Page 2 of Yours, Now and Always
Holds the ceremony within sixty days but doesn’t give a damn when because he’s already my husband and that’s all he cares about.
Gage isn’t “most people.” As Marin would say, he’s spiritually handcuffed to me, emotionally and sexually feral, and logistically lethal.
He took me home from the gala and, after putting my collar back on me, made me beg for the cock that was already mine. It took many, many hours for that man to get his fill. Which, fair. I did make him wait three long months.
Then, he woke the next morning (yesterday) and told me we were getting the marriage license. That day. Which we did.
We talked about what we’d like our wedding day to be, but no plans were set in stone. That should have been my first warning flag that something was off. Gage is not the kind of man who doesn’t already know exactly how and when he plans to make me his.
This morning, he woke like it was just another day. He fucked me. Twice before breakfast. Yes, he made me wake early for that and held his hand over my mouth to silence my screams from our daughters. All with a look in his eyes that said,my hand’s over your mouth for them. Not for me. Never for me.
He helped me get the girls ready for school. We did drop-off together. Then we went our separate ways. Gage to his office, while I came home to work in my studio.
I’d only been in the studio for half an hour before the entire morning went sideways.
First, a producer emailed in full-blown panic over one of my cue changes. That cost me an hour. Time that a working mother simply does not have. Especially when she has to send very important files to another producer by eleven. Files that, by the way, aren’t quite finished.
And on top of that? My laptop has apparently decided that today is the day it might lie down, take a breath, and spiritually opt out of functioning. It’s glitching. Badly.
So now, it’s 10:55 a.m.
I’m frantically trying to generate link access while my file-sharing program keeps crashing. I’ve started yelling at it like it might help in the middle of myare-you-actually-KIDDING-me-right-nowspiral, when my elbow hits my mug and I spill coffee all over the sheet music I was working on, and all over my leggings.
Of course. Of course, I do.
“Oh my god, whyyyy?” I yell at the entire room as if it is to answer for all of this.
I ignore the spilled coffee. There’s no time for that right now.
My laptop finally decides I’m worth it and wakes from its existential crisis at 10:59 a.m. With not a minute to spare, it finally sends my link out into the ether.
I collapse in a heap and commence manically fake meditating. You know the kind. Where you’re mutteringbreathe in, breathe outwhile simultaneously internally plotting to throw your laptop into a river and forcefully manifesting peace like a psycho.
Do I get that moment of peace?
No. I do not.
Because that’s the exact moment the group chat with my brothers starts exploding.
Tim
SO YOU JUST DROPPED “we got the marriage license” yesterday and then ignored our chat? I NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND HOW THAT LEVEL OF EMOTIONAL VIOLENCE AFFECTS PEOPLE, AMELIA.
Colin
Agreed. Rude.
Tim
I HAVE BEEN PREPARING FOR THIS MOMENT SINCE YOU FAKE DATED YOUR WAY TO ACTUAL DATING GAGE. I ALREADY HAVE A NOTES APP FOLDER CALLED “AMELIA BLACK WEDDING CHAOS PLAN.” DO YOU WANT TO SEE THE TABLESCAPE CONCEPTS OR NOT?
Me
Absolutely not. I regret telling you two anything.
Tim
