47. Just Right

47

JUST RIGHT

Maeve

The California Style photographer, Gillian Rivera, swings by the arena on Thursday while I’m painting a section of the Golden Gate Bridge. The magazine wanted the most iconic representation of the city, and the bridge felt like the perfect choice. Eleanor joins us, praising me as usual. It still feels surreal how much she looks out for me, almost like she’s adopted me as one of her own.

When the shoot wraps up, I climb down from the ladder, stretching my neck and wrists while Eleanor chats with Gillian. Their conversation drifts toward tomorrow’s shoot at the house—without Asher since he’s on a road trip. It feels strange to do the shoot solo.

“Don’t you want my—my husband there?” I ask, hesitating over the word “husband,” only because it’s still so new to me.

“No, we want you,” Gillian says, her tone firm, no nonsense. “We don’t need him. ”

The comment feels foreign to me, but I do my best to roll with it. We set a time, and after Gillian leaves, Eleanor turns to me with a triumphant smile. “Told you so.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Well, thank you.”

Eleanor is insistent, making sure I hear her as she says, “No, really. I recognized your talent right away. I knew I wanted to work with you. And look at you now, getting all this attention. Just remember, darling, you’re the one he wants to come home to.”

My pulse skips. Lately, that feels more and more true, but I don’t dare say that out loud. Besides, who am I even comparing Asher to? Gideon? All the men before him who called me high-maintenance? Screw those exes.

“Do you have any other marital advice?” I ask, because she always seems so keen to offer it.

Eleanor taps her chin with one finger. “A little spritz of perfume never hurt anyone.”

I grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Sometimes, we have to make them feel special. Men fall deeply, and when they do, they become so focused on us. They’ll treat us like queens if we let them.”

I think about that. It’s something I’ve never really considered before, but it’s how my dad treated my mom. “And a queen has to look out for him now and then, right?”

Eleanor nods knowingly. “Exactly. Hence, the perfume. Something to make him feel special, because the right man will lay gifts, love, and adoration at your feet.”

That’s the complete opposite of the men I’ve dated before, and it’s new to me too. I mentally add her words to my growing notebook of advice. It’s getting longer every day .

The next day, Gillian arrives at Asher’s house as planned. I let her in, feeling like I’m the lady of the manor. Sure, I’ve been staying here for nearly a month, but today feels different. I’m giving someone a tour of his house as if it’s my own—when it’s not. Not really. I’m still just playing pretend.

It feels bizarre to walk around this place without him. What’s even more bizarre is that sometimes I feel like I belong. Maybe it’s from all the photos he’s hung up. Maybe it’s from the way my plant collection mingled with his Lego plant collection. Maybe it’s from the way we’ve been sharing the bathroom, the kitchen, and the bed—of course, the bed.

I lead Gillian through the house, showing her some of the art on the walls. She pauses at a series of wildflowers and peaches. “These are beautiful,” she says, her eyes scanning the pieces. “Are they yours?”

I blink, surprised. “No, they’re not. But I helped him choose them before we were married.”

“Oh, really? Is that part of how you fell in love?”

The question stops me in my tracks. Am I in love with him? The thought is sudden, overwhelming. I know I’m falling for him—harder than I want to admit. Back when we picked those pieces, I thought we were just best friends, gallivanting around town, going to art festivals, choosing things for his walls. But now? Now, it feels like it’s becoming more. But can it? We promised to stay friends. We promised these benefits wouldn’t hurt the friendship. But the way we are together, in and out of bed, feels like a lot more than just beneficial.

“You know, maybe it is,” I say, the words feeling heavier than I’d expected. How do I even trust this storm of emotions inside me? The desire I feel for him, the way I count the hours when he’s away, the excitement when his texts pop up on my phone, the way my heart flutters when he comes home.

Gillian walks to the foyer, turning her attention to one of the mirrors I’ve been working on. “Tell me about these,” she says, her face lighting up.

I smile and laugh as I show her one with an inscription about dragons and underwear. “We’ve been getting a lot of advice since we got married—maybe it’s a newlywed thing. So I started a series inspired by it. I just finished a new one. Want to see it?”

I grab the latest mirror I worked on in the studio when I got a free hour, and the woman I shared the space with wasn’t using it. I painted it in seashell blue. “We all need a hot friend in our bed, don’t we?” I say, quoting one of the inscriptions.

“Words to live by,” Gillian laughs.

“The woman who married us said that,” I explain.

“Is that what started the ‘love lessons’ theme?”

“Actually, it was a lesson about dragon underwear. And I’m going to add Eleanor’s latest—‘a little spritz of perfume.’” I smirk, thinking of her words from yesterday. “It’s the little things we do to make our partners happy—if they’re worthy of us.”

Gillian smiles warmly. “You’re right about that—we need to make sure our partners are worthy. And I guess I just gave you some advice too.”

I laugh. “You did.”

“Are you planning to sell these at the night market?” she asks.

I pause, considering. Then I smile. “Yes, I’m doing a series. And you know what? I think I’ll turn this into a full line. ”

Impulsive as always, but this feels right. I’ve always thought there should be a line of pieces inspired by all this love advice. People keep giving it to us—why not use it?

That evening, Asher calls me from his hotel room. “How’d the shoot go?” he asks.

“It was great,” I say, reflecting on the day. “I’m going to turn the mirrors into a line.”

“I love that. You should,” he says. “They’re fun and clever and romantic.”

“I think so too. And for the first time, I feel like people are hiring me for me, not because of you. Is that weird?”

“No,” he says. “It’s amazing.”

And it does feel amazing. When I go to bed, I feel this quiet strength burrowing inside me. This knowledge that I have real talent—a belief that I’m not simply getting jobs because I’m Mrs. Callahan. Sure, I’m having a blast playing that role. But people are hiring Maeve Hartley, the woman who can paint. The woman who has great ideas. The woman who’s following her dreams. I pick up my mother’s book, flipping through it, looking for a message. But maybe the message is in the thing itself—the dream she followed.

And I’ll keep chasing mine because it feels so good to know…that I am worthy.

Me. Just me.

A few days later, Gillian comes back to the studio space I rent with other artists for the final shot of the California Style photo spread. I never fully moved my art supplies, my canvases and paints and brushes, into the guest room at Asher’s home. That felt like taking over. But more so, I suppose I also simply prefer working in a studio rather than a bedroom, even a cramped one like this, even one I need to share.

In the studio, I work on painting a tiny image of a couple on a mirror while Gillian captures photos of me painting a pop art kiss. “You inspired me,” I tell her. “But really, I suppose my husband did since I started making them for him.”

“I bet he loves them,” she says, framing another shot.

With complete certainty I answer her. “Yes. He does.” I pause, thinking once more on the art, but also the meaning behind these mirrors. “I guess my lesson is that when you find someone worthy, you give a little piece of yourself each time—and hope they do the same.”

The words hang in the air along with a wish—that I’ll know that when I feel it. Someone loving me the way I love them.

I keep wondering if I will recognize it that weekend when he returns to town. I wonder if that’s what I feel on Friday night when I spritz on some perfume and rush downstairs after his text that he’ll be home in five minutes. After Max drops him off, I fling open the door to find him striding up the steps two at a time.

Like he’s rushing to me too.

His smile is crooked and his eyes are bright. My heart goes a little wild and this feels like more than friendship.

Still, I don’t trust my own compass. I don’t want to assume the way I feel is normal when it’s always been extra. When I’ve been extra. I want my own love lessons; I need them too. I want to know what all this means, and how it feels to be accepted for who I am. I don’t want to assume, even as he scoops me up into his arms and says, “I’ve fucking missed my wife.”

“Missed you too.”

After he kicks the door closed, we waste no time as he carries me to the living room and sets me on the couch. There, we grab each other, hands and fingers rushing to tear off clothes. He strips off my T-shirt and I hastily unbutton his shirt. “I hope the NHL never changes its travel suit rule but right now I wish it didn’t have one,” I say.

“Me too,” he mutters as I slide off my skirt.

Quickly, I unzip his slacks and free his cock. It’s hard and ready and hot. A quick slide of my palm down his shaft and he’s shuddering. He grabs my hand, squeezing me, squeezing him. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?”

I shake my head. “No. How much?”

“So fucking much.”

I stroke; he breathes hard.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

I shake my head again because I like this game too much. “How beautiful?”

He opens his eyes, his gaze searing. “So fucking hot. So fucking beautiful.”

I grip him harder, sliding my fingers over the head, spreading a drop of the liquid arousal.

He hisses through his teeth.

“Maeve, do you have any idea…” He just bites off the end of that sentence; maybe he was going to talk about sex? His cock throbs against me and he grits out a command, “Put me inside you fucking now.”

His demand makes me wild with desire, so I comply, then rise up and down on him while we both grunt in unison as he fills me up. We fuck, fast and frenzied.

My first orgasm hits me like a tsunami, but after it crashes over me, he adjusts us, putting me on my back, sliding between my thighs, and then he eases out slowly before thrusting back into me. He slows the pace, a long, lingering fuck that dangerously feels like making love. When I look into his eyes, I swear I feel like he’s falling for me.

I close my eyes as that thought hurdles into me. That’s the stuff I can’t let myself think about. That’s too much.

But when I open them again, it’s hard to believe anything else. Still, when we’re done, I have to ask because I have to know, “Was I too much?”

“Too much for what?” he asks incredulously.

“In the way I wanted you?”

He breathes out hard, his gaze more intense now. “That’s just not possible.”

I snort. Not attractive—not one bit—but I can’t help it as I swipe on blush and ask Asher to repeat himself. “Did you actually just say ‘better optics’?”

He nods, tugging on a Henley. Ever since I jokingly asked him at that coffee shop why Henleys, he’s never stopped wearing them when he’s not working out or dressed in a suit. He has other clothes—polos, pullovers—but every day it’s a Henley. Like it’s just for me.

Like the warm nuts he roasts at night. Like the dinners he cooks. The endless orgasms he gives me. Or really, the words of affirmation he showers on me, which I’m starting to realize might actually be my deepest love language. The one I need the most. The one he excels at.

“Yeah,” he says with a wry smile. “Soraya mentioned it’s better optics to have a plus-one. Bringing my wife to the fundraiser looks better than showing up solo. Which translates to ‘single men give off creepy vibes.’”

I crack up, pointing at him. “Your words, not mine.”

“Question for you,” he says, leaning against his vanity, watching me put on makeup. “Do I creep you out, wife?”

I turn to him, looking so ruggedly handsome in jeans and with a fine dusting of stubble. “I like that. Your stubble.”

“I look like a cowboy, right?”

“Yes, let’s put a cowboy hat on you,” I tease.

“You’d like that.”

“I would. Which translates to—you don’t creep me out at all.”

“Good.”

I go back to swiping on blush when Asher moves behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. He brushes my hair to the side and drops a kiss on my neck.

My breath catches, and I go a little existential. “What is it about neck kisses?”

“Maybe you should do a series of mirrors with neck kisses,” he murmurs, caressing me more with those lush lips.

A tremble runs through my whole body.

I glance back at him. “Are you that greedy? You already have my pop art kiss mirrors. Now you want a series of neck kiss art.”

“When it comes to you, Maeve, you know I can never have enough,” he says, his eyes meeting mine in the reflection, intense like the night he came home and took me on the couch. That look right now—more passion than I can try to paint—makes my heart stutter.

I’m getting slightly scared of how far my emotions are running past the expiration date on our arrangement.

I focus on my makeup, but something about this moment feels so right—the two of us, getting ready, doing life together. And today, we’re stepping into one of our last official acts as fake husband and wife. That thought makes me a little sad. After I’m dressed in jeans, Converse, and a cute hoodie, we head for the door. I pause, touching his hand. “This is our last performance,” I say quietly.

His eyes soften, a bit sad. “Do you want to come up with another one?”

There’s a touch of desperation in his voice—like he’s eager to keep this going. Maybe I am too.

“I would. I can…I can come up with something. I can do anything you want,” he says.

But the truth is, we don’t have another performance lined up. No more shows to act out as husband and wife. I’ll be done with the mural in a few weeks. Everything is winding down, just like the hockey season. Just like our arrangement. Just like these “benefits” that don’t feel like only benefits anymore.

Two words tumble through my brain, over and over. Fake. Real. Real. Fake.

The lines have blurred so much I can hardly tell what I’m feeling, except a little melancholy. Whether we want another “show” or not, this is really our last scheduled performance.

We head downstairs, ready to go. Along the way, I curl my fingers into fists, so I can stretch my wrists back and forth. I swear I can feel Asher tense behind me. As I walk, I turn back to look at him. “You stretch before games. I stretch after painting,” I say.

His brow knits, but he gives a tight nod. Like he’s accepting that I’m okay. That he doesn’t need to carry this burden. At least, I hope that’s what he’s thinking. But when we reach the door, he stops. “Hold on. I forgot something.”

He lets go of my hand and trots down the hall, up the stairs, and back to the bedroom. Is he…looking something up again?

But he returns a minute later with his watch, glancing down the hall at the terrace as he snaps it on his wrist. “You like the way I look in watches,” he says by way of explanation.

“You noticed.”

“I notice everything about you.”

I’ll miss that too—the way he sees me. But I shove these wistful feelings inside as, hand in hand, we head for the park.

“Go deep!” I shout to a group of grade-schoolers who had the audacity to challenge me to a round of frisbee on Crissy Field on this beautiful Sunday afternoon.

A sixth grader named Prahna, who plays soccer, sprints across the field, arms outstretched. “I’ve got it!” she yells, reaching for the orange disc I send soaring through the air. She leaps and snatches it mid-flight.

“You’re better than a Border Collie,” I call out.

“Goals,” she responds with a grin.

We toss the frisbee back and forth a little longer before she slows down, breathless. “I’m hungry. Do they have any gluten-free sandwiches? I can’t eat wheat.”

“Dude, I don’t eat meat,” I say, smacking palms with her. “Different food options for the win.”

We head toward the sandwich boxes in recycled cardboard, joining her parents and the other kids and families. Some kids are here with their families, and some aren’t—that’s the whole point of this charity. It’s for underprivileged kids, and not all of them have parents who can always be there for them.

I glance around at the kids digging into sandwiches, a warm feeling settling in. It’s moments like this that remind me why this charity matters—why Asher and my brother are launching it. For sports, but also for support. But then a small tug on my sleeve pulls me from my thoughts.

Another girl, about ten, stands by my side. “Do you know where the restrooms are?”

“Sure, I’ll show you, Lia,” I say, reading her name tag, then walking her toward the facilities. She’s unusually quiet on the way, her eyes downcast.

On the way back, she suddenly blurts out, “I miss my dad. He died last year.”

My breath catches. I crouch down beside her, unsure of what to say at first, but the look in her eyes tells me she just needs someone to understand. “I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “I lost someone important too—my mom and my dad. And you know what? Sometimes I still miss them.”

“You do?” she asks, her voice small.

“Ten years later, I really do.”

“Does it ever stop hurting?”

I pause, thinking about how to answer her. “Yes. But sometimes that hurt comes back out of the blue. When you aren’t expecting it. And it wallops you. But you know what?”

“What?” she asks, eager for an answer.

“The love stays. That part never goes away.”

Lia looks at me, blinking back tears, but straightens her shoulders like she’s trying to be strong. “I feel it sometimes—the love.”

I nod, smiling softly, my throat tightening as I feel that swelling in my heart—that love I believe my mom left for me. When she passed on to the next life, I believe she gave me all that was left in her heart. “Good. Hold onto that. It’s what makes us who we are. It’s a gift, really, to have that much love inside you.”

She nods. “Thanks.”

Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m too much sometimes—because I have all this love in me with nowhere to go. But maybe it’s not such a bad thing if I can help others unexpectedly, especially in moments like this. I squeeze her hand gently. “And thanks for sharing. It’s good to talk things through.”

She gives me a tiny nod. “I try to stay tough,” she whispers.

“You are tough,” I tell her. “But you don’t always have to be. If you ever want to talk to someone, that’s okay too.”

“Maybe,” she says thoughtfully. “Sometimes I just like to play soccer though.”

“I get that,” I say with a smile. “We all work things out differently. I do it through painting.”

We walk back, the moment settling into my bones. I’ve been where she is—trying to be tough, trying to hold onto something that feels like it’s slipping away. Sometimes, maybe all the time, holding too hard. But maybe holding too hard isn’t a bad thing if you can help others with it .

When we return to the picnic tables, Lia heads off to talk to a counselor, and Asher finds me and introduces me to a few families. We chat with some board members from the dinner—Marcus, the sports psychologist is here, as well as Terrence, the retired football coach, and Lydia, one of the big donors.

“Are you still folding swan napkins?” Marcus asks.

“I’m working on a whole series now,” I say, appreciating that he called them swans, even though they were fans.

“Maybe we can add that to the sports camps. Competitive napkin-folding,” Lydia says.

“I’ll teach it,” I offer.

Asher smiles fondly. “You’d be great at that.”

And optics or not, I can tell one thing—he likes having me here. And that’s reason enough. “I would be good,” I say, feeling his confidence in me, but also this newfound confidence in myself.

My brother swings by and pats me on the back, teasing, “Going great, huh? It’s the optics, right?”

“That’s me. I’m magic when it comes to optics,” I say.

He smiles, but then his smile fades and he tips his forehead toward the water, a sign for us to step away from the crowd. I walk with him toward the edge of the picnic grounds. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“Just want to see how everything’s going with the whole… thing ,” he says in a low voice.

“It’s great,” I say, meaning it completely.

“Yeah?” It’s asked like he doesn’t believe me.

“Beckett, I swear it is,” I add.

He blows out a breath, then nods a few times. “Okay. I can’t help looking out for you. ”

“It’s the big brother gene,” I say, but there’s affection in my tone.

“Guilty as charged.” He sighs and looks toward Asher, who’s chatting one on one with Marcus now. My brother returns his focus to me. “Anyway, so it’s working out. You’re getting lots of new gigs, right?”

“I am, but it’s not because of the marriage,” I say, believing it for one of the first times. Maybe there’s more interest in me now, but these days it feels like the interest is in Maeve Hartley, the artist who’s working on the Sea Dogs mural, rather than in Mrs. Callahan. I square my shoulders, something like pride filling my chest. “I started a new line of mirrors. And Angelina already heard from a couple local shops that might want to carry them,” I say, sharing the latest news with him. I sent her some pics of the Love Lessons mirrors last week, and she made some calls, and quickly found some stores that like to carry local artists’ work.

“Good, good,” he says, rubbing his palms. “I don’t want you getting hurt during this whole… charade .”

“The opposite is happening,” I say, because my dreams are finally coming true. “Maybe the whole pay it forward thing worked out in its own way.”

He scratches his jaw, seeming to consider that as he nods a few times, his gaze drifting to Asher. “And the two of you? You’re friends and all still?”

I snicker. I can’t help it. It just bursts from me.

“What’s that for?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “We’re all good,” I say, but I’m not telling him anything more. My sex life is none of his business. Come to think of it, neither is my love life. I don’t need anyone’s permission to date.

“Okay,” he says, not looking quite satisfied with my answer but accepting it, nonetheless. He exhales, then nods toward the group again. But before we go, he turns to me one last time. “Do me a favor then.”

“What is it?” I ask, a little skeptical.

He squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t break his heart.”

On that mic drop, he walks off to rejoin the others. I stand in place for a long beat, the words echoing. Don’t break his heart .

Does my brother know something? Does he sense something? I catch up to him, grabbing his shirtsleeve. “Did he say something to you? Is that why you said that?” I whisper.

Beckett shakes his head. “No. He didn’t. But I have eyes. Now let’s go.”

His advice—another love lesson—rings in my head as we return to the donors, the kids, the families, the board, and my husband, who’s still chatting intensely with Marcus.

It plays on a loop as Beckett clears his throat, gathering everyone’s attention. Behind him, the bay gently laps the shore, its waves soft like background music.

“I want to thank you all for coming today and supporting Total Teamwork,” Beckett says. “None of this would be possible without Asher’s idea to get it started, so I’ll let him take it from here.”

And the words ring in my head once more as Asher steps to the front of the picnic tables, his usual easy confidence shining. “Thanks, Beckett,” he begins, glancing around at the gathered crowd. “This cause is so important, and I’m grateful to everyone who’s helped make Total Teamwork possible. But today’s not just about me—it’s about the people who’ve supported me along the way. I’ve been lucky to have Maeve by my side, helping in more ways than I can count. I couldn’t do any of this without her. So thank you—to my wife. My best friend.”

His words hit deeper than I’d expected. Everything right now feels so real, from my brother’s unexpected advice to Lia’s watery eyes to my own dreams finally feeling within reach. But this, most of all—the goal Asher and Beckett had years ago to create this charity. They made it happen, and it’s coming true at last.

Asher talks more about the charity, the picnic, the fun run, the upcoming summer camps, and the range of services available. When he’s done, the crowd applauds, and I’m left standing there, feeling the warmth of his words, the heat of his gaze, the love that surrounds us.

Don’t break his heart .

I don’t want to. I’d never want to. But is that even on the table? His heart? As that thought grows roots, so does another one. Is my heart on the table too?

It beats louder, thumps harder.

My thoughts start to race. It’s only been six or seven weeks—how could I possibly be falling in love? My emotions are so tangled, so blurred, I can’t even tell what’s real anymore. Is this part of the act, or am I starting to feel something deeper?

There’s no time to figure it out, since I need to mingle more, so I push down the confusion that swirls inside me. Play the part. Smile. Focus on him, on being the wife. Optics, right?

Asher is amped up when the event ends. I’ve seen him like this after hockey wins. There’s this charged energy around him, like he can’t sit still even as he drives .

“Are you happy with how it went?” I ask on the short ride back to Pacific Heights.

“Hell, yes. This launch is better than I’d imagined. Had a good chat with Marcus for a while too. Smart guy. He knows a ton about working with athletes’ mental health. Well, obviously,” he says. “So we can definitely incorporate more of his skills. But that’s not why I’m so fucking excited right now.”

“Why, then?”

He grins at me, full of secrets, as we pull into the garage. “Let me show you.”

“What is it?” I ask, his energy infectious.

“Patience, my wife,” he says, then he leads me through the house, out onto the terrace, and into the backyard. Fairy lights twinkle along the fence—brand new and lighting up the yard with a soft glow. My eyes drift toward the little shed, the former sunroom.

It doesn’t look like a sunroom anymore.

I gasp, barely able to breathe. “Asher?”

“Yes?”

“Did you make a—?” I stop, unable to finish. This is so much. This is unreal.

“A studio for you?” he asks, holding my gaze with the most satisfied, hopeful look ever. “I did. Well, I had it made while we were gone.”

This is so much more than words of affirmation. This is everything.