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“What will she do?” I ask without opening my eyes. I’m not sure I could if I tried. They’re sandbag heavy, and I’m sleep-weak. “If you have to go back to Canada.”
Eli doesn’t speak for a moment. When he does, I jolt, realizing I started to doze.
“She won’t stay here without me. Even if she’s built a good life here. She’ll go where I go.”
I think of Maggie’s bright smile, the room tonight crowded with love. And support, probably, considering what she said about chronic illness. I don’t know much about fibromyalgia or rheumatoid arthritis, but I can’t help but wonder if I happened to see one of Maggie’s good days.
“Is she okay? With her health, I mean.”
“She has good and bad days. We go to Asheville a few times a month for different treatments. A lot of doctors don’t really diagnose or deal with chronic illnesses. Especially in women. This has been the best place we’ve found for support. Not just because of her book club. But it does help.”
I press my hand to my throat, wishing that would ease the ache there. It doesn’t.
Eli continues, a hint of defensiveness in his voice, “I know it might seem weird that I’m so close to my mom, but she’s amazing and did so much for me when I was growing up.”
“I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s pretty great.”
“I’ll do everything I can to make her happy,” Eli says quietly.
Even commit fraud,I think.
It’s in this moment I realize that Eli doesn’t just want to stay in Harvest Hollow for himself. In fact, it may not even be the primary reason. If he and his mom are this close, he wants to stay soshedoesn’t have to leave. A deep ache settles into my bones.
“How would it work?” The question slides out easier when I’m drifting in this state of semi-sleep. “The marriage thing.”
I’ve heard it said that anyone would do anything given the right set of circumstances.
Like, you might notthinkyou’d rob a Wendy’s for a Frosty and some cheesy bacon fries … but spend a few weeks stranded on a desert island with only coconuts for sustenance, and you might change your mind about thievery. That’s just one hypothetical.
Anothernot-sohypothetical: I never thought I’d be tempted to marry someone for money.
I probably wouldn’t have even dreamed up my current scenario. The desert-island-Wendy’s situation is far more likely. Which is saying something, considering I live about six hours from the nearest beach.
But here I am, sitting in an awkwardly silent car with Eli, turning over his offer in my mind. Asking questions about it out loud. Keeping my eyes closed because I’m a coward.
Even without looking, I am aware of a shift, the tension vibrating between us. I sense it the way I’ve always insisted I can smell snow in the air.
“It would need to be a real marriage,” Eli says finally. “I’d need the certificate, for starters. Everything else is … negotiable.”
I’m sure he means practical things: the wedding itself, the housing particulars, how long this would last. But my hazy mind goes to other negotiable things: whether it would include kissing, sharing a room, making public appearances pretending to be a real couple.
“It’s a huge ask,” Eli continues. “And I don’t have much to offer other than … money.” His voice sours with this last part, like he plucked one of the lemons from his muumuu and took a big bite.
That’s not true, I think. He has lots of things I want, none of which have to do with money. The trouble is, they’re not things I think he wants fromme.
And also … I do need money. Every time I walk past the desk in my bedroom where the letter from my grandmother’s facility is stuffed in a drawer, I feel like I’m going to dry heave. Several times lately, I’ve considered giving up on vet school altogether, since I’ll be paying off loans until I’ve got gray hair. Or no hair.
The idea of having to worry less, of sharing this burden with someone else … well. I hate the wolfish desperation clawing at the pit of my stomach when I think about it.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t think minor league players made all that much money.”
Eli laughs, and the car slows. We’re probably at a red light, nearing my house. I wish now I’d given him the wrong address for his GPS, sent us on a wild goose chase so I could enjoy his company and his heated seats.
“I’m really good with the stock market,” he says, and I’m not sure he could have said anything that would have shocked me more.
I’ve never understood anything about the stock market other than to know Martha Stewart went to prison because she somehow cheated the system. It’s not something I’d have immediately placed in the box of things I know about Eli.
But okay. Eli—Hot Puppy Guy—is a stock market person. Which means in addition to everything else he’s got going on, he’s smart too.
