Page 24 of Playing Along

I glance away from her as I search for my voice. “You look fine,” I finally grunt. “Let’s go.”

I look back over at her just in time to see her smile dip down. Guilt pokes me in the stomach. We may be headed to our fake wedding, but perhaps I still could’ve told her how beautiful she looks. It’s my darn pride that’s keeping me from saying the words. Can’t she see that?

I’m a wounded man, and she’s the one that inflicted the wounds. But despite my hurt, I’m barreling forward with this fake marriage…for her. I feel pathetic enough about that as it is; adding compliments about her appearance to the mix would only serve to make me feel even more pitiful. Especially after my earlier confession to her. That coupled with the purpose of this marriage being to silence my testimony makes me feel as if I’m tricking her into marrying me.

I am about to marry a woman who I love, but who doesn't love me in return. And who may never love me in return. Am I okay with that?

I don't know. All I know is that I can't add insult to injury by giving away my true feelings at this stage of the game. So there will be no compliments.

We head out to my car in silence. I open the door for her and she slides inside, freezing in between her seat and the door to look up at me. “Sorry about earlier with the, uh, clothes,” she says. “I appreciate you getting my things for me, I just…” she heaves a big breath, then blows it out, “I don’t know. The idea of someone in my condo, looking through my things…it threw me a bit. I’m a private person.”

“You are?” This admission surprises me. She’s never struck me as particularly private. Sure, she doesn’t have social media, but I guess I thought this was just because she is forever forgetting to take pictures, so she doesn’t really have anything to post. When we dated, any picture we took was at my suggestion.

“Private enough,” she says with a shrug, eyes darting away from mine in a way that suggests she’s lying. Her getting upset about me going through her drawers had nothing to do with her need for privacy. So what then? Is it really just about the underwear? Because that seems unlikely given the number of times she brought laundry to my house for what she called “a folding party,” which was not so much a party as it was the two of us folding her laundry. She always offered to help fold mine, but honestly the woman folds laundry like a small child. Anyway, the point is, I’ve seen her underwear before.

Although it’s gotten a lot pinker and lacier in the last three years.

I trip over nothing as I make my way around to my side of the car.

I give my body a little shake. These types of lustful thoughts about my future wife are not appropriate.

In an alternate reality where she’d said yes to me three years ago and we were getting married for real, sure. But this is a fake marriage, so I’m going to do my best to keep my thoughts God-honoring and Nora-honoring.

I situate myself in my seat, then pull out of my garage. The tension eases from my shoulders as I merge onto the main road. I really was worried about someone from the force showing up at my doorstep, but now that we’re on our way to City Hall, I feel much more relaxed. A feeling that vanishes in an instant when a red Jeep appears in my rearview mirror.

At first, I ignore it. Lots of people have red Jeeps, so just because Stafford’s wife, Lucy, has a red Jeep doesn’t mean that it’s her behind us. But when it continues along behind us as we exit the highway to downtown, my anxiety starts to rise.

“What do you keep looking at in your mirror?” Nora asks astutely. She swivels in her seat to take a peek for herself.

“Nothing,” I lie, refocusing on the road. I don’t want to worry her unnecessarily. Even if it is Lucy, she probably isn’t following me on purpose. We pull up to a red light, and I flick my blinker on. I can’t help but sneak a glance behind me to check whether or not the Jeep is also going right. It is. And now that it’s stopped right behind me I can see who’s driving it. My heart sinks in my chest.

It’s Lucy.

“You absolutely are looking at something!” Nora exclaims. “Is it that Jeep behind us?” She looks over at me. “Do you know the woman driving it?”

“I know her alright,” I mutter, considering my options. I can keep driving to City Hall and hope she doesn't notice I’m in front of her. Unlike her brightly colored Jeep, my car isn’t particularly distinguishable. She might turn off at any point to go elsewhere. A mere blip in our plan rather than a complete catastrophe. Another option would be for me to get back on the highway, which would determine if she’s actually following me or if it’s simply a coincidence that we’ve been heading in the same direction for five minutes.

“And the other woman? The one in the passenger seat? Do you know her too?” Nora asks. There’s a note of annoyance in her voice that I can’t fathom the cause of. I glance back again and my heart sinks even lower. Emily. Montgomery’s wife.

Great. Just great. Two of my best friends’ wives are in the car behind us. Did Stafford and Montgomery send them to follow me? To see why I haven’t answered their calls?

“I know her too,” I grunt, hands tightening on the wheel.

“I see.” Nora settles back in her seat, picking invisible lint from the skirt of her dress. “You’ve been a busy man in the years we’ve been apart. Lots of new, uh, friends.”

Despite my anxiety, a snort escapes from my lips. So that’s what’s bothering her? She thinks I dated these women? The amount of satisfaction I get from this display of something that’s at least akin to jealousy–if not actual jealousy–over my dating life is not something I’m proud of.

“Those women are Stafford’s wife and Montgomery’s wife,” I tell her.

“Oh.” This first “oh” is one of relief, but it’s quickly followed by a second “oh” of comprehension. “Ohhh.” She whips around once again. “Do you think they’re following us? Did Stafford and Montgomery send them? Can you lose them?”

“You want me to try and lose them?” I repeat incredulously.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Is that something you do? Precision driving or whatnot?”

“While I do have some level of skill at precision driving,” I tell her, “I’m not sure that’s the right call here. I don’t want to raise their suspicions any further. There might be a completely logical explanation for why they’re behind us that has nothing to do with you or me. Heck, they might not even realize it’s me they’re driving behind.”

There’s a honk from behind us, then Nora whips back around, sinking in her seat. “I think they know it’s you,” she whispers. “They’re waving.”

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