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"you always get what you want."
you open your eyes to the sun. it's springtime with bees and tiny flowers. it's springtime with roger in your barely-off season before the band marches back to huge stadiums. you sit beside him on the dock of his trout farm with a fishing pole in your hand and gum in your mouth. if you had your way, you'd be lying in the grass. but you did that yesterday. now you yank lightly at your pole, just to get something to move.
"don't do that," roger advises, putting his tan hand over your own. "you'll scare them away."
you roll your eyes and stare at the water, so still. you can almost imagine the fish swimming past your bait, just to spite you.
"but i'm bored." you reveal to him. he chuckles, hearty, and shakes his head.
he's always that way with you, accepting your needy, greedy, itchy desires. pete complains that he's too much of a people pleaser, a smile-and-nodder. you disagree. you look away from the water and stare at him.
"if i don't catch one in the next twenty minutes, can i give up?"
"girl . . ." he chastises and droops his shoulders. "if you insist."
you notice his dejected manner and brush his arm with your hand. "roger, i don't mean anything. you know how impatient i am." you wiggle out an excuse.
"oh, i know. you always get what you want." but the way he says it is grin-tinged. a little knowing joke about you. "gluttony, sloth, greed. three of the seven down pat."
you scoff and still yourself; you don't know what to say to that. roger's the only person save your family that knows so much about you. and you didn't believe that when you met him four years ago you'd be with him now.
"i don't always get what i want," you protest and shield your eyes from the sun. on a log across the water, a turtle sunbathes.
he's very quick to respond. "with me, you do."
it's true — he spoils you. clothes, food, presents, there's little roger wouldn't do to make you happy.
"fine," you square your shoulders. "will you buy me a ring?"
"what kinda ring?"
"an engagement ring."
"an engagement ring?" his question is captured with a shout as he pulls on the fishing pole. you watch, engaged, as he yanks up a foot and an half trout onto the little dock. it flops wet against the warm wood until roger grabs the head and manages the hook from its mouth. you turn away when he bleeds it and laugh silently to yourself. how romantic . . .
he drops the fish into a bucket and sets his fishing pole aside, full attention on you.
"now," he says your name. "what's this about an engagement ring?"
"we should get married. and have a huge wedding. we could invite everyone, all your musician friends and your mum and mine and — "
his hands are bloodied. he stops before he touches you and instead looks you in the eye. "you have lots of plans."
you watch his sweet, small smile and the way his gaze skips across the water like a stone. your heart falls a little.
"but where's my say in all this?"
you laugh louder than you expected and wrap your arms around his neck. "oh, roger," you gush. "i thought you were gonna say you didn't want to marry me."
he holds himself up against your weight and giggles. "why would i say that?"
"i don't know." you shake your head and pull away. "you say i'm a handful."
"yes, you are. but i chose to be with you. nothing would make me give you up."
you feel as warm as the day, your palms hot against the deck and your worries about scheming fish cast away.
roger gets up and takes the bucket. "come on now, let's go inside. i need to wash my hands so i can hold you again."
you're silly-happy, rising with him to return to the cabin.
