The Wife Draft (Peterick)

Carnegie: Th Brthr

A/N: Merry Christmas y'all who celebrate! I feel like I should do a Q&A since I don't chat about myself an awful lot. But I don't know if anyone really cares, lol, so if you do, leave questions in the comments. I'm an open book. But importantly, this chapter talks about subjects such as past politics and taboos. No bias of any kind, I'm just trying to keep this as historically sound as possible. 

*****

Patrick fixed his face in a compact as I drove. The announcement was published, and news outlets were swarming due to the confirmation from my paper. Everyone was waiting for our first public appearance together in the city, but I refused to give satisfaction until my mother favored Patrick or there was a white dress in the closet.

"Do I look fake enough?" Patrick asked, fluffing victory rolls with his white gloved hand.

"Sweetheart, I told you that you did not have to do this," I whispered, glancing over the love I would have never recognized.

"I don't want ya' ta' lose ya' fam'ly just 'cuz ya' marryin' a Southerner, Peter."

"Patrick, we have discussed this already. You are my family, and I want nothing more than to be with you."

"Would ya' quit talkin' like that?" he shrieked, eyes glaring. "I can't fuckin' stand it."

I scoffed at his request. "You had a dramatic episode about how you do not care what my mother thinks, and now you dress up like a pretentious princess and refuse to allow me to conform?"

"Ya' ain't talkin' ta' ya' mothah, Peter! Ya' talkin' ta' ya' pissed off husband!"

I sighed and parked the car across the street from my mother's house. Patrick's arms were crossed and his red lips were pursed. I reached out to touch his shoulder, but he turned away.

"Patrick, honey. I'm sorry. Don't ignore me."

"'M not," he said, nose turned up.

"No, Patrick, please," I whispered. He never did it to look like a snob. It was his way to keep from crying. "I'm not angry with you. I'm mad at myself, okay? I know you just want this to go well. And I love you for trying. Look at me, doll."

He left his glasses on the kitchen counter, but I snatched them when he turned his back. I pulled the frames from my jacket pocket and put them on his face.

"Pete---"

"Trick." I took the fedora from my head and placed it on his. "I love you."

"Ya' probably pushin' it," he muttered.

"Then I'll keep pushing," I whispered, pulling the gloves from his hands. "Let's go back to not caring about her opinion. It's much more fun."

He smiled and unlaced my tie before running a hand through my hair. "Ready, Mistah Wentz?"

"Only if you are, Misses Wentz."

Patrick never followed the etiquette of a wife. He hopped out of the car on his own before I even had a chance to open my door.

He didn't hold my arm as we walked. His fingers slid between mine, and he tugged me along behind him. The snowflakes from the sky shined when they fell in his hair and atop of the hat.

The walk up the steps to the house was daunting, but Patrick kept his head up. My childhood home had never felt so unsafe.

I reached for the doorknob, but the door was swung open from the other side. Patrick took a step back in shock, and I only let go of his hand so I could wrap my arm around his waist and pull him against my side.