasons you got married in the first place. I mean, Adam is a hottie, but I know that it’s deeper than that for you both. You wouldn’t fight if you didn’t love each other like you do.”

Instead of answering, I just squeeze her tighter and laugh at how unpredictably right an unexpected perspective can be
.

15 ADAM

The apartment is dark when I get home. I drove up and down the coast for hours, trying to figure out what the hell I could say to Genevieve to make her understand that I’m not looking to change her, but I do want what’s best for her. And I don’t think spending her time waiting on me—or any man—is what will make her life the most fulfilling it can be.

I open the door, and my hope drops when I realize Genevieve must be in bed, since she isn’t parked in front of the TV watching Dancing with Whoever like she normally would be on a Tuesday night. The kitchen is spotless, except for the dish on top of the stove that’s covered in foil. I flip the tin back and see that it’s a plate of food, likely for me. After everything we said tonight, Genevieve was still thoughtful enough to set aside a plate for me.

I debate for a minute whether or not to just crash on the couch. I silently push the door to our bedroom open and curse the creaky floor as I make my way to the closet to get something clean to wear to bed.

I shower and change, and it’s fucking presumptuous as hell, but I slowly slide into bed next to Genevieve. Her back is to me and her breathing is slow and steady. I shouldn’t disturb her—that fiery temper may be even scarier if I wake her up—but I can’t fight the need to touch her. She’s wearing a tissue paper thin nightdress thing and her long hair is pulled back into a ponytail. I love seeing her like this. Without the glitter and push-up bras. When it’s just Genevieve without the pretense. I reach over and run my palm along the length of her arm and a smile tugs at the edge of my mouth as I watch her skin prick up with
goose bumps.

“You awake?” I ask.

She gives a small, silent nod.