The Pact

by Max Monroe

  I shrug. “Once a month or so.”

  “God, Flynn.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “You’re…well, you’re kind of a catch of a husband, you know that?”

  “Oh,” I murmur, her comment reminding me of the envelope in my pocket. “I almost forgot.” Pulling it out, I toss it into the center of the table, her eyes following it and scanning until she makes out the address of the sender in the top left corner. I lean over my plate and take more bites.

  Daisy stops eating altogether, and as soon she understands what it is, her whole demeanor changes.

  “Oh my God, that’s from Immigration.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “That’s from Immigration, Flynn!” she repeats, this time much more manically.

  “Yeah, I know. I saw the address,” I reply calmly.

  “What does it say?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t open it.”

  “You didn’t open it?” she nearly shrieks, making a couple of the regulars look our direction. But I don’t give a shit who’s watching us, so I don’t pay them any mind.

  “Daisy.”

  “Okay, you said that, but why? Why didn’t you open it?”

  “Why don’t you just open it now?” I suggest instead of answering.

  She nods then, grabbing the envelope and ripping into it without much finesse. The envelope is practically shredded, and I lean down to pick up a stray piece of it that’s fluttered to the floor.

  By the time I straighten back up in my seat, Daisy is fully engrossed in the letter and chanting the phrase, “Oh my God,” over and over again under her breath.

  I raise my eyebrows in question, and she says it again, extending the last word like some sort of prayer. “Oh my Gooood, Flynn! They want to do the interview in less than a month! Holy shit, they want to do the interview May 31st!”

  May 31st. The day of Jude and Sophie’s wedding.

  Daisy’s eyes have turned wild and crazy as she frantically glances between me and the letter in her hands. “Geez Louise, what are we going to do?”

  “Go to the interview?”

  “Flynn, they said three months, and that’s only like a month and a half! They must know!”

  My eyebrows draw together. “Know what?”

  “About us! About the sham! That I’m a big fat phony who needs to get deported!”

  “Daisy, relax.” I reach out to place my hand over hers. “They don’t know anything. You’re Canadian. You’re, like, the most nonthreatening type of immigrant. They’re probably just ready to push your stuff through.”

  “I just can’t believe it’s that soon,” she says, her voice despondent in a way I’m not entirely sure I understand. This is good news. The sooner they do the interview, the sooner we know there’s no chance Daisy’s going to get forced to leave.

  “When you get home tonight, I promise to fuck all the anxiety about it right out of you,” I respond cheekily and squeeze her fingers.

  Her smile is genuine but doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

  “I have to get fitted for a bridesmaid dress tonight with Winnie and Sophie.”

  “After, then,” I promise, wanting desperately to see the excitement her little question-game had brought to her beautiful face before she got freaked out by the USCIS letter.

  She nods, and her smile lights up her whole face, including her eyes. “After.”

  I may be a creature of habit, but a lot sure has changed in the last month. Most of all, I’m beginning to think there isn’t any length I wouldn’t go to to see Daisy smile.

  Daisy

  I shove inside the dress shop from the bustling city, and I immediately take a breath as the noise settles. It’s not that LA isn’t packed full of people—it is—but I’m used to having the buffer of my car. Don’t want to speak to someone? Roll up your window and gas it. Here in New York, I feel a little like I’m volunteering as tribute for the Hunger Games every time I step out onto the sidewalk.

  I spot Winnie immediately, perusing a rack of dresses in the center of the store, and make my way over to her. Just as I arrive, a young blonde steps out from behind the rack and moves to join us.

  “Hi, Daisy!” Winnie greets excitedly, pulling me into a big hug before stepping back.

  “Hi, hi!” I greet back with a pathetically awkward wave. I’ve been a little off-kilter since finding out that my immigration interview is scheduled for the morning of Sophie’s wedding, but I need to shake it off, for Pete’s sake. Trying on dresses is supposed to be fun, and I refuse to be the cloud of doom.

  “You remember my daughter, Lexi?” Winnie asks, holding out a sweeping hand to the absolutely gorgeous girl in question.

  “Oh, of course, Lexi. It’s so nice to formally meet you. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk with you more at family dinner.”

  “That’s all right. Logistically speaking, it’s pretty hard to carry on a conversation when people are shouting at above one hundred decibels anyway.”

  When Winnie laughs, I figure it’s safe to unleash my smile. “There were a lot of people yelling, weren’t there?”

  “Yeah. They all thought Uncle Flynn would grow old and die alone. So, a wife was a shock.”

  I laugh then; I can’t not. Surprisingly, it seems like the perfect time to let in a little tiny nugget of the truth. “To be honest, it was a jolt to me too.”

  Winnie and Lexi both laugh at that, and I take the moment to glance around the bridal shop in search of the third member of our party. “Where’s Sophie? Is she not here yet?”

  Winnie rolls her eyes good-naturedly and laughs. “Oh no, she’s here. She’s in the back. Every time we come here, no matter the reason, she can’t leave without trying on her dress too.”

  “Oh, great! I’d actually love to see it.”

  Lexi snorts. “That’s exactly what she said you’d say.”

  “Well, she was right,” I confirm. Plus, anything that delays the inevitable of me getting fitted for a dress I’m not even entirely sure I’m going to get the chance to wear is okay in my book.

  Does Flynn even realize the interview is the same day as his brother’s wedding?

  When we found out about the appointment at lunch this afternoon, he was encouraging, his usual calming force to my emotional nerves, but I don’t know if he put two and two together. I mean, once the interview is done, he’ll be released from his obligation. I’m sure I’ll have to do some things with Immigration on and off as I seek citizenship, but once USCIS declares us legitimate, I’m allowed time in the country to sort my status even if Flynn and I break up. I know, because on a painfully pathetic day while having lunch at my desk to avoid Tara and the rest of the people in the office, I looked it up.

  Winnie seems oblivious to my mental wandering, thankfully, as she and Lexi chat about different shoe options for the wedding. Lexi insists that flats are the most practical of all the options, but Winnie contests that then her butt won’t look as good.

  Evidently a fan of practicality over fashion, Lexi rolls her eyes.

  “Well?” Sophie announces suddenly, popping out from behind the back wall in a gorgeous top-beaded satin gown that pools around her feet beautifully. Not very many people in this world could pull off that dress, but Sophie does it in spades.

  “Wow, Sophie. You look stunning.”

  “Yeah. I’d say Uncle Jude is statistically likely to get an erection when he sees you.”

  “Lexi!” Winnie snaps while I choke on saliva and Sophie dissolves into a fit of laughter. “Oh my God, what in the world?”

  Lexi shrugs. “Men average eleven erections a day. With the sex appeal of Sophie’s wedding dress, it’s highly likely one of those will happen when he sees her.”

  Winnie puts two fingers to her forehead and sighs. “Remind me to check your internet protections again when we get home.”

  “Why? Is an erection not part of a male’s biology?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And sex appeal has
a marked cause and effect, proven by the statistics on its frequency in advertisements.”

  “Yes.”

  Lexi’s eyes widen as if to say, Well…what, then? and Sophie steps in to use Winnie’s obvious speechlessness to her advantage.

  “Great. Now that we know I’m beautiful in a way Jude won’t be able to deny,” she starts, stepping down off the platform and forward to place her hands on my shoulders and spin me. “Let’s go get Daisy in her dress so Liza can make whatever adjustments are necessary.”

  Winnie nods, and I go with Sophie’s guidance without a fight.

  When we round the back wall, Sophie moves from her position behind me to wrap one of her arms in mine, locking out elbows together. “I’m so glad you’re here, Daisy. It’s a little intimidating being an outsider in this group—even though everyone is nice, obviously—and it’s good to have some backup.”

  My throat is thick, and my nose stings with choked-back tears as they threaten immediately. I feel like a coward and a shrew, but knowing how important all of this is to the whole of my life as I know it, I keep my mouth shut once again.

  All I can do is nod, and Sophie mistakes my almost-tears for exactly what I wish they were—the thankful recognition that this family and its bond are the very things I’ve been looking for my entire life. Togetherness, support, and encouragement from a group of people who’d do anything for you and laugh at any joke you tell. God, I wish with a desperation I can’t describe that it was all real.

  “Aw, Dais. Don’t cry now. Tears and chiffon don’t mix.”

  She’s right. But neither do lies and a group of people so great they give ol’ Alexander a run for his money—and I’m so deep in the middle of that mixture that I don’t know if I’ll ever get out.

  Friday, May 10th

  Flynn

  As I snag my duffel from my gym locker, Jude lets out a deep sigh behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find him easing himself off the bench that resides in the middle of the locker room, his movements looking more like those of an elderly grandma after a rowdy game of backgammon than a fit, thirty-eight-year-old man who just got done with his daily workout.

  “You good?”

  “Am I good? Ha!” He grimaces. “No, I’m not good. My legs are Jell-O. I feel like fucking Bambi, dude. Next leg day, I’m not letting you lead the workout.”

  A laugh jumps from my lips, and I lift my duffel over my shoulder and shut the locker door. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  Jude scoffs. “My body says otherwise.”

  “You realize I’m not forcing you to work out with me,” I comment and lift my brow to punctuate that sentiment. Truth be told, I never asked Jude to work out with me. Several years ago, he just started showing up and hasn’t stopped. I will admit, though, the time together is nice. He’s always so chatty everywhere else, but at the gym, he’s too busy gasping for air.

  “And what am I supposed to do?” he retorts. “Meet Ty at fucking Planet Fitness and do yoga?”

  You might think he’s joking, but Ty actually does attend yoga classes, along with God only knows what else, and it’s all in the name of keeping his revolving door of women spinning and thriving.

  Over the last decade, I’ve yet to attend a family function without my second-youngest brother bringing some random woman along. And considering Ty’s never brought the same woman to a family function twice and the Winslow clan gets together two to three times a month, that’s a lot of fucking women.

  “And Rem’s day-trading schedule makes him work out at two in the morning like some kind of damn vampire. You’re my only viable option,” he says, snagging his backpack from the bench and scowling as he shifts on his feet to stand upright. “And right now, I hate you.”

  “You want me to see if they’ve got a wheelchair you can borrow?”

  “Shut up.”

  “A motorized scooter? Crutches?” I keep going, sarcasm and amusement lifting the corners of my lips, and Jude flips me the middle finger.

  “I like you better when you’re being all surly and not saying shit.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  I shrug and spin on my heel, more than ready to leave the locker room before the after-seven crowd takes over. But I only make it a few steps toward the door when Jude calls out, “Wait… Where are you going, man?”

  I turn around to meet his eyes. “Home.”

  “You don’t want to grab some dinner with me?” he questions. “I mean, it’s the least you can do for putting me through Satan’s leg day.”

  “Can’t. I’m making Daisy dinner.”

  Last night, she saw an Olive Garden commercial and started rambling on and on about fettuccine Alfredo. I told her I could make it for her sometime, and she looked at me as if I’d just said I was an alien from Mars. Though, it didn’t take long for her to make me promise to fulfill my homemade pasta offer ASAP, as in tonight after we both get home from work.

  “Oh yeah, Daisy.” A big, shit-eating grin consumes Jude’s face. “Your wife that none of us knew about until you’d already married her.”

  Actually, he did meet her. In Vegas. But just like Ty and Remy, he was apparently too drunk to remember, and I’m not going to be the one to tell him.

  “Of all the people to get married before me, you were the last motherfucker I expected to pull that trick out of his mysterious hat. I mean, you were all ‘I don’t do the relationship and marriage thing,’ but now look at you. You’re someone’s husband.”

  “You don’t like Daisy?”

  “Get real.” He rolls his eyes. “She’s going to be a bridesmaid in my wedding, bro. Of course, I like Daisy. Sophie loves Daisy. I’m just still trying to figure out where in the hell she came from. Seriously, Flynn, how did you go from the guy who barely even dated to fucking married in the blink of an eye?”

  “It’s a fake marriage,” I answer, giving him the full truth, but it feels foreign on my tongue. Like it shouldn’t even be there. Like it’s not the truth at all.

  His response? An outburst of laughter.

  “Oh yeah, okay, a fake marriage,” he repeats, using his fingers to make air quotes around his words. “Sure thing, Flynn.” He rolls his eyes again and keeps laughing as if I just told the biggest joke of the century. “How long did you know her before you got married?”

  “Not long.”

  “Not long.” Jude sighs. “That really narrows it down.” He eyes me suspiciously, his gaze narrowing as if he’s attempting to seek out all the answers by telepathy. “Fuck, you’re difficult to read. You’re my own brother, and you’re still a damn mystery to me. I swear, if you ever went missing, your own fucking family wouldn’t even know what to tell the cops.”

  Funnily enough, he’s probably not wrong, but that has more to do with my family never actually asking me anything to give them an insight into my life. It’s not that they don’t want to, I don’t think. They’re just intimidated or something. Daisy isn’t intimidated to ask. Hell, she knows you more than anyone has ever known you.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and since Jude is busy trying to read my mind, I pull it out to check my messages.

  Daisy: Running a little later than I expected, but I should be home by 8:30. We still on for you cooking me a glorious feast?

  I grin and shoot her a quick Yes back.

  But when I look up from my phone, I find that Jude is still watching me like I’m the most interesting thing in the locker room. Ironically, I’ve now told him and Remy the truth about Daisy and me, but the fuckers don’t believe me—even after what I told Remy turned out to be true.

  Whatever. It’s his problem, not mine.

  I leave the locker room for good this time, but Jude follows right behind on his shaky Bambi legs.

  “It’s all pretty fucking nuts, bro,” he calls toward my back as I walk past the reception area and out of the gym’s lobby doors. “I mean, you’re married, before me, the guy who had to propose four fucking times before Sophie said yes.”
/>
  Truthfully, I have not a clue what he’s trying to get at here, and I don’t care to know. He and Sophie are getting married, and Daisy and I already are. End of story—almost.

  Jude looks out toward the street and then back at me. He searches my eyes with scrutiny again, until eventually, he asks, “Why did you get married, dude? Like, what the hell changed? You’re the most rational person I know, and it seems like this marriage was on a damn whim. Like it just dropped out of the sky. I like Daisy, I really do, but this is all so unlike you.” His eyes go wide and imploring. “Oh shit, you’re not in the middle of a fucking nervous breakdown, are you?”

  Pretty sure anyone who is in the middle of a nervous breakdown doesn’t realize they’re in the middle of one, but in the name of not getting him all worked up, I keep that shit to myself.

  “I’m good, man.”

  “You sure?”

  I sigh. Nod. And I almost end the conversation right there, but something inside me makes me want to put Jude at ease. “Daisy is…better than I ever imagined she’d be,” I tell him. “She’s hilarious. Fucking adorable. Talks enough for the both of us. She makes life fun.”

  And you actually really fucking like her.

  I can’t deny that ever since Daisy came blazing into my life, I’ve been the opposite of bored. This last month is the most I’ve laughed in a lifetime, I’m certain.

  She’s also the first woman you want to spend time with. A lot of fucking time, in fact…

  “Are you in the mafia? Is that what it is?” Jude questions out of fucking nowhere. “Or is it the CIA? Are you an undercover agent living a double life, and you can’t tell anyone about it?”

  “Who knows,” I answer through a shrug and hitch my duffel higher on my shoulder. “Maybe I’m not even your actual brother. Maybe Mom’s in on it too.”

  For an instant, Jude’s eyes look so big they might pop out of his skull, but then, he reaches out to punch me in the shoulder. “You’re such an asshole.”

  I shake my head on a chuckle, and it’s then that I notice the T-shirt he changed into after our workout that had him whining like a baby. White cotton material with a variety of badges spread all over his chest and stomach and back and arms, and the words “The Secret Club” embroidered across his right pec.