I told him, "Then that's what you should do. I really want to clean some more. This place is gross, and if I'm going to live here for any length of time, I need order and cleanliness."
Tristan chuckled and leaned over to kiss my jaw. "I love you," he said, smiling.
My breath caught in my chest as I widened my eyes at him. He'd said it. Here. Casually, like they were words he used in every conversation.
He turned to Claire. "Claire, can you give us a moment? Maybe make me some coffee before we head to the gym?"
"Okay," she agreed enthusiastically, hopping off the bed and dashing out the door. She returned one second later, leaping back onto the bed and diving into my arms. She hugged me and then bounded back out the door, exclaiming, "I'm so happy!"
Tristan turned back to me and said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It slipped out. I've been trying not to overdo it, but with Claire here I was too relaxed and it slipped out. I'm sorry."
"You love me," I said in my shocked state. My brain was frozen, looping those words over and over in my head. Tristan had said he loved me in front of his daughter. He'd said it in the jewelry store too, and I'd believed him, but something about saying it in front of his daughter made my insides feel squidgy, like Silly Putty or Play-Doh.
He hunkered down next to me, pulled the sheet back to rub my bare chest, and reiterated, "I love you. I can tell it makes you uncomfortable to hear it. It seems too soon to say, but I do. I knew when I first laid eyes on you I was doomed. I knew when you spilled your drink into my lap I was smitten. But when you jumped into my battle with Teresa and blurted we were getting married, Grant, I knew I'd lost my heart."
"You love me?" I asked again, not fully comprehending how he knew.
"Yes. It's the same feeling I get when I see Claire."
I pulled back and glared, which tipped him off about how odd that sounded.
"Hear me out. When I see Claire, I feel happy-genuinely happy-from my head to my feet. My whole body tingles, knowing I get to spend a couple of days with her, listening to her talk and hearing her laugh. I miss her during the week, but I've always worked so much that I told myself if she'd been here, I wouldn't have seen her anyway. Then I met you, and that tingling feeling happened every time I saw you. I'm happy hearing you laugh and listening to you talk. I was even happy when you fussed about the dead mouse in my cabinet."
He chuckled, and so did I. Only I had tears in my eyes, and my chuckle dislodged them so they rolled down my cheeks.
Tristan continued, "My niece, my sister's kid, once described the feeling as ‘family tingles.' It's a sensation you only get with family, because you love them deep in your bones, and no matter what, you can't bear the separation for long. When I met you, you felt like family."
I was full-on crying then. I pushed myself into his chest and held him so tight I thought my arms would fall off when I let go. He held me and rubbed my back-he was always rubbing my back-and after a few minutes, I found my voice enough to respond. "I've never felt like that," I squeaked.
"It's okay. I don't expect you to say it back right away. I want it to be real, Grant. Don't say it until you feel it in your bones. Okay?"
"Okay."
"The kitchen looks great, but where are all the coffee mugs?" I heard Claire ask from the doorway.
"They're in the boxes by the wall. Take three out, and wash them before you use them. Grant's going to pick out new dishes this week."
"Okay."
I sniffled and leaned away. "I am?" I wiped my eyes and looked at him.
"I assumed so, since you chucked all mine."
He wasn't even angry about it. I gave him a half smile. "I guess I am."
TRISTAN GOT dressed, and soon the two of them were out the door on their way to the gym. My plan was to pick a spot and clean it to the best of my ability while I had a quiet house. I called my mom first and filled her in on our brief ceremony. She seemed to understand but said she'd appreciate dinner sometime soon in order to meet the guy who'd swept me off my feet. After I told her I'd call Monday, I plugged my phone into the charger and turned on Pandora. The Glee cast mix got me pumped for anything, even cleaning what could have been described as an indoor junkyard. The muffler under the coffee table had to go! I put on sweatpants and my Journey T-shirt and got to work.
FOUR AND a half hours later, Tristan and Claire came home. I was in the middle of singing the Warblers' rendition of "Hey, Soul Sister" when I spun around and spotted them in the doorway. Tristan had a huge smile on his face, and Claire was covering her mouth with her hand. I stopped singing two seconds before my body stopped wiggling as I locked eyes with them.
"You are too adorable for words," he commented with a smirk.
I thought Claire would comment on my moves, possibly make fun of me, but she didn't. Instead, she went immediately to the living room. "Oh, wow!" Claire exclaimed. "Look at what Grant's done to the living room, Dad. You can see the television console." Her sound of wonder made me feel really good.
They came over to where I was standing with my rubber gloves, dust cloth, and furniture polish. Tristan asked, "Where did you put everything? I'm pretty sure there were at least some salvageable items on the surface, even though the rest was trash."
I pointed over to my growing stack of boxes near the dining room table. "Over there. I have one box for car parts, one for receipts, and one for odds and ends that might be important but I didn't know what they were. The other boxes next to the dishes are for stuff that's going to Goodwill. And you'll have to move the engine off the table, because I can't lift it."
Tristan wrapped his arm across my shoulders and kissed my temple. "Okay. I'll get Jeff in here to help me on Monday. I wanted to rebuild it for the '68 Pontiac Firebird I've got sitting out back under a tarp, but I never got around to it. Such a shame. I sold my motorcycle to buy it."
Motorcycle? Jessica had mentioned a motorcycle. At least now I knew what had happened to it. "I'm not saying you have to get rid of the engine; I'm only suggesting that you move it out of the dining room. I'd like to set the table and serve you dinner sometime, and I can't do that if we don't have a dining room table."
"Gee, Dad, you've been married for two days and he's already trained," Claire said, catching me so off guard I twitched.
I turned, my face hardened, ready to rebuke her, but Tristan jumped to my defense. "Hey," he said sternly. "That's not very nice."
She blinked in surprise and threw some sass his way. "Jeez, Dad, chill. I just meant he makes a great wife."
I gaped and widened my eyes. "Ahh!"
Tristan straightened his stance and squared off. "Claire, Grant is my husband, not my wife. We're equal partners in this marriage. If he wants to make me dinner, I'm appreciative, but he's under no obligation, nor was he trained like some sort of servant."
She tossed her head. "That's not what I meant, Dad. Look at him." She gestured. "He's decked out in rubber gloves cleaning your house in just a couple of days. This place has been a dump for years! I'm just saying you've picked the right guy to cook and clean and take care of you. He's not a servant-more like a domestic engineer."
A small tremor rippled through me. Tristan's arm was still around my shoulders, his fingers gripping the top of my arm. I knew he felt my body when it shook. I could have protested; but instead of anger from shock, my brain decided to get all emotional over it. My chest tightened, and my eyes stung. True, housewives all over the world battled the same comparison, trying to assert that their job was so much more than a list of chores, but I didn't see myself the same way. I was a bank teller, and even that title was small compared to my list of duties at work. People shouldn't be defined by their job title, but in this case the term "domestic engineer" made me feel unimportant.
Tristan turned to me instead of reaming Claire. "Grant, you know that's not why I married you." He spoke very directly, probably so I wouldn't misunderstand him. "Claire is being rude, baby. Don't listen to her."
It was too late. Even the tiny notion that he married me to be his "housewife" whispered to my subconscious and convinced me it was true. He didn't love me. Tristan needed a housekeeper and a cook. My eyes locked with his at the same moment one tear escaped.