Ian has a soccer game today, and I’m in attendance as always. Things are back to normal. The throngs of young, hot female teachers have moved on to the lacrosse game taking place a few fields over. If I squint, I can see their cleavage and orange slices. Oak Hill High just hired a new lacrosse coach from LA. He’s tan, and cute, and allegedly went on three dates with one of the stars from Vanderpump Rules. Ian is old news—my old news.
The soccer stands are pretty empty, just me and a few parents. I thought about remaking my GO IAN signs, but instead, I had a shirt printed. It has a large screen-printed picture of Oak Hill’s mascot and beneath that, in big, black typeface, it reads COACH’S WIFE. It lacks subtly, but then again, so do I.
Ian laughed when I showed it to him last night.
“I don’t have to wear it,” I said. I mean, it was kind of a joke.
But he shook his head, smile plastered wide. “No. Wear it.”
I had it strategically hidden under my sweater all day. If Nicholas had seen it, he would have spiraled. He still thinks he and I are destined for one another someday.
“I guess I understand that you need someone to bide your time with until I’m old enough.”
A shadow falls over me and I glance up to see Ashley making her way down the line of bleachers in my direction. I brace for the worst. After all, she’s all but been inducted into the Freshman Four (Five?). Maybe she’s here to do their bidding. I check her hands for knives and find them empty. There’s a chance I’m being a tad bit dramatic. I don’t think murderers coat their nails in baby pink nail polish.
“Hey,” she says, gaze falling to my shirt. She smiles. “I like that. Did you make it?”
I look down. “Oh, thanks. I, uh…had it printed.”
I wish I still had my sweater on. I feel silly now.
She nods and waves to the expanse of open seating beside me. “Is it okay if I sit here?” Again, I’m confused, but she doesn’t wait for me to think of an answer, just takes a seat and props her feet up on the bleacher in front of her. “Listen, I don’t care about you and Ian.”
My face is a mask of shock. “You don’t?”
She laughs. “I just started here. Why would I care who’s dating whom? I just thought he was hot, that’s all.”
“But you sit with the Freshman Four at lunch…”
“I sit with them because it’s better than sitting by myself.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, but it’s getting kind of old. I’m considering eating lunch in the library by myself from now on. At least then I won’t have to listen to Gretchen ask Bianca if mayonnaise has calories.”
I laugh.
There’s a chance I might have misjudged Ashley. Imagine that.
“So, how’s married life?” she asks, continuing the conversation.
I stifle a grin. Still, bliss oozes from my pores. “It’s been good.” My tone is even and cool.
She can tell I’m restraining myself. “Just good?”
It’s like she took a pickaxe to my self-control.
“Okay, it’s been really awesome—I mean, better than I thought it could be.”
She smiles. “I’m glad. You two are really cute together. And hey, sorry I stole your pudding cup the other day.”
Her apology means more than she knows. I was prepared to carry that incident to my grave.
I hold out my hand for her to shake. “Friends?”
She smiles and accepts. “I’d like that.”
I decide to go out on a limb. “Have you ever watched West Wing, by chance?”
Her face lights up. “I love that show!”
I’m waiting for Ian to finish up at the gym. It’s our one-month anniversary. It’s a big deal, and I’m going to seduce him when we get home. The Zumba class I just took should help with that. I’m feeling limber.
Ian is doing a set on a bicep machine and I’m standing a few yards away, sweat dripping down my body as I try to keep it together. His arms are so sexy. His face is chiseled perfection. If we weren’t already married, I’d demand we march down to the courthouse right now.
Maybe we won’t even make it home. Maybe husbands and wives are allowed to find secluded sections of the gym parking lot. Maybe Ian will have his work cut out for him.
His eyes slice over to me and I smile.
“Almost done,” he mouths.
No, Ian. Not even close.
25
I A N
Sam tells me our new life still doesn’t feel real to her. She’s scared she’ll wake up one day in her old apartment, on her tiny bed, without me. I get it. For three years, we were best friends who were secretly in love with each other. Three years is a long time to subdue a crush. It became a habit to ignore my feelings for Sam, and that habit became second nature. We’re having to rewire our brains slowly.
“Remind me again,” she said the other night while we were brushing our teeth side by side. “You love me love me? Like not just as a friend?”
There’s a newness to our life that makes every mundane task exciting. Sam is quick to point them out: “We’re going grocery shopping for food for OUR house! We’re picking out a plant to put in the corner of OUR bedroom! We’re planning a vacation we’ll take as HUSBAND AND WIFE! IAN, THIS PIECE OF MAIL IS ADDRESSED TO MRS. FLETCHER!” Her enthusiasm is infectious.
Each passing day builds another layer of stability. Those first few newlywed months fly by as the school year wraps up. Her apartment lease ends. We get a joint bank account. We talk about when we want to have kids and how many we’ll have.
“Pretty simple to decide,” she declares.
“How’s that?”
“Well, if we have one baby per year until I turn 45, that makes 18—a nice, round, dozen and a half,” she proclaims with a straight face.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” I protest. “That’s crazy!”
“Why’s that?” She maintains the poker face, so I up the ante.
“Because one baby per year means you’re giving yourself three whole wasted months between pregnancies. I was thinking I could just climb up on top of you in the postpartum room, and that should give us—”
“AOUGHHGH, stop stop stop. I’m kidding. Let’s start with one, and if we don’t mess it up too bad we’ll do it again.”
Sam’s parents are hosting a dinner party tonight to blend the families. It’s going to be a shitshow. It’s been almost six months since we eloped, and this dinner is her parents’ way of making amends…sort of. Sam’s mom still calls every few days and asks her if she’d be willing to partake in a small (300 people) church ceremony. Sam says no, and her mom takes it as a personal insult every time.
“I know it seems callous, but I’ve given in to her demands my whole life. I’m not doing it anymore. I had the wedding I wanted. Nothing could top it. We ran for our lives!”
“I agree.”
“Okay, good,” she says as we stroll up the front path to her parents’ house. “So when my mom inevitably asks about it again tonight, you have to have my back.”
I nod—not that it matters, because her mom won’t ask Sam about it tonight. Her mom is all about appearances and she’d never get into a fight with Sam in front of my parents, who, from the sound of it, are already inside. I can hear my mom’s laugh from a mile off.
Sam opens the door and there they are: two couples who couldn’t be more different. Her parents are short and thin, human birds. They dress in khaki and cream, single-handedly keeping the beige trend alive. My parents are slightly heavier set with big smiles. Like Sam and me, there’s a bit of height difference between them. Tonight, my mom’s wearing a pink dress and my dad has put on his nicest Hawaiian shirt.
The second we walk in the door, my mom runs over and envelops Sam in a life-ending hug. Sam squeezes my hand as if trying to deliver a message via Morse code: please STOP help me STOP can’t breathe STOP.
“You look so beautiful! You’re glowing!” Her voice drops. “You aren’t expecting, are you?”
“Mom,” I warn.
She steps back but keeps holds of Sam’s outstretched hands. “Sorry, sorry. Wishful thinking!”
Sam’s own mom pats her shoulder. “Hello dear.”
“Hi Mom.”
“I, ummm…” Her mom takes a moment to peruse Sam’s appearance. “I like what you’ve done with your hair tonight.”
It pains her to deliver the compliment. Sam’s hair is wild and curly. By contrast, her mom’s hair has been forced into a tight up-do that yanks her forehead skin so she wears a perpetual look of surprise. She looks like the headmistress of a boarding school where you send troubled youth.
Her dad claps my shoulder and we shake hands. “How are you, Ian?”