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Since their kitchen is a tarped-off construction zone, we’ve settled on one half of their dining table. The other side is covered in a hot plate, an electric kettle, a makeshift coffee station, and a dozen loose kitchen utensils. Boxes line the walls while a dorm-style mini fridge holds essentials like milk and eggs.
“You’re sure he’s willing to sign something stating that you don’t owe him anything other than friendly companionship over the next year?”
Adam is far more skeptical than his star-struck wife—which I appreciate. I’ve never been particularly level-headed. With my reach-for-the-stars upbringing, I had successfully deluded myself into thinking I could have a prosperous art career. That’s why I took out almost a quarter of a million dollars in loans. To be fair, every teacher growing up spoke about my work as if I was the next Chuck Close—but with a healthy dollop of whimsy.
“That was the proposal.” I pause, blowing my bangs out of my face. “I pretend to be his loving wife at his brother’s wedding and in front of the press, and he bankrolls my life. I’d have to sign a prenup, but we’d both sign a separate, private document agreeing that our fake marriage would only last a year. After that, we’d amicably part ways.”
“And you feel safe around him?” Adam presses. “Shane seems like a decent guy, standoffish mostly. I’ve never seen him in the news for bad behavior.”
I think about the way Shane took care of me in the ER when I was a stranger he never expected to see again. How, after I fell in his penthouse, he tenderly checked me for wounds and wrapped me in a plush towel. The way he encouraged me to quit the coffee shop because it was a bad environment. Shane might act like he’s aloof and grouchy, but he’s a tender caregiver at heart.
“I do. I trust him.”
“Okay, then.”
“You can’t tell, but I’m screaming inside,” Delilah says.
I believe it. I’ve never seen my best friend this fidgety. She hasn’t sat down since I arrived, snatching bites of pizza while flitting around the table or checking on Piper, who’s enjoying the box of pepperoni pizza and a Disney movie in the living room.
“Shocking,” I deadpan. “Seeing as how you shrieked for three minutes straight when I told you.”
Not that I can blame her. To say today has been surreal is a drastic understatement. So much so that I have a nice fat bruise on my thigh from pinching myself so many times. After all, it’s not every day that a smoking-hot MLB player offers you a marriage of convenience.
The craziest part is I’m leaning toward saying yes.
First and foremost, I’d have primo health insurance while adjusting to my diagnosis. I’m giving myself a gold star thus far, but I also haven’t been sick or had to travel while balancing my blood sugar. It’d be nice to not have to think about rationing insulin due to its cost. That and my endocrinologist mentioned that I’d be a good candidate for a tubeless insulin pump. That device would otherwise be out of my price range.
Secondly, I could paint again. I could finally get my supplies out of moving boxes and work without worrying about getting evicted. Given an invaluable year, I could create two, maybe three pieces. If I was able to sell even one of those, it could float me for a while.
The only downside—besides legally binding myself to an essential stranger—is that this agreement is unbalanced. Something about that feels like being force-fed wet garbage. Me smiling and holding Shane’s hand during one wedding and a few Waves events isn’t a fair exchange for a place to live, food to eat, and the freedom to finally create.
There’s also a quiet, wishful part of me that wanted to marry for love. Once upon a time, I’d thought my long-term boyfriend and I would end up starting a life together, but that obviously didn’t pan out. Unintentionally embodying the starving-artist stereotype is one thing. Entering a contractual marriage feels like giving up on being loved for my kooky, occasionally messy self, like no one would want to keep me forever.
My fingers rub at my side, trying to displace the hollowness settling between my ribs.
“I’m going to say no.”
Delilah pops my arm with a twisted dish towel.
“Ow. What was that for?”
My best friend holds her hands up with an expression like Duh.
“I think what Delilah is trying to say,” Adam says while relieving his wife of her weapon, “is that, even though this is highly unorthodox, it seems like a good opportunity.”
Delilah crosses her arms as Piper’s laugh echoes from the other room. “Are you forgetting that agreeing means you get to stay here with us? You’d have so much free time we could hang out whenever. And you’d finally get that beach day.”
Though I’d planned on heading toward the sand immediately after leaving the ballpark, I’d driven to my apartment in a daze. After numbly sitting on the floor in the middle of my living/dining/bedroom for hours, I scrounged up enough cash to buy pizza. Me having a freeze-state mini-meltdown on my stained linoleum was good because it really was too chilly for the beach today anyway.
“Think of it this way. You’ve had a lousy year, right? Your jerk boyfriend dumped you. Your trash friends were obnoxious. You moved to a new city and worked your tail off to barely make ends meet. It’s been rough. What if this is…cosmic retribution?”
Even though I appreciate Delilah’s thought, my lips twist with uncertainty.
“Think about what Shane will gain.” She plunks down in the empty chair next to me. “You’re kind and considerate. You won’t trash his penthouse, because you spent the last six months cleaning it. And you’ll be way better company than Shane’s nightmare of an ex-fiancée.”
Fiancée? Was that who Brielle had been? I sensed some former-flame tension between them, but I didn’t realize they’d been engaged. My stomach bottoms out. Had I known, I never would have pretended he’d just asked me to marry him.
He must have been miserable as I rambled on about monograms and couple names. Though…hadn’t it been Shane who wrapped his large hands around me like it was second nature, who’d reverently told me it would be an honor to be my husband? My cheeks flush, remembering the rumbly timbre of those words, how his eyes flashed with something like honesty.
