And my past with Riley no longer matters, not when I have Mason to consider. Which means it’s time to draw the line in the proverbial sand before the officiant arrives. “Listen, I’m not sure why you’re really here. With me, no less. But as I already said, I’m doing this as much for Mason as I am for myself. If you are having cold feet or are here for a quick trip down memory lane, leave now. It’s one thing to bail on me, but I won’t allow you to do it to my son. Not that there is a guarantee this match will work. But if you are going to jump ship in a month, tell me now.”
Riley pales and fidgets. Fuck. I groan and take a step back. Of course she hadn’t intended to stay. While this house is far from the trailer I grew up in, it still doesn’t compare to the fancy ranch she called home, although it’s far better than that crappy studio she was living in. Which still makes no damn sense to me.
“Luc, I am not leaving in a month. And I assure you I will not do anything to harm your son. And I am certainly not here for revenge. I left you, remember.”
She averts her eyes when she says it. Like there’s something she doesn’t want me to see. Before I can pry further, the doorbell rings. Lousy timing. Fists clenched, I stare at her for another moment, waiting for her to confess. To what, I’m not sure. But she remains silent, so when the chimes sound throughout the house again, I pivot and head upstairs, with Riley right behind me.
When I reach the front door, the officiant is waiting on the porch. The storm door creaks when I swing it open, allowing him to enter. “Thanks for meeting us.”
A short, dour-faced man with a receding hairline and bulldog jowls squints up at me. “Where would you like me to set up?”
So much for pleasantries. “The living room should be fine.”
Riley and the officiant head into the living room and I follow behind. We sit on the couch opposite the man, watching as he places his briefcase on the coffee table, then pulls papers from the manila envelope in his hand. He pauses while thumbing through them and glowers up at me. “No witnesses?”
“No, sir.” While Jim and Tony both had witnesses, there’s no statutory requirement that witnesses be present at a marriage ceremony in Virginia. And since I had no idea how things would actually go with Riley, I’d opted to keep our impending nuptials quiet for now.
The officiant mutters something I’m guessing is uncomplimentary under his breath.
Geez. Hadn’t been expecting confetti bombs and backslaps from the guy, but did he have to be such a grouch?
I steal a peek at Riley to see how she’s taking all of this, but she’s staring into her lap, her blond hair spilling forward and hiding her face. My muscles tense when I notice her shoulders shake. Oh hell, is she crying? Over our troll of an officiant?
Or . . . what if she’s upset over the reality of marrying me?
My blood turns cold and my stomach flips, making me queasy. Before I can completely freak out, Riley sweeps her hair behind her ear. That’s when I get a better look at her face, and comprehension dawns. Riley’s not crying. She’s laughing.
I let out a breath I didn’t even realized I’d been holding. I’d forgotten how Riley had a bad habit of bursting into laughter at the most inappropriate moments.
I peek at our officiant, who clears his throat with a very dramatic herm-herm while drumming his fingertips on his thigh. I press my lips together tightly to fend off my own smirk. Once the need to chuckle passes, I return my attention to the man sitting in front of me. “I’m sorry, is there something I need to be doing?”
He heaves an exaggerated sigh, one that shakes his jowls in a hilariously awful way. A tiny sound escapes Riley, making my stomach clench. I squeeze my own hands in my lap and pray I don’t lose it.
“The rings,” he says, like he’s irritated I didn’t read his mind. “Have you received the rings?”
His question throws cold water on my amusement. Crap. I’d been so brain fogged when I read Riley’s name I forgot my envelope had our wedding rings in them.
Wedding rings. Holy shit. We’re actually doing this. “Yes, sir. They are upstairs in my room.”
I risk a glance at Riley. Her shoulders have stopped shaking, but now she’s jiggling her leg, completely silent and looking everywhere but at me or the officiant. I place a hand on her forearm. “You okay?”
When she offers me a weak smile, she looks a little pale. “Just nervous.”
The officiant looks between the two of us, then explains he is here to both witness our consent and to validate the marriage for legal purposes. I lace my hands together, palms sweating. The fact I’m about to get married again hits me like a wrecking ball. And this time I’m not so sure it’s to the right person. I take a deep breath and remind myself this is for Mason.
Riley is in no better shape than I am, considering how much her leg is bouncing as we recite the vows, and how her voice rises in pitch every so often. When we finish, the officiant hands us a paper. “I need both of you to look over the marriage certificate. Make sure your information is accurate and then sign it.”
I take the paper and glance over it. Everything is perfect so I grab a pen from the table and swallow past the lump in my throat as I scribble my signature on the empty line. Then I hand the certificate over to Riley. She chews her bottom lip as she reads over it, her leg bouncing faster now. She looks over at me, then takes the pen and signs her name. When she’s done, she hands it back to the officiant, who completes his section.
As the man packs up his briefcase, Riley half-raises her hand as if she’s in school and wants to ask a question. “Um, do you know when the medical benefits will kick in?”
I frown. What prompted that question? And why not ask me? I turn to face her. “Should take a couple of days. No longer than a week. Your name will also be added to my bank account and I’ll have an ATM card for you too.”
At that last part, her eyes narrow. “I don’t need your money. I can take care of myself.”
The officiant straightens and clears his throat. “Ma’am, service members have a financial obligation to their spouses. It’s in the contract.”
Riley blinks rapidly. “I, uh, it was confusing.”
She was never one for details. Even in school, Riley was the person who would miss that a question had a second part to it and end up only getting half credit on her work. But I’d read through the contract. It’s there for our protection. Nothing shady about it. Even if it took me a couple of read-throughs to understand the financial section myself.
She turns back to me. “I get it, but understand I won’t be using the ATM card at all.”
I shrug. “Fine by me.”
When the officiant is done collecting his belongings, I walk him out. Once the door is shut, my gaze falls back to Riley, who is sitting stiff as a board on the couch, with no trace of the earlier laughter to hide her obvious misery.
My gut clenches as dread washes over me. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Maybe I should’ve rejected the match and taken my chances . . . for both our sakes.
Chapter Four
Riley
I lie on the couch in the den, wrapped in an afghan my grandmother crocheted for me. It’s a touch of home I’d brought to Virginia Beach. Thankfully, Lucas is at work. Definitely don’t want him seeing me when I feel like shit. Nor do I need him asking questions either. Right now I can blame my symptoms on stress and he’d believe me. It wouldn’t even be an outright lie, since stress often triggers episodes of autoimmune diseases. It started getting bad the day I moved in last week, with cramps coming and going during our “marriage ceremony,” such as it was, and if that wasn’t stressful, I don’t know what is. Luckily this isn’t a full-on attack. Just Crohns’ way of keeping me on my toes and off my feet. Still, even this mild flare-up has been knocking me on my ass the past couple of days.
I pull the blanket tighter around my body and squeeze my legs to my chest as a wave of nausea washes over me. Seriously, FML right now. None of this ever gets easier. Once I believed it was p
ossible. That my symptoms would weaken with time, or that somehow I’d learn to live with them. But nope. I groan and lean my head back. At least I’ve had the house to myself.
Speaking of, I’ve barely seen Lucas at all this week. Once for breakfast three days ago and twice in passing when I got up to use the bathroom late at night. If that’s his work schedule while he’s home, I can’t imagine what life is like when he’s away. My chest tightens. “No wonder his son has been having a hard time.”
Growing up, Lucas and I both had our fathers around, even if they worked a lot. I really can’t imagine how Mason is handling all this—the divorce or his dad’s long hours away. How do any of these military kids handle a parent—sometimes both—being gone so much? Which is why as long as I’m here, married to Lucas, I plan to help Mason as much as I can. It’s the least I can do. I doubt it’ll make me feel like any less of a heel when I leave. Though just because I’d no longer live in the same house or be married to Lucas, doesn’t mean he or Mason couldn’t ask for help when needed. I still intend to remain in Virginia Beach after all.
It’s just the marriage situation that’s temporary, not my willingness to help a young boy or remain friends with my now husband.
My phone chimes go off and I grab it to check the time. I hoist myself up and slip on my sneakers. Time to go. Maybe this new doctor will be able to help me more than the last one I saw did.
I collect my stuff from the coffee table and head out the door into the garage. After starting my car, I turn on the GPS and make my way out onto the road.
The drive isn’t long and I open the windows, hoping the fresh air will help manage my nausea. Nothing like the tinge of salt in the ocean breeze to make me feel a tiny bit better. The bright sun warming my arm that rests against the driver side door is nice too. Maybe later I’ll take a walk, if my GI tract cooperates. But only if no one else is around. No need to have strangers staring at me. I already know how pale and sickly I look, and I feel like utter garbage already without having to stress over introductions to Lucas’s neighbors.
Fifteen minutes later I pull into the parking lot, turn off the engine and, after taking a few deep breaths to curb my queasiness, walk into the building. The office is bright, with eggshell paint on the walls and light wooden furniture. The seat cushions are a lime green along with the reception desk. I make my way to the self-check-in station and plug my information in before taking a seat.
“Mrs. Craiger.”
I pull out my phone and start to scroll through the news when the receptionist calls out into the waiting area again. “Mrs. Craiger.”
That’s when it registers. Mrs. Craiger, as in, Lucas Craiger. Holy hell. That’s me. “Um, yes.”
I stand and make my way to the desk, heat rising to my cheeks. Totally forgot about my new last name. It sounds so strange.
“Ma’am, please fill out these forms. Also, we got your medical records from your previous doctor. Thank you for taking care of that ahead of time.”
“You’re welcome.” Better to have the doctor equipped with as much information as possible rather than go through testing all over. Plus, hopefully, it will save on time explaining my past to him. I take a seat and fill out the paperwork, appreciating the fact I made note of my new address before leaving. How embarrassing would that be? Not knowing my own name or my address. When I’m done, I return to the receptionist and hand her both the paperwork and my insurance card.
“Take a seat and the nurse will call you when the doctor is ready.”
I nod and do as I’m told. It’s odd. Medical offices bring me a sense of calm, as if I’m in a safe place. Or a place where answers can be found. I don’t feel the need to hide the fact I’m not doing so well while I’m here. There’s no one judging me and no sympathetic or confused looks from people who don’t get it. In a medical office named Digestive Disease Care Specialists, everyone can relate on some level to what I go through every day. Even the family members accompanying the other patients usually understand too. There’s no need to put on the fake smile, no fake demeanor, no explaining. I can just be me. Riley.
The door to the left of the front desk swings open, and a couple emerges. The man waves to the receptionist before wrapping his arm around the woman’s waist. I swallow hard. How would it feel to have a partner to walk by your side through the highs and lows of this disease? For a brief moment, I picture Lucas sitting in the chair beside me. But no. The reasons I sent him away all those years ago still hold true today. He doesn’t need to be saddled with some sick girl. He has bigger responsibilities and broader horizons ahead of him.
“Mrs. Craiger.”
A man in green scrubs waiting by the door rescues me before my imagination runs too wild. I raise my hand to acknowledge him, collect my purse, and walk over. We make a quick stop so he can record my weight—down another two pounds—and then head into an exam room where he takes the rest of my vitals.
“Doctor will be in shortly.” He turns and walks out the door.
I glance around the room, reading the medical posters—posters I’ve read so many times I’ve lost count. Some of them list various medications available while others lay out the intestinal tract, pointing out what healthy looks like compared to various illnesses and diseases. Across from the exam table is a laptop. Hopefully, this doctor is one to pay attention to me first and worry about entering his medical notes second. Nothing I hate more than talking to the back of someone’s head while they are typing away.
A moment later there is a knock at the door before it opens. “Good Morning, Mrs. Craiger. I’m Dr. Patel.”
She extends her hand out and I shake it. Then she takes a seat at the computer. And I guess I’ll be speaking to the back of her head. What I didn’t want. But she looks over her shoulder. “No worries. I just want to go through some of your information before we begin.”
Oh. Well, okay then. She runs through my height, weight, current meds and date of my last period. Once she is done, she spins the stool around to face me. “So, I went through all the records you had sent over. Quite extensive. And the surgeries. You are very lucky to be alive after the sepsis issue.”
“Tell me about it. It’s hard to forget. Of course, nothing like having a bunch of scars across my abdomen to remind me every day and to make me feel sexy.” I clamp my mouth shut and my eyes widen, unsure of why I had just said that.
“Have you considered plastic surgery if the scars bother you so much?”
I snort. “What happens if I need another surgery? I would’ve wasted money then.” It’s not like I hadn’t considered it. After weighing the pros and cons, I had decided the cons outweighed the pros. At least, they had on paper. The look of horror on a man’s face the first time I take off my shirt doesn’t translate well to a list.
“How are you doing now?” Patel asks.
I lift a hand and rotate it side to side. “So-so. Maybe having a mild flare-up. The past two days, I don’t want to eat and keep running to the bathroom for one reason or another.”
“Any changes in your diet? Life? Work?”
“You can say that. I just moved. And got married.”
She smiles. “Well, congratulations. Stress can aggravate cases, especially those like yours. Have you had any fevers? Or have you been febrile at all?”
I scrunch my face as I recall the few times I did bother to take my temperature. “No. Temperature’s been normal.”
“That is good. No need to put you on an antibiotic then. I don’t want to use them unless absolutely necessary. But keep an eye on your temperature.”
Dr. Patel stands and we continue our conversation as she conducts her exam. When we’re done, she sits back down at the computer and begins entering in her notes. “Why don’t we see if we can get you into the trial for this new medication?” She hands me a fact sheet with the name. I’ve heard of it. “You fit all the criteria including that you haven’t improved on two prior medications.”
“I’m down.” Anything to h
elp me get this disease under control, so I can start my slow climb toward independence. Although, given my responsibilities of helping to care for Mason, it’d be great to get this disease under control as soon as possible.
“All right, and if your symptoms don’t get better in a couple of days, I want you to get a CT scan. The front staff will give you the orders. If you think you are going to go, just call the office for them to get the insurance approval first.”
We finish up and the doctor exits the office. She gives me a refill for some anti-nausea medication and puts refills into the mail-order pharmacy the insurance makes us use. I sit up and take off the hospital gown, my hands skating over my heavily scarred abdomen. I huff, my muscles tensing. The moment Lucas sees the raised, puckered skin, he’s going to ask questions. Lots of questions. And he’s a smart man, so it won’t take him long to connect the dots. I’ll do my best to give him the least information possible.
I’m not the right long-term wife for him. I know how he takes on responsibility. There aren’t many fourteen-year-olds that find work so they can help their mother put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. I admire him for it, but I don’t want to be one of those responsibilities. I don’t want him to see me as the sick girl he needs to take care of, nor do I want him worrying when he should be concentrating on work. Lord only knows the danger he’s in when on a mission. And I know if he finds out about my Crohn’s, he’ll worry, the same way he did when I got thrown from a horse at fifteen or when I broke my arm at a soccer game. I swear he was at my house every waking second he wasn’t working or at school, looking for ways he could help.
I shake my head recalling the detailed notes he’d taken in class, including recording the lectures in case he missed writing something down. I don’t want to be a burden to him. In fact, I need the opposite: to contribute for a change. But it’s more than his worrying. Even if by some complete fluke, we end up as a couple before this “marriage” is over, I’d never put him in a position where Mason would have to be his only child. The risks to my health are too great to even consider carrying a child to term.
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