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25
Apparently,it is absolutely impossible to convince someone of something if they are convinced something else is the truth.
Me telling Max we aren’t married is met with the same disbelief as if I’d told him the sky was green, trees could talk, or that I didn’t like kissing him. All of those are obvious lies of such a huge proportion they’re incomprehensible.
Exactly like it’s incomprehensible we’re not married, madly in love, and wanting to try for a baby.
“We’re not married,” Max says flatly, disbelief coating his words.
He insisted on breakfast, and since I’ve never been able to think on an empty stomach, I agreed. We moved the tartine and coffee to the kitchen, and while Max pressed fresh orange juice and cut up a few apricots, I threw on one of the chic dresses I found in the wardrobe and quickly braided my messy bed hair.
“That’s right. We’re not married,” I say.
A spray of sunlight falls over the breakfast table, settled beneath a large window in the bespoke kitchen. It’s a cheerful, brightly lit space with long stretches of white marble counters, hand-crafted cabinets, and hand-milled brass fixtures. There’s a crystal bowl full of ripe apricots, fragrant peaches, and nectarines on the counter. A vase full of sunny yellow tulips. It’s just about the prettiest kitchen in existence, and last night, while we were eating, drinking, and making love, I didn’t appreciate its charm.
“You made a wish on the Bride’s Parure and then...” He holds his hands out in front of him in a “voila” gesture.
“Exactly.” I lean forward, the scent of toasted baguette and cherry jam tickling my nose. “Exactly. If we go back to Geneva, maybe we can figure out what we missed. We can reverse this. Why ...” I frown at the look on his face. “What?”
He smiles and tilts his head. The way his lips curl makes a sweet, apricot-flavored ache roll through me. For a moment I get lost in the way he looks—black hair, sharp nose, rough-cut features that flicker from stoic and stony to playful and sweet in a millisecond.
“Darling. If you’ve changed your mind about a baby this year, that’s all you have to say. We can wait. I married you. Whether we have children or not, it’s life with you that I want.” His gaze goes bedroom-eyed and intimate, and I almost melt into a puddle and drip from my chair onto the glossy wood floor.
“Gah,” I say, then I realizegahisn’t a word.
Max’s smile widens and he flashes his teeth, all happy, as if everything is settled. He picks up a slice of apricot and sets in on my plate. “Have some apricot. It’s delicious.”
His fingers are glossy and wet from the juices. He watches me as he licks the liquid from his fingertips.
Is it hot in here? Yes. It’s definitely hot in here.
I grab my cloth napkin and fan myself. The white of the cloth waving in the air is like a sign of surrender, as if already I’ve accepted this as my new reality.
Well, the heck with that.
I shove the napkin back into my lap. “Max.”
He quirks an eyebrow.
“We are not married.”
He nods, pouring me more coffee from the French press. A puff of steam rises between us and the arabica scent fills the air.
“If not the baby,” he asks, “then ... is this foreplay? Like when we play grumpy boss and her naughty secretary?”
“What?”Grumpy boss and her naughty secretary? Me and Max play what?
“Professor and failing student? Are we role-playing this morning?” He looks at the ceiling, considering this and rubbing his chin. “This could work. We’re not married. Which means—” He looks back to me, his expression lighting up.
“No,” I say. “No. I’m not role-playing. I’m not joking. I’m not suffering from a delusion. I’m telling you, we’re not actually married. This isn’t reality. This is a wish. The myth of the Bride’s Parure was true and ... Stop laughing!”
His laugh is deep and mellow, and the rich notes reach down into my belly and turn me inside out. Have I ever heard him laugh before? Really laugh? I’ve heard him make sounds of amusement, give small, careful laughs, or speak with a smile in his voice. But I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him laugh with his entire body.
His shoulders shake, he leans forward with obvious glee, and his mouth twists into the most delighted smile. There are things in life that are infectious—the flu, annoying songs—and apparently, Max’s laugh.
Everything in me lights up at his laugh, and I want so badly to join him. It’s as if he’s let go of everything, dropped all his worries and fears, and is as light as a ray of sunshine. And he’s asking me to join him.
He stands then, crosses the small space between us, takes my hands, and pulls me up. When I stand he tugs me against him.
