6: The More Important Question

Harper stares off into the distance, hazel eyes roaming picturesque houses along a two-way country road as she wonders why her life couldn't turn out as perfect as the families playing in their front lawns and swinging peacefully in benches on wrap-around porches. Fragrant, summer heat radiates from sun-drenched glass while cool air, unaffected by the harsh conditions outside, circulates around her.

"...and there you have it, mommies to be: get that "Fetal Phone" now. Take back control of -your- bedtime. Pick one up at–," Clyde pounds the power button to his stereo to shut it off, drawing in Harper's gaze upon realizing they're surrounded by silence.

"Do you mind putting that back on?"

Looking from the road with irritation, Harper slinks even closer to the door and dodges his eye contact.

Grumbling under his breath, glancing again from the road to her, she chooses to focus on bent grasses swaying beyond the force of 305 horsepower hauling ass at 80 mph on a 60 mph road.

Trying not to meet his line of sight when her peripherals catch him tilting his head at her, he corrects a drift before gluing his eyes back on the road and readjusting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Why?"

His suspicious tone draws out a sneer; if she wants to listen to the radio, she wants to listen to the radio. Isn't that enough?

Making something up on the spot to annoy him as much as his spontaneous showing up at her job annoyed her, "Well, I can get better at my job by knowing stuff. A lot of moms get worried they'll get hurt when the baby's in control since they're sleeping. Yeah, there's tons of videos about them doing cute stuff but if–!"

Jabbing the power knob with his knuckle and spinning it quickly, the radio's volume increases to blast the newest country song before Harper cringes; glaring at him while sliding it to zero with her fingertips, he remarks, "Too late."

Tan fingers elongate before grasping the steering wheel with a tense grip. Sitting back in her seat, miffed by his childishness, "What're we doing right now?"

Crossing her arms with a pout, awaiting his response, Harper stares out the windshield at a sunny horizon scattered with groves of citrus trees.

Chortling sarcastically, "We're sittin' in a car."

Harper rolls her eyes to keep from getting caught staring daggers at the side of his sunburnt neck, "Fine."

Examining the way his lids lower, "Let's talk."

The rustling of loose change jingles in his dark jeans when his left leg trembles; something it only does when he gets agitated.

Brushing his nose and inhaling sharply, "Alright," he grips the wheel with both hands to sit up straight with a labored exhale, "Shoot."

Harper's eyebrows raise with duck lips and she nods with satisfaction. Excited to finally have the floor, she asks the one question she's been screaming at herself for not pressing before they did something so drastic as to elope.

"What -exactly- do you do for a living?"

Taken aback, his head rustling against his headrest with a groan, his southern twang rolling off his lips like smooth bourbon, "We've talked 'bout this darlin'. I can't tell you."

Fuming, she crosses her legs; the tip of her worn, black shoe carelessly scuffing his glistening glovebox, "Yeah it was cute and all guessing what you did before we got married—but I'm your -wife- now."

Nearly stomping to put both her feet back on the floor in a hurry, she rakes her fingers through her hair to force stray side bangs from moving in on her forehead.

"Like, I don't even understand how I followed you to your home state to get a sublet instead of moving into where you were living," she waves her hand in the empty space between them, cutting him off when he looks at her and starts to talk.

He bites his tongue to stay quiet, "I know you said it's because your place is getting renovated and that's where all your money is going, but I haven't even -seen- this place that may or may not exist. PLUS," she casually leans her right elbow on the door and rests her cheek into her fist, "I somehow see you -less- than I did when I was at school eight hours away."

Groaning in frustration, cupping the air with open, desperate claws, "Can you please tell me why?"

Watching the vein in his temple bulge while clenching his jaw and remaining silent, she can no longer hold back the truth of how dire things have become, "Because I'm running out of excuses to defend you in my own head."

"You're my wife because you didn't want to 'shack up' as your parents called it," he strains to get out calmly before laughing without regard.

Was that the only thing he heard out of everything she said?

Leaning across the seat to punch his arm, taking his statement as though marriage didn't mean the same to him, he sternly watches her hesitate out the corner of his eye.

"You should never hit the driver–unless you want us both to die."

Only, his wisdom translates to a mumble because she's too deep in thought. Reminiscing over her parents' marriage, knowing their love stretches over twenty years, she wonders how it's possible that she's committed herself to a man that's still a stranger.

The only person of importance in his life that she's ever met is his younger brother.

Intensely pricking his strong bicep with a slender index finger to establish the importance of her feelings, "-I- married -you- because you said I was the one for you. You said you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me."

Sitting back in her seat with a frustrated sigh and staring out at thin clouds painting blue skies, "I -also- said I wasn't going to shack up with a man just because I was in love because I refused to end up like one of those girls that relocated because of a man and ended up stranded when he left her for someone else."

"And -I- said "I do" because I do," he looks at her with a wrinkled forehead, taking his eyes off the road to monitor her body language. Finding her closed off from him, he corrects back into the center of the lane after drifting slightly too far into the empty, oncoming lane.

"If you "do," she makes quotation marks in the air before turning in her seat, "Then why haven't you touched me since our first week here," glancing him up and down, she turns in her seat in the opposite direction to stare out the window before he can look at her.

"Unless it's to brush past me with an angry brood or slap me around?"

Jerking the steering wheel to avoid a roadkill deer in the road, he keeps his eyes on the road, "You're being dramatic, Harp."

Shaking his head with an I'm-so-over-this sigh before resting his head back, "I don't slap you around like -that-," he grumbles, visibly disgusted by her accusation while crossing his arms and looking out the driver door window.

"I know I haven't been perfect," peeking at her to see her face but getting the back of her head, "I'm not perfect."

Shrugging, "You knew that -before- we got hitched. You said you loved me like that was enough."

Clyde pauses, slowing the truck to a cool 45 mph to enter a bend in the road, "Am I not -enough- for you anymore?"