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He seems much too chipper for my liking when he gently prods, “I want to test out a relationship. I already know you’re an excellent employee, but I’m not offering you another job. I’m asking you to treat me like your boyfriend for a few months. That means texting back when you would, going on dates when you would, being yourself under the condition that you treat me like your boyfriend. You have full autonomy to accept or decline my requests and advances if they do not interest you, knowing I will respect your wishes as I would respect someone I am emotionally-invested in.”
I tense. “So. No hard guidelines? No relationship agreement? No rules?” I forget I’m still operating during business hours and scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. Relationships come with terms. And many of them fall apart because those terms aren’t ever solidified in text. I’ll paint you a picture: Joe and Sue are married. Joe and Sue have a verbal arrangement where Sue does the cooking and the laundry while Joe does the dishes and works. One day, Joe is too tired to do the dishes. This infuriates Sue, which infuriates Joe. Things devolve into a he said, she said, and neither person feels like the other cares about them, so they get divorced. How could poor Joe and Sue have avoided this tragic outcome? Well, easy. If they’d had a physical agreement to refer to with a clause concerning shared housework, they might have had the sense to build in a procedure for human error. They could have made a chart together and decided on the allotted number of graces in a given month for those times when Sue couldn’t bear to cook and Joe couldn’t stomach the dishes. Instead, they’re sad and alone and now both of them are working and cooking and cleaning up all by themselves. The end.” My voice pitches by mistake, so I reel myself in and bite my tongue.
Watching me as though I’m the most interesting little lump in the world, Mr. Marsh asks, “Are your parents divorced?”
“Happily married and going on thirty years, why?”
“So they have a relationship agreement?”
“No. They’re just really good people, and they love each other, so both of them are always trying to do both the cooking and the cleaning for the other. It’s very cute, honestly.” My arms fold. “I am nowhere near as good, loving, or cute. If we agreed that your job was to do the dishes, and you didn’t do them one day, I’d stab you with a dirty knife, and you’d get an infection, and as you were dying, I’d whisper above your bedside, this wouldn’t have happened if it were clean.”
Mr. Marsh slaps a hand to his mouth before he crumples, gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. Hissing breaths whistle from his nose as he battles to pull himself together. It is a lost cause. His chest shakes with silent laughter, and he can barely crack one eye to look at me. “That mental image is my favorite thing.”
I reclaim composure, tilt my LeoPad forward, and direct my attention at the screen. “Shall I contact an artist to commission it for you, sir?”
He swears. “Yes. Please. I’d like an entire comic. Hire a small business. Whatever price they ask, double, no, triple it.”
I pull my gaze off my reflection in the black screen to meet his eyes. “I was being sarcastic.” I turn the dark screen toward him. “This isn’t even on.”
“Oh. Well. I’m not being sarcastic. Also, I think your tone is supposed to change when you’re being sarcastic.”
My lips purse. Yeah. So they tell me. “Sir, the point is, I don’t feel comfortable entering into this without more stable expectations.”
He fills his big chest with air, releases it, leans back, twists. “Fine. You drive a hard bargain, pumpkin.”
Every last nerve in my puddle electrifies, standing on end. Revolt soars through my chest. And I cannot be held responsible for the state of my face in response to his calling me pumpkin.
Merrily, he continues, “I’ll pay everything up front and cover all costs associated with this if you treat me like your boyfriend for the period leading up to November 30, when I expect your answer at the altar.”
My mouth is dry.
Everything? Up front. I can get rid of my debt in a matter of days? Start putting my paycheck into things like…like a truly functional AC? I could start looking for a nicer apartment. In a matter of weeks, I could move somewhere without loud neighbors?
I could afford to order another cake to celebrate?
I could buy a bed?
“Treat you like my boyfriend?” I whisper.
“That’s right. No relationship agreements. Just genuine communication and healthy boundaries. The free will to accept or decline my invitations to go out without worrying that you need to stick to a strict set of regulations.”
I feel ill. Completely ill. The sensation rides up the back of my throat and swirls in my stomach. “Mr. Marsh—”
“Also, I will need you to call me by an endearment for the duration of this test. I’ll allow grace for Finn, but never Mr. Marsh and absolutely not sir.”
I am going to die. Say his first name? To his face? What kind of person does he think I am? A temptress? A promiscuous, brazen, forward lass? Does he assume I walk around showing my ankles to just anyone?
Using a man’s first name in a romantic setting is just about the same heat level as making out.
With. Tongue.
I suppose I’m just never going to refer to him ever again.
His lunch is getting cold. My lunch is getting cold. He has another appointment after lunch. Actually, he has seven back-to-back appointments after lunch. Where does he even get the time to be such a clown?
My head hurts.
I desperately want to be able to afford another cake from Publix. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of, really. Mouth dry, I say, “You realize if I agree to this, I’m agreeing to money? You’ll have wasted a lot of money on someone you probably won’t like very quickly, on someone whose motivation behind being around you is purely money.”
