Practice Husband

by Noelle Adams

  Hunter—with his broad shoulders and bare chest and deep blue eyes and gruff sexiness. He has a tattoo on one side of his chest I haven’t seen before.

  What the hell has happened to my life in the past week?

  And what the hell is going to happen to it next?

  AFTER TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES, I give up trying to read. It’s just not happening for me tonight. I put my book down and prop my head up more on my pillows so I can better see the TV.

  Hunter glances over. “What do you like to watch?”

  “I’m not too picky.” I’m not. I watch TV the way I read. I can find almost anything interesting.

  “You don’t normally watch sports though, do you?”

  “No. Not usually.”

  “So what do you like?” He’s waiting, his hand poised on the remote.

  “I like a lot of things. If it’s just to have something on, I usually watch cooking shows or travel shows or I like those monster-hunting shows.”

  He’s smiling now as he flips the channel. “Monster-hunting shows?”

  “You know. There are a bunch of them on now. People searching for legendary monsters and treasure and stuff.”

  He lands on a program that investigates historical mysteries.

  “I like that one,” I tell him.

  He’s chuckling as he puts down the remote, and he keeps smiling even as he focuses on the program.

  “What are you grinning at?” I’m starting to get a bit self-conscious about his smile.

  It’s entirely possible he’s laughing at me.

  He shifts his eyes to my face. “Why shouldn’t I smile?”

  “I don’t know. It looks like there was a reason for it.”

  “There is. I’m havin’ a good time.”

  “You are?” My voice is clearly skeptical. “Lying in bed watching TV?”

  “Yes. I am.” He clears his throat, appearing to hesitate before he goes on. “It’s a nice bed. With a good TV. I can watch what I want, do what I want, go where I want, eat what I want. I’m with someone I like, and she doesn’t seem to... to mind that I’m in bed with her. I’m having a good time.”

  “Oh.” I give him a wobbly smile, something inside me reaching out for him.

  My heart more than anything else.

  I’m not used to parts of my body doing things I didn’t tell them to do, so I’m quite shocked when my hand reaches out of its own accord and touches Hunter’s chest.

  It’s an emotional gesture, not a purposeful one. I simply need to touch him.

  Hunter gives a little jerk and looks down at my hand, clearly surprised.

  I suddenly see myself.

  My hand—small with neat, unpolished nails—is resting just above his heart, over a complex tattoo.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Fortunately, my mind works quickly most of the time, and I find a way to cover for my lapse. I ask casually, “When did you get all these tattoos?”

  “Huh?” He seems strangely disoriented.

  “The tattoos? I was wondering about them. This one is beautiful.” I stroke the lines of colored ink, as if that was why I’d reached over to him to begin with. “It’s like a painting.”

  “Yeah.” He shifts position on the bed just slightly. “It took a long time.”

  Now that I’m looking at it, I’m seeing more of the details. It is like a painting. With intricate lines and delicate brush strokes and lovely shadings of reds, golds, and oranges. At first, I think it’s nonrepresentational, but I start to see a pattern. Feathers maybe.

  Wings.

  “Is it a bird?” I sit up, trying to see it better. It spreads from his heart up over his left shoulder.”

  “Y-yeah. Something like that.”

  “A phoenix?” I raise my eyes to his face. “Rising again from the ashes of your old life?”

  He’s smiling again, although he still looks slightly uncomfortable, as if I’m poking at a sensitive spot in his soul. “That suits me, doesn’t it?”

  I reach for his right arm and hold it up so I can examine the tattoo on his forearm. This one is in black ink and isn’t an object at all. Just a compelling repetition of stylized geometrical shapes. As I look at it more closely, I decide it might be feathers, like he’s tattooed a wing on himself. “You didn’t get these in prison, did you?” I ask. “They’re way too good.”

  “No. I got ’em before then.”

  “They’re really beautiful. Whoever did it really knows their stuff.”

  He chuckles. “I’ll tell her that.”

  I frown at this. “An old girlfriend?”

  “No. Just a friend. She’s an artist though.” He pauses and pulls his arm out of my loose grip. “You should get a tattoo.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? You asked about them in your letters, so I know you’re interested. If you like ’em on me, why wouldn’t you like ’em on you?’

  “I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s me.”

  “Well, you’re trying new stuff, so why not that?” He seems to have forgotten about the television. He’s turned onto his side, his eyes never leaving my face.

  I’m laughing and shaking my head at the same time. “Yeah, but the other stuff I’m trying out isn’t forever. What if I don’t like the tattoo? I’d be stuck with it forever.”

  His face changes. I see it happen, although I don’t know why. “Ah. I get it. A tattoo isn’t practice. A tattoo is the real deal.”

  “Exactly.”

  “No tattoo then.”

  “No tattoo.”

  “Got it.” He’s smiling as he turns back to watch TV, and I’m able to relax too and watch about the remaining half hour of the mystery show.

  Hunter turns off the television after that, and it’s dark in the room.

  I close my eyes and try not to think of him lying beside me with his rough beard and his gorgeous tattoos and his strong body and his sweet, gruff heart.

  My husband.

  Not a forever husband, but mine for the next year at least.

  Three

  I LOVE THE PART OF The Lord of the Rings where Sam wakes up after the ring has been destroyed and for a moment believes he’s been dreaming. Then he sees Frodo sleeping beside him and reality catches up to him, and he’s greeted by Gandalf, whom he thought was long dead but is alive and laughing again. Even though the poignancy of loss catches up to them all eventually, that scene of Sam waking up is one of pure joy.

  In fact, I love waking-up scenes of all varieties. It’s like life starts anew just a little bit every morning, and waking-up scenes capture that newness most perfectly.

  Just to clarify, I like waking-up scenes in fiction. Not in real life.

  I usually wake up naturally between eight and nine o’clock in the morning, but on Monday I wake up at six instead.

  For a moment, I have no idea why.

  It’s far too early. I know that as soon as I open my eyes. My class on Mondays isn’t until the afternoon.

  I shouldn’t be awake. I have at least a couple of more hours to sleep.

  What the hell?

  I’m feeling grumpy and confused as I roll over and see the other side of my bed.

  It’s not empty.

  It’s supposed to be empty.

  I sleep alone. It’s been two years since I haven’t slept alone, and that was just for a couple of months with a guy who gradually became more and more annoying.

  I’m like Sam (the hobbit) in this moment, in that oblivion before sleep catches up to reality.

  Because Hunter is in bed with me this morning.

  I have no idea how I forgot, even for a few seconds.

  He’s awake, staring up at the ceiling. His hair and beard are rumpled, and his bare arms are out from under the covers so I can see his broad shoulders and strong biceps.

  He turns his head to meet my gaze.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It just fee
ls like... something’s wrong.”

  He lets out an audible sigh, his expression softening. “To tell you the truth, I’m kind of nervous.”

  I’m surprised, although I don’t know why. He always seems so competent, sure of himself. It never occurred to me he might be at all insecure about starting a new job. “You’ll be great.”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “Because I know you, and I know the job. You’ll be good at it.” I pause, trying to think of something that will make him feel better. “It’s not like you have to report to Pop. You’ll probably never even see him around. You’ll report to Chip Montgomery. He’s a nice, laid-back guy. And Chip reports to Melissa.”

  He huffs. “You think that helps? Melissa scares the crap out of me.”

  I laugh because his voice is dry now. He’s not entirely serious, although there might be a grain of truth in his words. “She’s not that bad. She expects a lot, but she works harder than anyone. If you don’t slack off, she’ll be happy with you.”

  “I’m not about to slack off.” He turns onto his side, causing the covers to slip down. I try not to let my gaze fall to his bare chest—his darker nipples, the scattering of coarse hair, the red and gold shading of his tattoo—since I don’t need to start having lascivious thoughts this early in the morning. “I promise. I’m not going to waste this chance you’ve given me.”

  “It’s not an act of charity. I’ve told you that before. I’m getting something out of it too.”

  “Maybe. If you’d actually let me help you.”

  “I will.”

  “You haven’t so far.”

  I roll my eyes. If it wasn’t so ungodly early, I wouldn’t get annoyed so easily. “I had that paper to do this weekend. I didn’t have time for playing around.”

  It’s true.

  Mostly true.

  I do have a big paper due today, and I did have to work on it over the weekend.

  I also used it as an excuse, however.

  It just feels strange. To have a husband. A husband who’s not in love with you. A husband who is supposed to help you do new things—things that are a little scary.

  So I wanted a weekend to ease into the new situation.

  I don’t think that’s unusual.

  I don’t think it’s a sign that I’m a coward.

  Hunter doesn’t like the delay, however.

  I suppose he wants to get started on paying off what he feels is a debt.

  “When is your next paper due?”

  I have to think before I answer. “Three weeks or so.”

  “Good. Then you’ll have no excuse this weekend.”

  I make a face at him. “Don’t you need to get up soon?”

  “Yes, if I want to have time to run this morning.”

  He runs every morning—at least he has for the two mornings we’ve been married. When I told him about the very good workout room in this building, he made a face and said he prefers to exercise in a way that doesn’t feel cooped up.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’m getting up.”

  I sit up in the bed, although it’s way too early for me to think about getting up. I’m wearing pajama shorts and an old T-shirt. Nothing very attractive. Maybe sometime this week I can get Chelsea to help me shop for cuter sleepwear.

  If Hunter is going to be sleeping with me, then I don’t want to always wear ratty stuff.

  “You won’t have much to do today. Chip will just show you the ropes. You can meet the other folks in your area and get the lay of the land.”

  He frowns as he sits up too. He’s got gray boxer briefs on, and I can’t quite keep my eyes from darting down to check him out.

  He sees me looking and lifts his eyebrows.

  “Don’t give me that look,” I say, both embarrassed and frustrated by his attitude. He really is far too cocky for this situation.

  Practice husbands are supposed to be... nicer.

  “What look?”

  “You know.”

  He’s almost smiling now. “Any time you wanna a better view...”

  “Oh shut up.” I flop back down on the bed, even more embarrassed but also ridiculously excited.

  I’ve never had an offer like that before.

  He laughs and hauls himself out of bed, walking to the bathroom with long strides.

  I tell myself not to stare at his bare back, long legs, and tight butt as he leaves the room, but my mental lecture is ignored.

  I’m not going to get out of bed this early. I’m just not. So I stretch out under the covers again and listen to the muffled sounds of Hunter in the bathroom. The toilet flushes, and then I hear the water in the sink.

  He must leave the bathroom through the door that connects to the hall because I don’t see him for a few minutes. Then he appears in my bedroom doorway wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. “I’m off.”

  “Have fun.”

  “You can join me any time.”

  “Don’t count on it. I hate running with a passion.”

  He chuckles as he disappears. A few seconds later, I hear the apartment door open and close.

  I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, but my mind is whirling with thoughts of Hunter.

  I guess I might have dozed off for a few minutes, visions of a mostly naked male body and wry bearded face filling my dreams. It seems like no time at all when I hear Hunter return.

  I look at the clock and realize it’s been just over forty-five minutes.

  He comes back into the bedroom, drenched in sweat and smelling like effort and the outdoors. “You still in bed?”

  I frown. “Yes, I’m still in bed. It’s not even seven yet.”

  “Just think of how much you could get done if you give yourself a couple of extra hours in the morning.”

  “You’re in an obnoxious mood today. You should have married Melissa instead. She’s always preaching the virtues of early rising.”

  He’s giving me that ironic half smile. “I wouldn’t wanna marry Melissa.”

  “Well, good, because she’s already taken.”

  “I’m pretty happy with my choice. And you would be too if you’d stop being scared and let me—”

  “Go take a shower!” I break in, suddenly afraid of what he’s about say. “You stink.”

  He laughs but doesn’t argue as he heads into the bathroom.

  I think about how he might have finished his sentence as I hear the shower turn on.

  I think about it a lot.

  AFTER MY AFTERNOON class, I stop by the grocery store with a long list of ingredients I’d put together earlier in the day.

  I’m going to cook dinner tonight.

  I’ve always liked the idea of cooking, and I love watching the food shows on TV. I’ve often imagined myself preparing delicious meals and serving them to people on a beautifully set table. But it never seemed worth the trouble to learn to cook just for me.

  But I have a husband now, so I figure this is as good a reason as any to get started.

  Hunter used to talk about the food in prison in his letters, and it was never any good. Well, he can finally have some good meals now, and I like the idea of giving that to him.

  So I find a recipe from one of my favorite cooking shows that’s supposed to be super easy, and I buy all the ingredients before I go home.

  The roasted chicken and vegetables all cook together in the same pan in the oven. But I hadn’t realized what a pain it would be to chop the potatoes, carrots, peppers, onions, leeks, and mushrooms.

  It takes me forever since I’m not any good at it, so when I’m finally done, I gaze down in exhaustion and satisfaction at the piles of chopped vegetables.

  I still need to prepare and season the meat before I put everything in the oven, so I’m about to start doing that when my phone buzzes with a text.

  It’s Hunter.

  Chip wants to grab a drink after work. Ok?

  I smile as I read it. Hunter’s new boss is a really nice guy, and he’s obviously mak
ing an effort with Hunter. I’m glad. I hope he fits in with the people he works with and maybe even makes some friends.

  Yes. Do it!

  Ok.

  I’m making something for dinner so be back by 7 if you want any.

  I do. I won’t stay long.

  I smile like a dope down at my phone until I realize what I’m doing.

  If Hunter won’t be back until seven, then I have plenty of time to get the chicken on. I don’t want to put it on too early or it will be done too soon.

  I get a can of grapefruit-flavored sparkling water out of the refrigerator and go get my e-reader to take a little break before I mess with the chicken.

  I’m reading a cozy mystery about an amateur sleuth who’s a librarian, and I’m really enjoying it because the main character is a lot like me. Only nosier.

  I’m an omnivorous reader. I’ll read across all genres, from classic literature to graphic novels. I don’t read nonfiction for pleasure, but everything else is fair game as long as the prose isn’t too flowery and overdone and the characters feel genuinely human.

  I get into my mystery novel and lose track of time.

  When I hear the apartment door open, I realize immediately what happened.

  I forgot to put the chicken on.

  I jump up, scrambling over to the counter where I left the half-prepared food. I’m rubbing the chicken down with olive oil like a fiend when Hunter comes into the kitchen.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “I messed up!”

  Now I have raw chicken all over my hands, and I can’t even get the water on in the sink without spreading germs all over the handle.

  Hunter is wearing a pair of tan trousers and a blue dress shirt. He looks different from usual but still ridiculously sexy. He cocks his head at me. “How did you mess up?”

  “Can you turn on the water in the sink for me?”

  He does as I ask, and I wash my hands quickly. Then I put the vegetables in the pan. Toss them in olive oil. Then salt them and put the chicken pieces on top. As I work, I explain, “I was supposed to put all this in the oven a half hour ago.”

  “It’s only six thirty.”

  “But this takes almost an hour to cook.” I wash my hands again and then put the pan in the oven. I’d preheated it more than an hour ago, so it’s been hot and ready to go ever since.