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“That’s in my top five.” He tilts his head. “Are you trying to get to know me?”
I take a step forward, frustrated. “That’s the idea, isn’t it? I mean, you’re supposed to be my husband but I don’t actually know anything about you.”
“I amnota list of my favorite media.”
“I know that, but it’s a place to start. What about music? You like music, right? Don’t tell me you’re into, like, death metal or something.”
“I have a record collection. Mostly jazz.”
I laugh a little. “You do? Jazz? Sure, right, okay, you collect records, why not. What else don’t I know about you?” He stares at me and I feel stupid, almost childish, but I can’t help myself. All this is stuff that would’ve come up sooner or later through dates or conversations or whatever, except we’re skipping all that and diving right into the living portion of our lives, and I don’t know if I can sleep in the same bed with a man if I don’t even know if he prefers The Beatles or The Rolling Stones. Not that itmatters, but the fact of knowing means something.
We’re strangers and the gap between us feels bigger than ever.
My heart starts racing and I turn away from him. I walk to the window and look out at the city and, oh my god, we’re up really high and, oh my god, I’m going to live with this man, with this total stranger, and I have to be hiswife.
“Kat,” he says and stands. I can’t look at him right now. “What do you want to know about me?”
“Anything. Everything. I don’t know, something to make me feel like you’re not some total stranger.” I turn on him and I’m trying to catch my breath but I can’t seem to calm my speeding heart. “You want me to move in here with you but I don’t even know your middle name or your favorite color and, oh my god, don’t joke right now and say black, I swear I’ll punch you in the throat.”
“No need to throat punch,” he says. “My favorite color is green.”
“God. Right. Sure. Like money.”
“No, green like grass after it was freshly cut. A bright, summer green.”
“Oh. That sounds kind of nice.”
“My favorite smell is freshly turned dirt. You know, the smell of your boots after you come in from planting flowers and it’s this deep, rough, musky smell? Yes, I plant flowers, don’t look at me like that. I like to garden, and I like to work outside with my hands, and when the landscapers come every year to do the mansion’s beds, I always go down and join them for a few hours. They tolerate me because I speak to them in Spanish. I also know French, Italian, some Mandarin, some Japanese, and a bit of Russian.”
“You speak six languages.” I laugh stupidly. “And you like to garden.”
“I work out almost every day. I run three times per week. I listen to NPR in the morning and podcasts in the evening, mostly history but some pop culture and some politics, and yes, I like music, and my favorite band is The Smashing Pumpkins.”
“The Smashing Pumpkins.”
“Billy Corgan is a genius.” He gets closer to me, watching carefully. “I like the feeling of the sun on my face when I’m sitting near the ocean. I readThe New York Timesand think CNN is trash. I like the first sip of a cold beer. I like to dance, but only when I have to, and I like it when you laugh. Have I told you that yet? I like your smile.”
“Really?” I start to grin but quickly stop myself. As he stands a few feet away from me, I realize that my panic is subsiding and I can finally think clearly again. I find it hard to fit the man that likes all those things with the bastard I’ve gotten to know, but I also realize I’m more than a little prejudiced against him. Ford Arc has a mystique and I’ve bought into that mystique, and the guy I have in my head would never garden or learn French or dance whether he has to or not. But the Ford Arc in my head isn’t the Ford Arc standing before me right now.
“Really,” he says and takes another step closer. I back off until I bump up against the window, and this time he doesn’t stop. The space between us closes like a vacuum sucking the air from the room, and I feel my heart racing again as his body looms over mine.
His hands touch my hips. Tentatively, almost gently, like he’s not sure if I’ll say no, and when I don’t, his fingers press into myskin and move up to my waist. I let out a little gasp as his left hand slides around to press into the small of my back right above my ass and his right hand tangles into my hair.
My lips open with a soft gasp and I’m intensely aware that we’re alone in this room together, very, very alone, and this man can do whatever he wants.
And I want him to.
He says, “I understand what you’re feeling right now, I really do. You’re uncertain and you’re afraid, but I want to remind you of the deal we made when you put that ring on your finger. I’m not looking for halfway. I’m not looking for something fake, some pathetic facsimile of a marriage, and I don’t want some pretty plastic trophy wife that smiles on my arm and takes nice pictures but leaves our bed cold and lonely. I want arealwife, one that’s warm, one that’s in my life day in and day out, one that’s in my bed each night when I get home and is happy and eager to be there. Fuck, you know what, forgethappy, I won’t demand that of you, but I need you to be willing to try. I need your body and your lips and the smell of your hair and that gorgeous little whimper you make when I kiss you. I need you whispering my name when I get you pregnant. If you’re going to do this, Kat, I need you to do it, and I promise I’ll spank you nice and raw if ask me politely.”
I blink up into his eyes as my heart goes berserk. What the hell is with this asshole, threatening to spank me, and what the hell is withmereacting like I want him to do it? Like I want him to bend me over and slap my ass over and over until my pale skin is pink and I’m aching for more?
What’s broken in me? What’s making melikethis?
It’s his vulnerability. Which is strange because there’s nothing but strength in his eyes and in his hands, but there’s still something intensely emotional about what he’s saying.
About what he wants, what he pictures his life should be.
A wife. A warm wife, one in his bed, one happy to see him.
