“Don’t!” she snapped. “Don’t you f**king come home and think you can give me a different Ty. Do not think you can f**king play me like that. I don’t know what the f**k you’re dealing with and I don’t care. I asked, you wouldn’t tell me. I tried everything I knew to get you to let me in there,” she jabbed her finger at his chest, “and you didn’t let me in and now, Ty, I don’t f**king care. You can ride the wave of whatever’s controlling you but don’t drag me along on that trip.” She swung her arm out to the side. “Out there, I’ll be what you’re paying me to be.” Then she pointed to the floor. “In here, it would be good if we could be civil to each other and you don’t give me any of that pu**y bullshit of yours. And that’s all for in here, Ty. Tonight, I sleep on the couch and I keep doing it until my bed gets here and then I’ll move to it. You wanted to talk, there it is. I’m laying it out. You don’t like that, you get your bling back and I walk. Think about it and enjoy the spaghetti, I’m going for a drive.”
Then she turned, snatched her keys off the island and ran to and down the stairs.
Walker stared at the space where he last saw her and he did it for a long time waiting for the burn to fade from his throat.
This took awhile.
Then he turned off the burner under the stove, the oven where the garlic bread was baking, walked upstairs and took a shower.
* * * * *
When Lexie got home at ten to eleven, Walker was flat out on the couch, eyes to the TV.
He didn’t move when he heard her hit the room.
But he did speak.
“I’m takin’ the couch, you take the bed.”
No sound, no movement.
Then, “Fine.”
Then he heard her go up the stairs.
He stared at the TV for a long time not seeing it. Then he lifted up his hands and rubbed his face. Then he turned the TV off and tried to find sleep.
This took awhile.
Chapter Eight
Got a Wife Who Knows My Every Move
Ty
Walker jogged up the outside steps after his morning run. It had been over five years since he’d run in Colorado. He wasn’t used to it and the altitude had kicked his ass.
But it had also been over five years since he’d run free, alone, wherever he wanted his feet to take him, the road open for him to decide where he wanted to go, not caged, not limited, not with eyes tracking his every move so he didn’t give a f**k the altitude kicked his ass.
He opened the door and instantly saw Lexie at the island, dressed, hair done, makeup on, coffee cup halfway to her lips. Her boxes had come, her wardrobe selection increased and she’d wasted no time unpacking her shit and taking advantage of it and the results were right there. Thin, tank-like tee the color of the inside of a honeydew melon with ragged, torn-looking straps, one falling off her shoulder, what he was sure were dark brown short-shorts even though he couldn’t see her legs but that was all she wore, thick, dark brown leather belt with something stamped on the leather and a heavy silver buckle and he knew by her height she was wearing heels.
It was Sunday, his day off, two days after she’d laid it out. He’d come home from work both Friday and Saturday, Friday, right after work, last night, right after his workout after work. She was civil. She offered him dinner. She made him dinner. She did the dishes. Then she disappeared to the top floor and he didn’t see her again.
Her light was out.
And her eyes were on him now and he saw she hadn’t switched it on that morning.
And he didn’t like her light switched off. He didn’t like her keeping that light from him. And the f**k of it was, he was the ass**le who’d switched it off in the first f**king place.
“Morning,” she greeted then her head went down and he saw she was scratching something on a notepad. She kept talking, her voice dead as it had been for three days and he didn’t f**king like that either. “I don’t know if you noticed but I got the bottled water on that note you left me.”
He’d noticed.
He’d also noticed she’d done his laundry.
He went to the fridge and got a bottle of the water she bought for him after he left a note about it, twisted the cap and sucked back a huge pull.
This he used as his affirmative response. He didn’t speak often because he didn’t feel he needed to speak when his actions could speak for him. At that moment, he also didn’t speak because he didn’t want to do something stupid, something that would set her off, something, anything that would make Lexie’s light shine through. Which was what he wanted to do.
“All right, I’m going. I’ll see you later,” she announced, moving to the sink to put her coffee cup there.
“Where you goin’?” he asked.
“There’s a garden center in Chantelle. Shambles told me about it. I’m going to get some flowers,” she told the island where she went to grab her purse which she did then she ripped off the top paper on the pad. Then her eyes skimmed through him and she finished, “Later.”
She started toward the stairs, shoving the paper into her purse but stopped and turned around when he asked, “Who’s Shambles?”
“The guy who owns La-La Land coffee,” she told him, started to turn back to the stairs but stopped and turned back at his voice.
“La-La Land coffee?”
“The coffee house in town,” she answered then started to turn again but stopped when he again spoke.
And he spoke when he shouldn’t have. He spoke because he was a dumb f**k. He spoke because he couldn’t hack it; Lexie shut off, not just off but shut off from him.
“You’re not goin’ to a garden center.”
Her head tipped to the side. “I am, the deck needs plants.”
“The deck doesn’t need plants.”
“Yes it does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Okay,” she took one step toward him and the dead was gone from her voice, she was now speaking with strained patience, “you’re a guy so you don’t get this but when a man brings his new wife to his house, she does shit like plant flowers to put her stamp on it, make it her home, make it his home. People are going to expect me to do shit to put my stamp on your house and therefore, the deck needs plants.”
To this, Walker replied, “It’s Sunday.”
Her brows snapped together. “You’re right. It’s Sunday.”
There it was. Something. Not something big but confusion mixed with impatience.
Then she turned, snatched her keys off the island and ran to and down the stairs.
Walker stared at the space where he last saw her and he did it for a long time waiting for the burn to fade from his throat.
This took awhile.
Then he turned off the burner under the stove, the oven where the garlic bread was baking, walked upstairs and took a shower.
* * * * *
When Lexie got home at ten to eleven, Walker was flat out on the couch, eyes to the TV.
He didn’t move when he heard her hit the room.
But he did speak.
“I’m takin’ the couch, you take the bed.”
No sound, no movement.
Then, “Fine.”
Then he heard her go up the stairs.
He stared at the TV for a long time not seeing it. Then he lifted up his hands and rubbed his face. Then he turned the TV off and tried to find sleep.
This took awhile.
Chapter Eight
Got a Wife Who Knows My Every Move
Ty
Walker jogged up the outside steps after his morning run. It had been over five years since he’d run in Colorado. He wasn’t used to it and the altitude had kicked his ass.
But it had also been over five years since he’d run free, alone, wherever he wanted his feet to take him, the road open for him to decide where he wanted to go, not caged, not limited, not with eyes tracking his every move so he didn’t give a f**k the altitude kicked his ass.
He opened the door and instantly saw Lexie at the island, dressed, hair done, makeup on, coffee cup halfway to her lips. Her boxes had come, her wardrobe selection increased and she’d wasted no time unpacking her shit and taking advantage of it and the results were right there. Thin, tank-like tee the color of the inside of a honeydew melon with ragged, torn-looking straps, one falling off her shoulder, what he was sure were dark brown short-shorts even though he couldn’t see her legs but that was all she wore, thick, dark brown leather belt with something stamped on the leather and a heavy silver buckle and he knew by her height she was wearing heels.
It was Sunday, his day off, two days after she’d laid it out. He’d come home from work both Friday and Saturday, Friday, right after work, last night, right after his workout after work. She was civil. She offered him dinner. She made him dinner. She did the dishes. Then she disappeared to the top floor and he didn’t see her again.
Her light was out.
And her eyes were on him now and he saw she hadn’t switched it on that morning.
And he didn’t like her light switched off. He didn’t like her keeping that light from him. And the f**k of it was, he was the ass**le who’d switched it off in the first f**king place.
“Morning,” she greeted then her head went down and he saw she was scratching something on a notepad. She kept talking, her voice dead as it had been for three days and he didn’t f**king like that either. “I don’t know if you noticed but I got the bottled water on that note you left me.”
He’d noticed.
He’d also noticed she’d done his laundry.
He went to the fridge and got a bottle of the water she bought for him after he left a note about it, twisted the cap and sucked back a huge pull.
This he used as his affirmative response. He didn’t speak often because he didn’t feel he needed to speak when his actions could speak for him. At that moment, he also didn’t speak because he didn’t want to do something stupid, something that would set her off, something, anything that would make Lexie’s light shine through. Which was what he wanted to do.
“All right, I’m going. I’ll see you later,” she announced, moving to the sink to put her coffee cup there.
“Where you goin’?” he asked.
“There’s a garden center in Chantelle. Shambles told me about it. I’m going to get some flowers,” she told the island where she went to grab her purse which she did then she ripped off the top paper on the pad. Then her eyes skimmed through him and she finished, “Later.”
She started toward the stairs, shoving the paper into her purse but stopped and turned around when he asked, “Who’s Shambles?”
“The guy who owns La-La Land coffee,” she told him, started to turn back to the stairs but stopped and turned back at his voice.
“La-La Land coffee?”
“The coffee house in town,” she answered then started to turn again but stopped when he again spoke.
And he spoke when he shouldn’t have. He spoke because he was a dumb f**k. He spoke because he couldn’t hack it; Lexie shut off, not just off but shut off from him.
“You’re not goin’ to a garden center.”
Her head tipped to the side. “I am, the deck needs plants.”
“The deck doesn’t need plants.”
“Yes it does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Okay,” she took one step toward him and the dead was gone from her voice, she was now speaking with strained patience, “you’re a guy so you don’t get this but when a man brings his new wife to his house, she does shit like plant flowers to put her stamp on it, make it her home, make it his home. People are going to expect me to do shit to put my stamp on your house and therefore, the deck needs plants.”
To this, Walker replied, “It’s Sunday.”
Her brows snapped together. “You’re right. It’s Sunday.”
There it was. Something. Not something big but confusion mixed with impatience.
