by Tawna Fenske
“We may not have kept in close touch, but I always paid attention to your Facebook statuses.”
“Huh.” I’m not sure what else to say to that. Here’s where I should probably admit to scoping out her Facebook page a little more than I’ve let on. Watching the parade of guys she’s dated over the years and secretly noticing that none of them were good enough for her.
I clear my throat. “I never had the sort of friendship with them that I did with you.”
Or sex as mind-blowing as what we just had.
“Besides,” I add. “We made a pact to marry each other if we were both still single at thirty. I’m here, you’re here—”
“You’re hard,” she says, grinning as she grips my cock under the blanket. My mind veers from a place of responsibility and logic and into a much darker corner.
“At least promise me you’ll consider it,” I say. “Humor me?”
She stares into my eyes for a long time, then shakes her head. “Fine,” she says. “If you’re serious—and I’m still not convinced you are—then I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I can ask,” I say, my voice cracking a little as she strokes me under the blanket.
We may not be on the same page as far as this marriage business goes, but clearly there’s one thing we both want.
So I roll her onto her back and set about making it happen.
Chapter Five
Sarah
Saturday morning brunch with the ladies is interesting, to say the least. It’s just Lisa and Cassie, since Missy has a dentist appointment and Junie’s at driver’s ed.
Cassie wears a comfy fleece jacket over a T-shirt that reads “Soil scientists like it dirty.” Her hair is in a messy topknot, and she has the look of a woman who’s been up all night doing unspeakable things with her hot fiancé.
Lisa is clad in a silk blouse and black pencil skirt, and she’s carefully stirring milk into her chamomile as she eyes me across the table.
They’re as opposite as two sisters can be, but they’re unified in one thing:
“You’ve lost your ever-lovin’ mind,” Lisa says, shaking her head at me. “I love you, but I can’t believe you’re even considering this.”
Cassie keeps the judgey comments to herself, but the fact that she doesn’t argue with Lisa’s statement says something. She grabs a piece of sourdough toast from the basket in the middle of the table and starts loading it with strawberry jam. “So what are you going to do?”
I shrug and swirl my last bite of eggs benedict through a puddle of hollandaise on my plate. “I told him I’d think about it,” I say. “We agreed to do a few test runs with social events. Accompanying each other to business dinners and parties and stuff.”
“Sort of like having an escort?” Lisa asks.
“I suppose.” I tear off a corner of toast and use it to mop up the last of the sauce. “I wouldn’t have to pay for the sex, though.”
Cassie grins. “Judging by that smirk you’re wearing, it would be worth the money.”
I dab my mouth with a napkin to hide my smile, not willing to admit just how right she is. I gave them the bare bones of what happened last night, but I left out most details. The earth-shattering orgasms. Ian’s commanding presence and penchant for dirty talk. The way our bodies fit together like we’d done this a million times before.
“I hope it’s okay, I’ll be bringing him as my date to your wedding,” I tell Cassie.
“Of course it’s okay.” Cassie does a mock round of applause with her toast. “You said a few weeks ago you wanted to bring someone really hot. Mission accomplished.”
“Does this mean you have a date for tonight’s costume gala?” Lisa asks.
“Yep.” I drain the last of my orange juice. “You know I was dreading going alone.”
“That is one upside of marriage,” Lisa says. “You always have a date for things.”
She shoots a dubious look at Cassie, whose expression radiates more concern than judgment.
“You don’t have to worry,” I assure them. “I promise I won’t run off and elope or anything. You have to admit, what he says is pretty sensible.”
Lisa frowns and sips her tea. “Marriage isn’t about being sensible. It’s about passion and commitment and love and—”
“Right, but what if that’s not in the cards?” I set my fork down and press the tips of my fingers into the table. “I’m serious, I’ve been dating since my teens and I haven’t found the one.”
Lisa gives me a sympathetic head tilt. “Like Joe ‘I can’t stop looking at my own reflection when we walk by store windows’ Johnson?”
“Ew.” Cassie makes a face. “He was the worst.”
“Not as bad as Bradley ‘I have to check my phone every six seconds because I might miss a sports score ’ Reynolds,” I point out. “Though he did have nice hair.”
“So did that one guy—David? No, Devon!” Cassie claps her hands together so loudly our waitress jumps. “The one who talked with the fake French accent?”
“I don’t think I met him.” Lisa swirls a little honey into her tea. “Who was the guy you dated for like a year? The one who got you the cheese grater for Christmas.”
“Dan,” I mutter, determined not to be bitter that I spent two hundred dollars buying him the GoPro he’d asked for. “But that’s still better than Chris, the guy who took me shopping for engagement rings.”
Lisa frowns. “I don’t think I’ve heard this story.”
“It was before I met you, maybe five years ago?” I shake my head, more annoyed than bitter. “I told him I didn’t want anything too blingy or flashy or expensive, but he insisted that whatever was on his wife’s finger was a reflection on him as a man and a provider. We got into this big fight about it and he ended up dumping me.”
“Jesus.” Cassie jabs her fork into a small heap of corned beef hash. “Insecure much?”
“But that’s what I’m talking about,” I say, flattening my hands on the table. “I’ve put myself out there. I’ve dated plenty of guys. I’ve had serious relationships, but I still haven’t hooked up with my dream man.”
“Maybe you just haven’t met him yet,” Lisa offers helpfully.
“Or maybe I’m meant to have a different kind of marriage,” I say. “One that doesn’t involve falling head over heels like some kind of love-drunk klutz, but walking deliberately into something more…sensible.”
“Sensible.” Lisa makes a face. “You’re choosing a husband, not buying a pair of loafers.”
Cassie pokes her fork around in what’s left of her corned beef hash and considers it. “I suppose it makes some sense,” she says. “More than 50 percent of marriages in the world are arranged marriages, and the average divorce rate for those is about 6 percent.” She frowns. “Some of that is skewed by forced marriage and child brides and other grim stuff like that.”
“I promise this is nothing that horrifying,” I assure her. “We’re both consenting adults who already know each other. Hell, we’re already good friends.”
Good friends who have great sex.
I keep that part to myself, but I can tell by how they’re looking at me that they hear the unspoken words.
“Do you really know each other anymore?” Lisa asks. “You said yourself you hadn’t seen each other since college.”
“Last night, it was like we never missed a beat,” I tell them. “We fell right back into being best friends again. It was the strangest thing.”
“Best friends who bang each other silly,” Cassie says, smirking.
Lisa shoots her sister an eyeroll. “You don’t base marriage on friendship and good sex.”
Cassie rolls her eyes right back. “Why the hell not? It seems like a good starting point to me.”
Lisa frowns, but seems to concede the point. “Fine,” she says as she turns back to me. “Just promise you’ll be careful? I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I promise,” I tell her. “I’m just thinking about it for
now. Not running down to the courthouse with a ring in my pocket.”
We split the check and hug goodbye, with me pledging to keep them both posted on tonight’s costume party. “I’ll take pictures,” I promise.
“Of the costumes,” Lisa clarifies. “We don’t need naked stuff.”
“Speak for yourself,” Cassie says. “I wouldn’t mind a shirtless pic of Ian.”
The two of them walk away with their heads close together, talking or bickering or whispering their sisterly secrets. I always wished for a sister, or even a brother or cousin. It was just my mom and me, out on a farm in northeast Oregon. I envied my classmates with their big families and smiling, cheerful parents who held hands at the dinner table and teased each other about whose turn it was to do the dishes.
Shaking off the memories, I turn and head the opposite direction. Ian and I agreed to meet at Portland’s biggest costume shop to grab what we need for tonight’s charity costume party.
As I round the corner, I spot him waiting for me on a bench outside the shop. He’s staring down at his phone, which gives me a chance to study him. Sunlight glints off his reddish-brown mop, giving his hair a flamelike appearance. His shoulders seem even broader hunched the way they are now, and the blue T-shirt he’s wearing shows the edge of a tattoo I glimpsed last night.
I asked him about it this morning.
“What’s this?” I’d traced a finger over one of the lines as we said goodbye at my front door.
It’s possible I just wanted another excuse to touch him.
Ian pulled up the edge of his sleeve, revealing the three arrows I’d been noticing all night. “The number three represents how people with Down Syndrome have three copies of the twenty-first chromosome instead of just two,” he explained softly. “And the arrows represent rising up and moving forward.”
My eyes filled with tears, but I blinked them back as he reached for the door. “That’s beautiful.”
It is. For all Ian’s lack of sentimentality about marriage, I know he’s still raw about Shane’s death. That day is burned permanently into my brain, but I know it left marks elsewhere on Ian. Can I really blame him for not wanting to pour his heart into anything?
A soft wind kicks up, pulling me back to the present on this Portland city street. I study the edge of the tattoo now, feeling my heart ball up tight in my chest. Ian Nolan is a good man. If he’s serious about the marriage thing, I know he’ll commit for life. That’s the kind of guy Ian is. Reliable. Kind. Loyal.
Sexy. Hot. Phenomenal in bed.
He still hasn’t noticed me, so I keep watching, committing his details to memory. The wind rustles his hair, and Ian lifts a hand to brush a leaf off his knee. His biceps ripple, and two female joggers do a doubletake to gawk at him.
What would it be like to wake up to that every morning? It may not be the passionate, love-based marriage I always imagined, but plans change. I’ve reinvented plenty of other goals over the years. This one’s no different.
Ian’s head jerks up, and for a second I think he’s checking out the joggers. But no, his eyes go straight to me, locking on my face as his expression breaks into a smile.
“Hey there.” He stands and strides toward me, shoving his phone in his back pocket. “Ready to play dress-up?”
“I can’t wait.”
We fall into step together, careful not to touch each other. There’s an electricity arcing between us that’s almost palpable, but we’re being watchful with one another. Cautious.
“Thanks again for doing this,” I tell him. “My colleagues are going to be so happy not to see me in my ninja costume again.”
“You’d be a great ninja.”
“I’ve been a great ninja for six years running,” I tell him. “I’m ready to be something else.”
I don’t mention how badly I’ve wanted to do one of those cute couples’ costumes I’m always seeing at these things. Mr. and Ms. Pac-Man. Ketchup and Mustard. Little Bo-Peep and her lost sheep. There’s something adorable about it, and I’ve felt a twinge of envy every time I’ve seen one of those cutesy pairs coming through the door.
I nibble the edge of my lip and look up at Ian. “You sure you’re okay with something matching?”
“Sure,” he says, leading me around the corner toward the shop. “As long as it’s not something like John and Lorena Bobbitt.”
I laugh and toss my hair off my forehead. “The chick who cut off her husband’s—”
“Don’t say it,” he says, doing a mock shudder. “Though you’d be cute walking around with a butcher knife and a sausage.”
“I promise I won’t suggest anything that involves pretending to carry your penis in my pocket,” I assure him.
“Well there go all my plans.”
I laugh as I catch sight of our reflection in the glass windowpanes of the diner on the corner. We look like a normal couple. Like a regular boyfriend and girlfriend instead of two people considering an arranged marriage.
“So did you have anything in mind for the costume?” Ian asks, nudging my elbow to guide me around a spilled milkshake on the sidewalk.
I shrug and stuff my hands in my pockets. “How do you feel about Wonder Woman and Steve Trevor?”
Ian considers that as he kicks through a pile of leaves. “Like from the early DC Comics in the forties and fifties, or from that TV show in the seventies, or from the movie that came out in 2017?”
I gawk at him. “Is there that much of a difference?”
He feigns horror, falling back against the side of the building. “Huge! Depending on the different versions, Steve was either a spy, a pilot, a bumbling himbo, or a war hero who reduces Wonder Woman to a lovesick puddle.” He offers a sheepish smile. “I guess either way, he usually ends up dead.”
“I was picturing you naked in the pool,” I admit, not wanting to admit just how vividly I pictured it. “Like that scene where Gal Gadot walks in on Chris Pine taking a bath?”
Ian laughs and pantomimes Chris-as-Steve stepping out of the pools. “Are you going to ask if I’m a typical example of my sex?”
My cheeks heat up as I remember the actor modestly admitting he’s “above average.” That’s sure as hell true for Ian.
“All right, no costumes that require nudity,” I assure him. “And no Bobbitt-inspired severed penises.”
“We’re sure whittling down the options here.”
I give it some more thought as we push through the doors of the costume shop and head for the front counter. There are mannequins everywhere in all shapes and sizes, but most of them are naked. Seems a little odd for the city’s largest costume shop, but it is Portland.
I tear my eyes off the torso of a headless blue mannequin that’s missing an arm. “How about Han Solo and Princess Leia?” I suggest.
“First Steve Trevor, now Han Solo.” Ian quirks an eyebrow at me. “Is there a reason you’re wanting me to be a guy who ends up dead?”
“All right, what did you have in mind?”
He eyes me up and down, pretending to consider. “You’d make a spectacular sexy cop,” he says. “Or a sexy nurse. Maybe a sexy teacher.”
I snort. “Why do all women’s costumes end up being a sexy something?”
“Not all women.” He grins. “Just you.”
I laugh again as I continue my march toward the bored-looking attendant at the front of the store. As I fold my hands on the counter, the guy stares at me like he’s never seen a customer before.
“Hi there,” I say, pasting on the girl-next-door smile that always makes cashiers friendlier. “We’re interested in seeing what you have for couples’ costumes.”
The guy yawns. “For what day?”
“Tonight, actually.”
He grunts and taps a chewed-up pencil on the top of the cash register. “That ship sailed months ago,” he says. “You’re going to the Masquerade Escapade?”
I stare at him, confused. “The what?”
“Biggest costume ball on the West Coast.
They’ve got forty different bands playing and people flying in from all over the country.”
“I—uh—no,” I say. “I’m going to the annual charity gala for the Special Needs Alliance. It’s a costume party they hold every year as a fund-raiser.”
The attendant shrugs. “Dunno. Guess they’re happening at the same time? Either way, there are no costumes.”
I whirl around and take in the naked mannequins, the empty racks. I was so busy talking with Ian when we walked in that I failed to notice the whole shop looks like a tornado took out its inventory. I turn back to the attendant. “I had no idea.”
Ian frowns. “So you’re saying you don’t have any costumes?”
The guy nods toward a lopsided mannequin wearing a crumpled cardboard box printed with the word Marlboro. “Only if she wants to go as a pack of smokes.” He eyes Ian up and down. “We don’t have anything in your size.”
Disappointment swells in my belly. I should have planned ahead, but how the hell did I know I’d end up with a last-minute date-slash-fiancé? And how the hell would I have guessed the charity gala would coincide with some big music festival?
I turn back to the cashier. “So we’re all out of options.”
“’Fraid so.” He offers me a sympathetic shrug. “Sorry.”
“No clearance rack stuff we can buy?” My voice sounds frantic now. “Or last-resort costumes tucked away in the back room somewhere?”
The guy stares at me, but doesn’t bother to respond.
Ian shrugs and holds out his arm. “Come on.”
I hesitate, casting a glance at one of the naked mannequins. “Where are we going?”
“I saw a Goodwill down the block. We can find stuff to make our own costumes.”
The conviction in Ian’s green eyes is enough to make me want to follow him anywhere. What is it about this guy that makes me feel totally fine about waving goodbye to old dreams and latching on to something new? I know we’re only talking about costumes here, but there’s something bigger bubbling between us. He knows it, I know it—it’s just a matter of whether we’ll take the next steps.
“All right,” I say, hooking my arm through his. “Let’s invent our own awesomeness.”