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okayist

Ayla

Delicious soreness greets me when I wake. So much so I moan when I stretch because my insides feel like they were moved and shifted during the best sex of my life.

The bed is empty, and light peeks in from the windows. The blinds which are normally closed are open but it’s not so late that the sun’s rays have had a chance to stream in. A mug of coffee sits atop my nightstand with steam still rising from its surface.

That must be what woke me—espresso delivery.

I push up to sit and grab the perfectly brewed coffee.

Not for the first time I wonder how this came to be my life.

I mean, I know the story—Halley in the dark hallway and our first meeting.

Bagels and coffee the next morning. But how did I come to be wed to a sex god with a honed body, who’s a business mogul and a real estate…

well, magnate is the only appropriate word.

Christian Barone is gorgeous. He’s smart and commands a room. He oozes sex appeal, and he’s loaded. Every woman within one hundred miles must’ve been—and must still be—clamoring for him.

Why did he choose me? I’m not down on myself. I know what I offer. This isn’t self-deprecating talk. But how did we get from interest to dating to this ? The house, the cars, the Denver power couple label.

I need to know. It niggles at my brain and annoys me.

I finish the coffee while scrolling my personal Picstagram, watching the progression of our relationship. It was fast. And it’s entirely hidden from me.

Christian Barone: Need more coffee?

That name won’t do. I quickly change it in my phone to just Christian. But not before I look up to the corner of the room and extend my middle finger where I think the cameras should be.

Christian: Is that a no?

Me: I always need more coffee, but the creepy, stalker man behind the screens pisses me off.

Christian: The man with the cameras is fully fluent in how to work Georgio.

Me: The woman being watched hates being monitored like a prisoner.

Me: I would forego Georgio’s amazing elixir to avoid feeling like a ward in my own home.

Me: Unless this isn’t mine or ours.

Me: If the house is *yours* and not *ours*, then… Well, that changes things.

The bedroom door opens and Christian enters, phone in one hand, coffee in the other. He extends the one I care most about while sliding the device into his pocket with his hand.

“Prisoner?”

I tilt my head before taking a sip.

“And what, wife, would it change if the house were in my name versus ours?” He slides his other hand into his pocket, his face going hard.

“I don’t like the cameras.”

He nods to the mug in my hands. “Coffee delivery bothers you that much?”

“I’ll concede some... conveniences.” I lift the coffee to my lips and avoid humming in appreciation. “But on principle, I do not want them.”

“The night I was shot, you didn’t find them convenient?”

I still have no resolution to the masked men and why Fitz went the wrong way. I saw it with my own eyes.

“In that case, we could enable them as needed. That was needed. What happened when Ren went over the footage?”

He flicks a hand dismissing the question.

Heat rises in my body as anger sizzles along my nerve endings. “Don’t dismiss me like that. And don’t watch me like a perv. I’m not a child and I’m not your property.” I slam the mug down, sloshing coffee on the end table, and move to the bathroom.

He slides in front of me blocking my path. “A perv? Watch your mouth, Ayla. I’m your husband.”

“Yeah? How did that come to be?” I throw my arms over my chest. “It seems unlikely that someone like you—” I extend a hand painting the air between us from top to bottom. “And someone like me ended up in a happily ever after just in time for me to have a TBI and amnesia.”

“What are you accusing me of?”

“I’m just saying?—”

“You’re just saying what?” His voice goes lethally cold.

I take a step back. “It’s convenient, that’s all.”

He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time, turns on a heel, and stalks from the room.

Oh, hell no. I pull a thin robe around my body and follow hot on his heels. “Nope. Nuh-uh.”

He spins, and his eyes level me. But he doesn’t get a word out.

“Do we always fight this much?”

“No. And yes.”

“Explain.”

“The old saying about redheads and their tempers is true, at least in my experience. It’s embedded in your DNA the same way your beauty is. It’s one of the things that sucked me in—the way you brandished that fire. ”

I stop short, rendered speechless.

“You’ve always been fiery, but it’s rarely pointed at me in accusation and contempt like you’ve shown today.

Allegations of… I don’t know what.” He shrugs.

“You hate the cameras? I’ll disable them in the bedroom.

Or I won’t watch. But just saying, Princess.

Me watching my wife in all her splendor isn’t creepy or pervy.

It’s fucking glorious and hurts no one.”

“And if it hurts me?”

“How does it hurt you?”

“I feel caged.”

“Are you not free to leave?”

“Only with a shadow, remember? So, in your house—” I stab a finger at him. “I’m monitored, watched, and guarded. Much like a tiger in the zoo. And if I leave, I have a man on me so I’m never alone.”

“You cannot remember me. You cannot remember your gallery. You fell and hit your head and almost took yourself away from me.” His voice rises with every sentence.

“I almost lost my wife. You almost lost your life. And the measures I took to afford you all the protection you could have are what? Annoying? Fuck that.” He walks away.

“I’d do it again… fifty times over. And not apologize. I’m leaving.”

He leaves the hall where we’ve had our tête-à-tête and moves through the great room before the whoosh of the door being yanked open is bookended by its slam.

My emotions are swirling.

Me: Any chance you have time for me today? I need some help.

Joanie: I can make time. Are you safe?

Me: Except for my own self-destructive tendencies? Sure.

I head to the bathroom, brush my teeth and wash my face, and dress for the day. I take the time to clean up the coffee mess before finishing that second glorious cup.

By the time that’s all done, there’s a message from my therapist waiting.

Joanie: Ten a.m. Does that work?

Me: On my way. Thank you.

“It’s not that I can’t see his point. It’s that he refuses to see mine.” I lean back in my chair in Joanie’s office later that morning after recounting the whole fiasco.

“So what do you make of your hot and cold with him?”

I think about it for a moment. I love that Joanie doesn’t rush me to fill the silence or have an answer quickly. “The hot is easy. He’s every fantasy. Handsome, protective, sexy. Then there’s the money, power, and influence. He could save me from any problem.”

Joanie’s brow lifts.

“Correction… Any problem that money can solve. When it comes to this—” I point to my head and quickly use the finger to point to my heart. “And this. Money can’t fix those or buy loyalty or afford me peace.”

“And the cold?”

“Well, he seems hell bent on doing things…” I let the thought trail off as I ponder. “The only answer I can think of is his way . Which is kind of stupid when it comes down to it. You do things your way. I do things my way. Why is his way so annoying to me?”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?” Joanie studies me and leans back in the chair.

I shake my head. No. I’m suspicious and always waiting for a trap.

“What could it be? What’s the worst it could be?”

“It could be control. I’d lose agency in my life. I had enough of that with my dad. I grew up under his thumb. I don’t want that anymore.”

“We’ll get back to agency. Tell me about what you mean by ‘under your dad’s thumb’.”

“Exactly as it sounds.”

“Humor me.”

I meet Joanie’s shrewd eyes. “He made all the plans. He dictated behaviors. It was his house; we just lived there. He had an iron fist about how we acted, how we looked, what we studied, the manner in which we spoke. All of it. His expectations, which were lofty and unreasonable, were to be followed to the letter of the law. No matter what, we the props in his play, could not make the lead actor appear anything other than perfect.”

“That’s a hell of a statement.”

I lift my eyes to her. “I thought therapists weren’t supposed to have an opinion on these things.”

“Oh, we have opinions. Usually, I don’t comment. But what you just offered puts a lens on the world that’s worth acknowledging. I’m thinking that those glasses, if you will, have honed your vision to see a certain thing. Could that be possible?”

“Possible? Sure.”

“What lessons would your dad have taught you with that type of lifestyle?”

“The obvious ones… Look right. Act right. Speak correctly. Watch your tone, watch your words. Fit in. Be perfect. Worry about other’s needs, wants, expectations…”

“And on a deeper level?”

I spend some time with that question before answering. “To sacrifice my wants and needs for someone else’s. That I’m too much or not enough for almost everyone, because who can be all of that for everyone else. But mostly, to sit down and shut up.”

She makes that face that lets me know that I may be on to something.

“Two things to think about as you leave here today. One, how did your brothers handle those dictates? Did they acquiesce or rebel? Do you love them any less or any more for their decisions? I’d ask you to ask those same questions to yourself.

And two, how do you see those dynamics in your relationship with your husband? ”

“I wish we had all day.” I say as my gaze returns to her from the clock on her desk. Its ticker is a metronome to my ears, only soft and lulling, not harsh and annoying.

“Nah. The best meals are not the ones you pick on all day. They’re the ones that you feast on and remember because you wish you could have that again for the first time.”

“The same vista is different moments later. You can go back day after day for a year and not capture the same feeling. The view is the same, but how it appears…”

“That’s a better analogy. I’d challenge you to check out some of the vistas in your life and see if the scene looks the same way day after day. Maybe there’s a different lens you could view it through.”

I thank Joanie and head to my car.

Me: I love you.

Liam: Who me?

Cian: She means me, asshole.

Liam: It’s obvious it’s about me.

Me: It’s both of you fools.

Liam: You okay, Ayla-girl?

Me: I’m going to be.

Cian: Always knew that.

Me: I miss you. You’re the best big brothers a girl could ask for.

Liam: Obviously she means me.

Cian: An obvious and an obviously in two minutes. I’m concerned.

Liam: {middle finger emoji}

Me: Maybe not the *best* big brothers. Maybe *okayist* big brothers.

Cian: Don’t take me down with Li. I’m best. He’s okayist.

Me: I’m sorry I said anything.

Liam: No, you’re not.

Cian: You’ve never been sorry for anything you’ve said.

Interesting. Maybe I’m not what my dad molded.

I point my car home and dial Halley but get her voicemail.

“Hey, Halles. Sorry in advance if this is long. Just wanted to say I love you. This journey has been…. Well, you know. And I appreciate you. I’m so thankful you came into my life.

Nothing’s wrong, just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you and love you. Have a great day.”

When I arrive home, I find my husband still out.

I don’t think I overreacted this morning, but I do owe him an apology.

I find a notebook in a kitchen drawer and a sharpie.

I write ‘I’m sorry’ on it in large letters and hold it up to one of the main cameras.

It’s an olive branch. I picture him sitting at some glass wall lined office in downtown Denver, behind an ominous desk staring at his phone screen and smiling.

Come to think of it, I have no idea where he goes when he leaves the house. I won’t be angry about that today. Anger is reserved for those who deserve it.

Speaking of which, I wonder where my father and Fitz went off to last night.