Covet

by James, Ella

  Now she’s sobbing, and oh shit, somehow I’ve fucked up with this.

  “Shit, Finley. This is your home. Wherever I am, that’s your home. You want a card with your name on it? We can go get one at the bank tomorrow.”

  She’s shaking her head.

  “You don’t?”

  “My name is Finley Daniels,” she sobs.

  “Jesus. I didn’t think about it.”

  “Why would you? I lied to you!” She pulls away, still crying. “It’s been lovely, but perhaps I should go back if I’m not—if I’m not pregnant. Just give you a bit of time, now that your arms are moving a bit more and everything.”

  My stomach flips so hard, I almost think I’m gonna be sick. “What do you mean? You want to leave?”

  “No.” She steps closer. She’s still crying as she strokes my hair back. “Don’t go losing color in your face. We just got it back, you’ll recall.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s all right.” She’s wiping at her eyes. “I’m just…a bit afraid. And I don’t want to be a burden, ever.”

  More tears streak down her cheeks, and she wipes them. “I adore it here. It seems too good to be true. I think I’m waiting for the other shoe to fall.”

  I feel her tremble, and I realize—God, she’s gotta be so shaken up. I got shot, yeah, and it was hell worrying about her on the trip to Cape Town. Then I got worked up over the Dilaudid, and got kind of fucked up by withdrawing again right around the time she got here. But I’m American, and I’m back in America with Finley—who I love more than the world. If I can’t play ball again, I know I’ll do something. Staying here and making babies with her seems like a damn good backup plan to me.

  For Finley, though, her whole life changed. “I’m so fucking self-involved, I didn’t realize.” She’s so sweet and strong, a guy could take advantage of it without even meaning to. “I’m sorry, baby. I don’t want to be like that. I want to know what’s on your mind.” I kiss her temple. “Don’t keep this stuff to yourself, okay? Being a moody prick and not talking about shit is my job.”

  We make up with sex. The next morning, I wake up before her. I can raise my hands up to my ears now, if I’m careful, so I call around and make an appointment. The next day, a Tuesday, I get us an Uber and we go to tiny downtown Leavenworth.

  We eat cheeseburgers at a picnic table by the creek, and Finley grins as I feed myself…slowly. Then I’ve got my first official PT session. I’m so sore after that Finley gives me tincture from her purse, so I’m a little fuzzy as I try to explain to her about the therapist.

  “You did what?”

  “I booked us in…to talk to this lady. She’s older…like mom-aged. If we had a mom.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same mum.” Her eyes are huge. She looks completely confused. I start laughing, and I can’t stop till it hurts.

  “Carnegie. Calm yourself.”

  “Sorry.”

  “We’re doing what?”

  “I thought we could talk to this lady—her name is Rachel Meyer—about what happened.”

  “What happened? Oh right,” she whispers. “You got shot, and I’m a widowed, hell-bound liar. I don’t want to tell this person about it. She’ll say you should never speak to me again. Who do you think has got the raw deal? It’s not me!”

  “Siren. Dammit. Where’s your sense of self-love. Isn’t that the big thing? Like on Instagram? I see it all over the fucking place…you need self-love.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yeah, you gotta love yourself like I do.”

  “Like you love yourself?” She crooks a brow, and I laugh. “No—like I love you.”

  “And you love yourself like I love you?”

  “I don’t know. There’s goals and there’s reality.” I laugh at myself. She sighs loudly and kisses me before we start to walk.

  “How do you know where to go?” I ask.

  “I’m following your walking GPS.” She holds my phone up. “Put her name in just now. Keep up, Rexie.”

  “I’ll show you up when we get home.”

  She smiles, but it’s not her normal smile. It seems tighter. I can’t figure out what about that tense smile bothers me so much until after the meet and greet with Rachel, our new sort-through-all-your-deepest-feelings-ologist.

  I look down at Finley as we wait for our Uber, and it hits me: here is Siren on a street in Washington, her red hair blowing in a summer breeze. She’s been ripped off the map as she knows it, flung into a different fucking hemisphere…because of me. She’s here with me.

  I introduced her as my girlfriend to Rachel, but Jesus—Finley’s not my girlfriend. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “Hey…walk with me.” I bump her lightly with my elbow. When she blinks at me but seems a little lost, I ease my arm out of its sling and hold my hand out for hers.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just walk with me.”

  I can tell she doesn’t want to hold my hand. She won’t thread her fingers through mine. Then wraps her hand around mine, and she tries to keep my arm from moving. That makes me laugh.

  “Have you gone quite mad?” she asks me. “I thought there’s a car called?”

  “No.” I stop and cancel it. There’s a fountain right between these two clusters of shops. I lead her over to it. Get her to sit down on the bench. “Would it bother you to wait right here for me, for just a few minutes? I need to go do something.”

  “It can be the first step in my being social routine.” She smiles. Rachel recommended she get out more, which is a good fucking point.

  “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  She smiles. “I’m not worried.”

  Three doors down, there’s this little jewelry store we walked by earlier. I get some looks when I walk in, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m me or because of the two slings. The woman who comes over to help me is older, and she looks kind of fancy in a dress; I’m hoping that means she’s not a baseball fan.

  I tell her that I need a ring and ask about the January birthstone. It’s red. I don’t want it to be red.

  “Does she have a favorite stone?” the woman asks.

  I swallow. “I don’t really know.”

  “That’s okay. What about the month you met?”

  “April.”

  “April’s stone is the diamond.”

  My head spins a little. “Is it?”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to use that if it’s not your intention.”

  “If what’s not?”

  “Well, if you’re not wanting to get married.” She gives me an understanding smile.

  “I am.”

  Her eyebrows arch up. I clarify. “That is what I want to do.”

  “Well why didn’t you say so?”

  I try to think of Finley’s style, of what she wears. But I realize I don’t know. I realize Finley probably doesn’t know. She’s never had a lot of options. I think of what she said about her name, and how I want her to have my name. I think of what just happened with the doctor—her abusive husband just now died—and I’m not sure what to do.

  “I recognize your cap,” the woman says softly. She smiles as she leads me to a case with bigger gem stones, and I realize she means she knows who I am.

  “Keep it kinda quiet for me, okay? I’m here under the radar.”

  “Absolutely. I just wanted you to know that I’m a fan.”

  She doesn’t pry as I pick out a vintage sapphire—almost three carats—set in a platinum, oval-shaped, kind of antique-looking frame. I don’t know why, but it looks like Finley to me.

  When I get back to the fountain, I think of kneeling down right then, but there are people all around. Every time we’re out, I see Finley glancing around with this look of what I think is disbelief. So we go home.

  There, we eat pizza, which she’s gone full-on, frat-boy crazy for. She feeds mine to me with a fork, but I don’t mind. In two more weeks, both of the slings can come off a lot more fre
quently. I think in three or four weeks, I’ll be able to fuck her like I want to.

  That night, we start on the Harry Potter movies. As we’re heading to bed, Finley spots our deer couple outside again. We watch them for a long time, and I think about the ring inside my pocket. Maybe this is a good time. But I don’t do it. I don’t know…maybe I’m nervous.

  We climb into bed, and Siren blows me long and hard.

  “I don’t think I am pregnant, in fact,” she says after I come. “I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

  “Only because I can’t ditch the condom.” I laugh. “Come here…I want to taste that pussy.”

  She smiles slyly. “I want to feel you in me.”

  “What does it feel like?” I’m trying to head her toward some dirty talk, but Finley rolls the condom onto me and looks up with a smile. “It feels like I’m yours.”

  Earlier, as we rode home, I asked the universe to send me a sign. Something. Anything—to let me know what I should do. If it’s too soon. If it’s too much right now.

  It feels like I’m yours. I replay her words in my head all night. They seem like as good a sign as any.

  Twenty-Three

  Finley

  If you had told me years ago that my Prince Declan would take me deep into a magic forest on a warm, radiant day, and he would kneel before me in a grove while our pet lamb frolicked nearby…or that a gentle breeze would ruffle his dark hair, and overhead, the sky would match the blue of his eyes…I’d have said you were spinning fairy tales. And fairy tales are not for people like me.

  It’s late August now. I’ve learned how to work the high-tech kiln; I’ve made three pieces. If Declan holds his arms still, he can knit, and as it turns out, knitting is his favorite takeaway from island life. He says it quiets his mind. I’ve three scarves now, and Kayti has a baby blanket.

  He’s started PT four times weekly—two appointments per week for each shoulder, poor Sailor—and while he’s doing that, I speak with Rachel or attend a yoga class. I tried pilates, but I’ve found yoga to be more my speed—which is to say, quite leisurely.

  We spoke with Rachel together a few times, though all that entailed was Declan trying to wink-wink with her about subjects she’s unclear on, such as urging her to urge me to tell him if I’m unhappy. Which I’m not. After two sessions of such madness, Rachel said she’d like to see Declan alone, as she’s seeing me. So we’re each seeing her privately now.

  “I don’t know what I’ll tell her,” he said as he grilled me my first steak. Flipping the steaks is actually helpful for his PT, so there we stood beside the cabin in the cooling evening air.

  “Oh, well how would you? You’ve had the perfect life with absolutely nothing awry. You feel lovely at all times, and never scared or sad or worried. Surely nothing from the past could linger in your heart. Let us hope you’re good at spinning tales.”

  That made him laugh. The truth is, though, he’s doing terribly well. His father has visited us three times now, and he likes that. A few days past, some of his teammates visited, and though they were shocked to meet Baby and me and hear what happened, they were all lovely. And he obviously cares for them as well.

  He never speaks of what he’ll do if his right shoulder doesn’t return to its former power, so I’m not sure. He rides the stationary bike each day as if he’s trying to “get fit,” as people here say, and I do as well. We say we’re preparing for a race, although I hope that isn’t true.

  Each morning, we spend nearly an hour in bed—often longer. Afterward, we lie and listen to the birds chirp through our open window, with its lovely screen that keeps the bugs out. In the evenings, he holds me just a bit, being careful what position, and I think that helps him feel…more abled.

  This morning, he woke me and suggested we take Baby for a hike. And over time, via a winding trail, he brought us here, to this bright grove that overlooks the river. He kneels down to pet Baby, and I watch him reach into his pocket for an apple.

  But it’s not an apple.

  I gape down at what he’s holding till my eyes well, and it’s blurry. Blue and sparkling and blurry.

  Declan’s eyes are warm on mine. He smiles softly, revealing dimples. “I don’t want to push you into anything…but Finley, I want you to change your name. I don’t want to be the Carnegie.” He flashes me a tight grin. “I want to be your Carnegie. And I want you to be mine. I want you to live with me forever. I want to give you everything I have…and I want you to give me what you have.” He laughs, quite wickedly, and then I’m laughing as well. “You’re my favorite thing that ever happened to me. And you make me so much better. I realized the other day it’s been less than two months…since the Dilaudid,” he whispers. “But I never think about it.” He presses his lips together, and his eyes squeeze shut. I touch his hair, and his hand lifts to wipe his eyes.

  “Don’t do that.” I run my fingers underneath his eyes. “Let me, so you don’t have to lift your arm.”

  “I don’t want to go back to Boston,” he rasps. “Yesterday I asked if maybe I could be traded. If my arm comes back.”

  I nod.

  “I think they’re willing do it.” He blows a breath out. “If it doesn’t…I don’t know. But I’ll find something else. Finley, I just want to wake up with you every day and give you those babies you want. If I play again, I want you there for every game you want to come to. I won’t ever use again. I wouldn’t do that to you. I don’t want to do it to me, either.”

  “If you do, I’ll bring you here and break your arms.” I smile. “In seriousness, though, I’m not letting you go off the wagon without me. If you struggle with it again, I want to go where you go.”

  I crouch beside him, press my cheek to his, because I know if he could hug me fully, he would. I hug him and whisper near his ear. “Of course, my answer is yes. And no, it’s not too soon.”

  I feel him breathing faster—the old withdrawal bit. He shuts his eyes, shakes his head. “I won’t be like this forever.”

  I kiss him, and then we’re on the ground together. Baby’s there, poking her head into his pocket, looking for apples, and we can’t stop laughing.

  “Actually,” I whisper between kisses, “it’s the only thing I need, that. You must be like this forever. Or who will I be married to?”

  He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, and I hug him. He kisses my neck.

  “Can I see it?” I whisper.

  Declan laughs. His eyes are so hung up on mine, he nearly slides the ring on the wrong finger.

  I can’t stop laughing. I can’t stop hugging him. I can’t stop hugging Baby. I have to help him get up, and we laugh about that.

  When we’re standing face to face, he looks into my eyes. “I know it’s a gamble for you, but I swear I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “I’m aware I’m getting T-Rex and his issues. You’re getting a former mute who’s responsible for getting you shot.”

  His face goes serious. “Don’t say that. I mean it. You were not responsible.”

  I look down, and he nuzzles my face with his. That makes me smile.

  “Dinos in love.”

  “Which one are you?” he teases.

  “I’m the one that was afraid of water.”

  “No, I think you’re a water dinosaur. You’re from the water.”

  “I’ll be looking that up on the Google.”

  He laughs.

  “What?”

  He’s grinning as he shakes his head.

  “Tell me.”

  “Just Google.”

  “Just Google?” I repeat.

  “Yeah. Like it’s just called Google.”

  “The Google is more official. They should change the name.”

  The sun glints on my ring then. I lift my hand.

  “Hey, now you’re just bragging,” he jokes.

  I pull my arms up to my breasts and fold my hands down, teasing him.

  He shakes his head. “Just a few more weeks, and someone’s getti
ng T-Rexed.”

  “What’s that?” I giggle.

  “You’ll see.”

  “I’m still calling you the Carnegie.”

  “You know what I’ll call you?”

  I shake my head, and he grins. “My wife.”

  * * *

  Declan

  It’s good. It’s really fucking good. I’m surprised how good it is—and also kind of not, because…it’s Finley. Finley is the embodiment of good. She’s where good goes to learn to be better and where bad goes to shrivel in the light.

  It’s been three months and two weeks now since she joined me in Washington. Today, we closed on a house in Seattle. Because I’m getting traded to the Mariners. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But I’m already throwing almost just like last season. I can’t do it too much yet, and the Mariners don’t want to see me throw for at least four or five more months…but they agreed to take me, take the risk. If the contract’s any indication, they even wanted me.

  After we close on the house, we eat at a sushi place, and Finley fucking loves it.

  “Water dino’s all about the fish, huh?”

  She laughs, and I watch her while I eat. She hasn’t changed hardly at all since getting to the States and meeting people, making friends. I’m surprised at how relieved I am. She still wears her red hair long, down past her shoulders. The only difference is, here in Seattle, it sticks out more—because it’s so damn beautiful. She’s not into makeup, although she did buy some; she wore the lipstick once to make red rings around my cock. She is pretty into clothes, but I’m not shocked at that. She likes the flowy dresses and those wooden bead bracelets and big straw hats. She got her first cell phone recently, and she’s obsessed with the camera. Yesterday she said she wants to start an Instagram.

  I can tell I’m getting stronger on the laundry list of supplements and witchery Finley’s got me taking, because when we go out, I’ve started getting recognized. A lot. I’ve bulked up enough now so I look like Homer again.