Page 59 of Honeyed

“I really don’t feel any way. We’re married; I love being married to you; I don’t plan on changing that anytime soon. Or hell, ever. Five years? Give me fifty. I’m good, truly.”

“You’re incredible.” His eyes light with awe as he gives me a thorough kiss, then pulls me along the trail to finish our walk.

We’re nearing the parking lot now, having turned back to return to the car. A sheen of sweat coats my eyebrows and beneath my sports bra, but I feel good, energized. I love simply walking and talking about the mundane with him.

“What the hell?” Warren whispers under his breath, and my gaze shoots to him.

He, however, is looking at the parking lot, his steps becoming increasingly quicker. His face has gone pale, and I know a panicked Warren when I see one. And that isn’t very often, which throws me into a downward spiral. Usually, I can count on him being calm, cool, and collected.

“Baby, what’s going on?” I try a gentle voice with a pet name, trying to bring him back to me from whatever has him spiraling.

“That motherfucker is following us?” he growls to himself, and I’ve never seen him so wound up.

This is Warren, my gentle giant. The guy who doesn’t get pestered or furious, who goes with the flow, and has resolved problems with the patience of a saint since we were in middle school. I follow the direction of his eyes and see a man standing by our car. He looks like an average thirty-something with dark hair and the outfit of a suburban dad: blue jeans and a white polo. He doesn’t appear menacing, but I know something must be up if Warren is acting like this.

“That’s the director I told you about, Mason. The one who is trying to convince me to do the documentary about my father,” Warren grits out between his teeth as we come to stand before the man.

It all clicks into place; while this person might not seem like a threat, the message behind his reappearance threatens to shatter my husband’s world. Not only does he rarely talk about his past with those who love him most, but he’d never want to broadcast it to the world. Apparently, this Mason will not take that for an answer.

“What are you doing here? Are you following me?” Warren’s voice is quiet but lethal, and anyone who doesn’t know him intimately wouldn’t understand that he’s on the edge of going off like a time bomb.

“You must be the wife.” The man, Mason, as Warren identified him, shoots his hand out and leers in my direction, ignoring my husband.

I rub my arm uncomfortably as Warren shoulders in front of me slightly, as if I’m in danger. “This is more than enough. I told you no, you know my answer. Don’t bring her into this and stop following me.”

Mason has never met me, so he must be checking into Warren actively since our marriage is somewhat new. It’s not like we put it all over the Internet, either. Suspicions and panic crowd my mind, and I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to give this creep an inch.

“Come on, man, don’t be like that. I came to give you something and to implore you to tell your side of the story. You landed on your feet. Got picked up by a rich family. Almost made it pro before you flamed out. Don’t you want to tell that story?” The filmmaker sneers and alarm bells go off in my head.

This doesn’t sound like someone trying to pursue a human-interest story. This sounds like someone who knows entirely too many things about the man I love most and is using them to manipulate him in some way. This sounds like the opinions of another man, one locked behind bars, bleeding over into a person who has the platform to spew lies.

Warren looks like he’s about to pummel this guy, and I need to get us out of here.

“The next time you show up somewhere unannounced or uninvited, we will be contacting the local authorities. Warren has said no, and that’s final. Do not bother us again.” Trying to keep my voice neutral, with no waver of nerves or fear, is a feat.

Mason’s eyes flash with something I can’t read, but his grin creeps me out more than anything he’s said or done before this. He whips something out of his pocket and holds it in Warren’s direction.

“If I can’t convince you, maybe he can.” The guy still won’t leave, and I’m getting scared that something is about to happen.

Warren won’t touch the envelope Mason extends, so I grab it and push my husband to our car. We don’t say a word as he pops the locks and climbs inside, my feet rushing to the passenger door to shut myself in.

Mason stares at us, unmoving, as Warren pulls out of the parking lot and drives off, his limbs stiff as a robot. When I look down at the envelope in my lap, I see a scrawled scratch addressing it to my husband, and I know.

I instantly know. This is from his father. The envelope suddenly feels like it’s burning an evil hole through my skin, but I gingerly set it on the floor of the car so as not to incite Warren even further.

The drive back to our home is silent.

As Warren parks the car, I feel all the energy leave his body. He slumps forward once he’s in park, resting his forehead against the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Where I come from, the part of him that will always be tied to me … I hate it. I hate that you’re involved in it now.”

He’s not looking at me, but I feel every ounce of pain and frustration coming off him.

“Let’s go inside.” It’s all I say as I take his hand, urging him to get out of the car.

I don’t ask him because my home is his now. This is our sanctuary, and I should tell him to give up his apartment as soon as we talk this thing out.

Following the front walk up to my door, I hold his hand and lead the way as if he’s a lost pet in need of comfort and direction. He requires both right now, and I’m going to give that to him. I’m his wife, in every sense of the word now, and only I can provide the kind of love he needs at this moment. The kind that makes him lose himself, erases thought, and makes the world fade away.

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