Meghan spends most of her day in the garden, or volunteering with various causes that require as little contact with other humans as possible.
People still consider us somewhat of a mismatch. They say my wife is a prickly pear who got her claws into a teddy bear. Or they think a riches-to-rags kid and his dad are gold-diggers who miss their former luxurious life.
Well, they don’t know the first thing about Eastburn women. They don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about their relationships, except for the people they love.
Meghan stirs in my arms, and I kiss her forehead.
“Hmm. Crick in my neck,” she sighs, sitting up gingerly, the side of her face red and crinkly from resting against my shirt.
She’s the most beautiful when she wakes up discombobulated.
“Here, let me rub it out for you.”
She moans as my fingers work through the tight muscles in her neck.
When she’s feeling better, I scoop her up in my arms, even as she protests. “I can walk, you know.”
“Ah, but one day, I won’t be able to carry my wife up the stairs. So enjoy it while you can,” I tell her.
Slowly, I take each step, one at a time, one foot in front of the other. I’m not joking; I will take every opportunity to carry Meghan as long as I have the ability.
This is not perfect. Our love does not make people comfortable. We’re hardly the power couple, or whatever stupid phrase society likes to pin on married people with money. We’ve got our issues, but we consider ourselves lucky.
There’s no one else I want to do this life with—one foot in front of the other.
THE END