by Carian Cole
I thought so, too.
“That’s true,” I say. “But we did. I know it’s hard to understand and sounds crazy. But we really are just friends.”
I’m starting to worry that we’re going to spend this entire visit trying to explain how we’re not really married. Even though they’re older, his aunt and uncle don’t appear to be suffering any mental impairment or confusion. They’re just not buying into our marriage arrangement.
“Honey, if you were just friends, he wouldn’t have brought you home to us. He’s never brought a girl home before. Not once.” She whacks a zucchini with her knife, as if to punctuate her statement. “And he talks about you all the time when he comes over or we talk on the phone.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I almost chop the tip of my finger off.
“Really?” I comment, trying to sound casual and not overly excited.
She nods as she opens a cabinet and pulls out a bunch of tiny spice bottles. “Oh yes. Constantly. He sounds like he’s crazy about you. Which is why I don’t understand this fake marriage malarkey.”
Tingles of excitement and nerves race up my spine at the thought of Jude talking about me, especially after he’s been so adamant that there’s absolutely nothing between us. It doesn’t make sense.
Honestly, I thought Jude only invited me here so I could see all the cool sixties decor, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe he really did want me to meet his family.
I’m afraid to let my mind go to the next thought: Could he have feelings for me?
No, I tell myself. That would be crazy. Just because I’ve got a silly little crush on him doesn’t mean he has one on me. But if he did? I honestly don’t know if that’d be good or bad. Catching feelings could turn our situation into a mess.
“And age doesn’t matter,” Aunt Suzy continues, oblivious to my worries. “In fact, I think it’s better. You deserve a man who knows what he wants and can take care of you after all you’ve been through.”
So, Jude obviously has been talking to her about me, and not just about my job and my hobbies. Does she know about my mother? My eating disorder? She must think I’m a disaster.
I decide to change the subject before I go down a rabbit hole of over-thinking and end up passing out on her tile floor. “What kind of soup are you making?” I ask, pouring my sliced carrots into a big bowl just like she did with her celery.
“Vegetable and rice. It’s my favorite. I hope you’ll stay for lunch?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t think we can. Jude mentioned something about having to be home.”
“He works too much,” she says with a mix of pride and sympathy. “You have to try to get him to relax. Have a little fun.”
“I will,” I promise, even though I have no idea how I’m supposed to accomplish that.
“Jude spent every weekend with us when he was a little boy. His mother is Al’s sister.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“They both worked a lot—his parents. So, we took the kids on the weekends. Jude kept us on our toes with his antics. He loved to make us laugh. He was always taking care of everything and everyone. I used to call him Little Mister Fixer.”
That piques my interest. There’s so much I don’t know about him. “How do you mean?”
“He was always fixing things. If a toy was broken, he’d spend hours gluing it back together. He’d take my needle and thread and sew up ripped stuffed animals for Erin.”
My heart melts. “That’s so sweet.”
“One day a baby squirrel fell out of the nest right there in the yard and broke its leg. Pretty sure it bounced on its head, too, because it wobbled all the time.” I smile as she wobbles her own head back and forth to illustrate. “Anyway, Lucky nursed it back to health all by himself. He kept it in a big box and took it home with him and brought it back here on the weekends.”
“Wow.” I try to picture Jude as a little boy taking care of a tiny squirrel.
“It’s leg healed, but it was never quite right in the head. It lived on our screened porch for almost six years. It was just like a cat, it’d sit on our laps and loved to be petted. It slept in a snuggly little bed. We loved him, but he was really Lucky’s pet. He was heartbroken when it passed away.”
“Aw,” I say over the lump forming in my throat. “That’s so sad. But it sounds like you guys gave him a good life.”
“We did. Jude’s much more sensitive than he lets on. He took his parents’ divorce so hard. And then after Erin…” She exhales a deep sigh. “He was never the same. The drinking, then the drugs. All that self-destruction. We worry about him.”
I don’t know what to say about Erin. Do I offer condolences? Remark on how tragic it all is? Just not say anything?
“He’s clean now. So, that’s a good thing,” I say optimistically. “He seems to be doing great.”
“He is. But honey, forgive me for saying… I know you two keep saying your marriage isn’t real. But if there’s a chance for more, I think he’d make you very happy. He deserves to have someone love him. To take care of him like he tries to take care of everyone else. It’s so hard for him to trust and let people in.”
I nod and swallow back unexpected tears. “You’re right. He does deserve that.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that will never be me. That’s not what Jude signed up for.
And I feel awful that him marrying me might prevent him from finding the right woman.
“I’ve probably said too much,” she says apologetically. “But I can’t help myself. He’s like a son to us.”
“You didn’t say too much. It’s all very sweet. Do you have any children?” I hope it’s not rude to ask, but I’m too curious not to.
“No, that wasn’t part of the plan for us. But we love Jude and Erin like our own.”
“He’s lucky to have such a loving family,” I say, wishing I had relatives like this. I did, at one time. My grandparents were sweet and supportive. Like Jude, I also spent weekends and holidays with them to “give my mother a break,” as my grandmother would say. It wasn’t really to give my mother a break, though. It was to get me out of her house for a while so I could have some normalcy. Many times, my grandparents tried to convince my mom to let me live with them, but she refused and threatened to not let them see me at all. To her, I was one of the things that belonged in her pile of stuff.
“You’re part of the family now, too,” Aunt Suzy says, wiping her hands on a towel. “Actually, I have something for you.”
“For me?” I ask in surprise.
“Yes, I’ll be right back.”
I wonder what she could possibly have for me as she darts from the kitchen and goes down the hall toward what I assume are the bedrooms.
“Okay,” she says, when she returns a few moments later. “I think you’ll love it.”
She hands me a white, folded T-shirt. I slowly unfold it, dumbfounded as to why she’d be giving me a shirt. The fabric is soft, so threadbare that it’s almost transparent. The neckline and hem are worn to a fray, and several tiny holes are scattered on the garment.
I stare at the light-blue guitar and dove logo on the front, trying to remember where I’ve seen it before.
And then it hits me.
“Oh my God.” My words are slow. I’m overcome with shock. “Is this what I think it is?” My hands shake as I hold the shirt open and run my finger over the iconic Woodstock logo.
“It sure is. Jude told me how much you love old music and vintage clothes. I’d love for you to have it. I haven’t worn it in years, but there was a time when I lived in it, as you can tell. I hate that it’s sitting in a drawer.”
“I can’t take this,” I say, trying to hand it back to her. “This is rare. And special. It must be worth money—”
She pushes it back to me. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t care about that. I’d love for you to have it. Please.”
“A-are you sure?” I ask.
She smiles reassuringly. “I’m positive.”
>
“I’m speechless.” I hold the soft shirt against my chest. “I don’t even know how to thank you for something so amazing. I love it.” I gently hug her. “Thank you, Aunt Suzy.”
I can’t believe she just gave me a genuine, authentic Woodstock T-shirt. I have a lot of cool shirts, but none of them come close to the epic-ness of this one. And it means even more that it came from Jude’s aunt.
We go back to chopping vegetables, and she tells me all about her Woodstock experience. She says the next time we come over, she’ll show me photos of old concerts, Jude as a little boy, and the squirrel. She’s excited to show me her record collection. I’m fascinated, but my mind is spinning with emotions.
She’s an incredibly sweet woman, and it’s clear she absolutely adores Jude. Guilt is eating away at my conscience—being in their home as a pretend wife, being treated like real family. A ball of sadness has crept up into my throat. If this were real, I think I would’ve grown to like this. I’d be looking forward to seeing Aunt Suzy and Uncle Al again and getting to know them.
But I don’t know if I ever will.
Chapter 23
Jude
“Do you know what you’re doin’, kiddo?” Uncle Al asks.
I peer at him from behind the washing machine. “It’s just a washing machine, not a spaceship. I think the hose is loose.”
“Not that, dummy. With the girl.”
I flash him the shit-eatin’ grin he’s seen from me since I was five years old. “Do I ever know what I’m doing?”
“I figured as much.”
I crawl out from behind the washing machine and rummage around on the shelves bolted to the wall until I find a big roll of duct tape.
“I’ll tape it up for now until I can come by next weekend with a new hose.”
He nods and sits on an old wooden bench. I worry because the older he gets, the harder it is for him to stand for long periods of time. “Good. Now tell me what in the hell you’re doing.”
I hold the roll of tape up in front of him before turning back to the washer. “Exactly what it looks like. I’m gonna tape this sucker up.”
“With the girl, Lucky.”
Damn. Why did I think they’d just accept the situation with Skylar and not ask me a million and one questions?
“I told ya. She’s got some health issues and needed insurance. Her mom doesn’t have insurance, and Skylar can’t afford her own. It’s only temporary until she graduates from school and can work full time. I’m just being nice. Doing a good deed and all that. That’s it. No hidden motives. Nothing to get your panties in a twist about.”
“I think you’re playing with fire, kiddo.”
I shake my head. “Nah. It’s all good.”
I wedge myself back behind the washing machine, yank a few inches of tape off the roll, and bite it off with my teeth before taping up the hose.
“So you’re just gonna kick her out someday?”
When I finish taping the hose, I move out from behind the machine and shake my head. “No, I’m not gonna kick her out. We’ll both just go our separate ways. Simple as that.”
“It ain’t gonna be that simple, Lucky. Trust me.”
It will be. That was the deal. I don’t understand why everyone’s trying to make it more complicated than it is, or acting like I’m crazy for being nice to someone who needs help.
“I’ll make sure it will be. Nobody’s gonna get hurt. Don’t worry ’bout it, okay?”
Upstairs, we find Aunt Suzy and Skylar in the kitchen, crawling around on the floor on their hands and knees.
“What the hell are you two doing?” I ask, bending to grab my aunt’s shoulders, gently pulling her to her feet. “You’re too old to be crawlin’ around like that.”
“I am not too old.” She tries to pull away from me, and that’s when I notice the tears in the corners of her eyes.
“Aunt Suze…” I look her up and down, still holding on to her arms, concern coursing through my veins. “Did you fall?” I shift my attention to Skylar, who’s still kneeling on the floor. “What happened?”
“My ring…” My aunt holds out a trembling hand. “I was in the cupboard looking for my big soup pot, and I noticed my ring. The stone is gone.”
“I’ve been looking for it,” Skylar says. Her scarf is dragging on the floor as she searches, sliding her palms across the tile. “I’m sure it was there when we were chopping the vegetables. I remember thinking how pretty it was.”
“We’ll find it, love,” Uncle Al says, grabbing on to one of the kitchen chairs in an attempt to lower himself down onto the floor.
“Whoa,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Both of you, stay off the floor. We’ll look for it.”
“We have to find it,” Aunt Suzy says tearfully. “It’s my engagement ring.”
“She never takes it off,” Uncle Al adds. “I sold my car to buy that ring.”
The heartbreaking look that passes between them almost kills me.
“You two sit. Me and Skylar will look for it. Are you sure it fell off in here?” I run my hand through my hair and scan the tile floor, wondering how the hell we’re going to find a diamond in here.
“I’m sure.”
“They’ll find it,” Uncle Al says, patting her hand.
Skylar smiles and nods at me as we search together. After checking every inch of the floor with her, I check over the countertops and sink, while Skylar pulls out all the pots and pans, one by one. If we don’t find the stone, my aunt is going to have a meltdown. She’s insanely sentimental, and her engagement ring has always been her most prized and loved possession.
“I found it!” Skylar suddenly exclaims, and I let out a sigh of relief as she holds the sparkling gem up.
“Oh, thank you!” Aunt Suzy cries. “I was so afraid it was gone forever.” Skylar gently places it in her hand. “Special things like this can never, ever be replaced.”
“Why don’t you give it to me with your ring, and I’ll take it to a jeweler and get it fixed.”
“I don’t know...” Aunt Suzy says, looking down at her stoneless ring. “I don’t ever take it off.”
“I know, but we gotta get it fixed. We can’t crazy glue it back in. I promise I’ll take care of it, and I’ll get it back to you right away.”
“Let him get it fixed, Suzy. You don’t want to lose it again,” Uncle Al says.
“There’s a great jewelry store right down the street from where I work,” Skylar adds. “We’ll make sure they’ll take extra good care of it. They can check all the prongs to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
Reluctantly, my aunt pulls off her gold ring and hands it to me. I carefully place the ring and stone in a small Ziploc sandwich bag.
“I’ll have it back soon, good as new,” I promise.
My uncle leans over and presses a soft kiss to my aunt’s forehead, whispering something that I can’t hear. On the other side of the room, Skylar is watching them with a small, dreamy smile on her face, then shifts her gaze to meet mine.
There’s a brief glimmer of longing in her eyes, chased away by a flash of sadness.
I quickly look away.
Nope. No way in hell am I gonna let myself think what my aunt and uncle have is in the cards for me. They got lucky. Despite my nickname, I’m not that lucky.
Later, when we’re home, we take Cassie in the backyard to run around, and Skylar puts Gus in a cat stroller and pushes her around the perimeter of the property. I stand on the back patio smoking, wondering how I ended up with a teen bride pushing a cat in a baby stroller across my yard.
And yet somehow, I can’t imagine my life any other way right now.
“How ’bout I make us some grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner,” I say when we get back inside.
“Like you made last time?” she asks. “With the same kind of white cheese and bread? And butter?”
“Exactly like last time.”
She tugs on loose threads at the edge of her scarf. “And it’s a
ll new?”
“Yup. Got it at the grocery store yesterday.” I open the refrigerator and pull out the new package of thin-sliced deli cheese. “See?” I say, holding it up.
“Okay. I’d like one.”
As I start making the sandwiches, she opens one of the cabinets and takes out her bottle of digestive enzymes.
“How’ve you been feeling?” I ask. “Does all that stuff help?” She has a row of medication and supplements she takes several times a day.
“I think so. My stomach doesn’t hurt like it used to, and my throat isn’t sore anymore.”
I flip the sandwiches over in the pan. “That’s great.”
Seeing her world slowly get better makes this odd arrangement worth it. Sure, she’s costing me a few hundred dollars a month, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
Even though Skylar eats slower than a snail moves, I always sit at the table with her when we eat together and wait until she’s done before I get up. This act is a double-edged sword. While she likes that I sit with her, it also makes her anxious, because she feels like I’m watching her eat. She’s not wrong. At first, I did sit there and watch her cut her food up into tiny pieces, inspecting each bite before she put it in her mouth. A few times, she froze under the pressure, stopped chewing, and completely forgot how to swallow. She ran to the bathroom and spit her food out into the toilet, then came back to the kitchen, sniffling, hanging her head in shame.
These are things I don’t ever want her to go through again.
So now I flip through a magazine while she eats. Keeping her company, but not watching her. It works.
“I can’t believe your aunt gave me that shirt,” she says between bites as she scratches off today’s lottery ticket while she eats. “I legit had to hold back from freaking out and jumping up and down.”
“She has a lot of old stuff. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has five of those shirts lying around.”