Page 78 of Axe-identally Married
My heart stuttered at the simple admission, and there was no way I could form words in response.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had one. In therapy, I’ve been working on opening myself up to pursue friendships, to be vulnerable and try to connect with people.”
Therapy? He’d never mentioned that before. Color me impressed.
“I get that it probably sounds weird. But I’m working on verbalizing my feelings. So I want you to know how grateful I am for you. The marriage might not be real, but our friendship is, and it means more to me than you can imagine.”
The lump in my throat was so big I wasn’t sure I could get oxygen to my brain. We were friends, good friends. We shared interests and supported one another. We were even working together on common goals. I’d written him off because he was Lila’s ex, because he was a jock, and because of my own baggage. But he was right. We were connected on a deeper level than I could have ever imagined.
It was so obvious. There was no way I could even second-guess what he’d told me.
“It’s a big responsibility,” I joked. “Being a wifey and a bestie.”
Tilting over, he pressed a kiss to my head. He’d never done that before, and while it wasn’t the least bit sexual, it was still incredibly intimate. “I have a feeling you’re up for the challenge.”
“Oh, I am,” I said, adding a little pep to my step. “And for the record, you’re my best friend too.”
His boyish smile almost split his face in half, causing me to take a step back. He even stood a little straighter. “That,” he said, threading his arm through mine again and leading me back to the house, “is the single best Christmas gift I’ve ever received.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cole
The clinic was closed on Sundays, which meant that Willa usually slept in, worked out, and then either read or binged episodes ofBridgerton. We’d enjoyed a long weekend due to New Year’s falling on Friday, and we’d spent a lot of time attempting recipes from YouTube, doing yoga together, and what had recently become my favorite activity with Willa: knitting—me, of course—and reading a fantasy novel—her—side by side. Most days, she’d put her head on my shoulder, and we’d sit in silence.
But this morning, we’d trekked out to the diner. I’d had a craving for eggs Benedict, and no one made it better than Bernice and Louis. We’d been hanging out at the cottage for the last few days, so the change of scenery would do us some good. Though Magnolia had invited us to some swanky party in New York City, that was not my scene anymore, and Willa’s eyes had dulled when she mentioned it. What my wife needed more than anything was a little downtime.
The last thing I wanted was to find myself in a noisy crowd where alcohol flowed. I’d built a safe little bubble here. I was helping out at the mayor’s office, planning next year’s festival,coaching my girls, and talking to the University of Maine about transferring my credits and applying them to a BA program.
For the first time in years, I felt good. I was sleeping and exercising and doing things I cared about. The best part of it all was spending time with the person I cared about most.
Eventually, my feelings for her would be a problem, but I was choosing to ignore it at the moment, and I was progressively getting better at avoiding my attraction to my wife. Truly, I had developed some kind of superpower. However, it didn’t change the fact that I wanted to spend as much time with her as I could.
The diner was packed full of church ladies casting judgmental looks, parents cutting blueberry pancakes into tiny bites for hungry kids, and groups of older men loudly debating the day’s hot topic.
I’d avoided the diner for so long. It was the unofficial hub of our town, and I’d been swamped with so much shame and had no interest in the scrutiny I’d receive if I made an appearance. But with Willa? I was proud to walk in, even if I had to duck under the old doorframe to avoid hitting my head.
“Do you have a game this afternoon?”
“Yes. Can’t wait.” Excitement coursed through me. My girls were kicking ass on the ice. Most of the teams we played were from towns far larger than Lovewell with consistent access to ice time. But my team was scrappy, and moving Emily to goalie and playing a left wing lock had really turned things around for us.
“Can I come?” It was a simple request, but it made my chest squeeze, nonetheless. She wanted to come watch my team play?
“To my game?” I cringed. Shit. That sounded pathetic. “To see the girls?” I corrected.
“Of course.” Nodding, she brought her coffee to her lips. “I’m free all day. You’ve done every conceivable chore around the house, you’ve run every errand and even stocked the freezer withmeals. Plus…” She wiggled her brows. “Shouldn’t the coach’s wife make an appearance?”
Yes. The answer was yes. She was always welcome, especially if she went around introducing herself as my wife. The thought of it filled me with pride.
“Sure,” I said, trying to play it cool, even as my heart thumped heavily in my chest. “The kids would be excited to have another fan.”
She smiled broadly, and though it should have lifted me up further, I was hit with a pang of regret. She’d never seen me play hockey. My family had all seen me play, and people I met along the way were usually impressed by my size and talent. But this was different. I wanted her to see me play because I wanted her to see me, the real me, not the guy decked out in his team’s colors.
And there was no realer version of me than when I was on the ice, at least before I went pro and lost my drive. Back when my pulse quickened every time I laced up my skates. I wanted her to know that version of me, not whatever I was now.
“Cole,” she said, putting her coffee cup down. Her hands were cupped around it, and she was chewing her bottom lip. It was one of her tells. She was nervous.
My heart sank. “Are you okay?”
