by Tawna Fenske
“Good question.” Ian reaches for his mug and starts to answer, then frowns as a woman walks past our table shouting loudly about her coffee order.
“I told you I wanted a venti soy quadruple shot latte with no foam,” she yells as she marches toward the counter. “This tastes like flax milk, not soy.”
Ian quirks an eyebrow at me. “Is it just me, or are coffee orders way more complicated since our college days?”
“You mean like the guy in line ahead of us?” I smile and do my best imitation of the skinny jean–clad hipster who has since left the building. “I’ll have a fat-free iced macchiato, upside down, with two pumps of vanilla and three pumps of caramel.”
“Exactly.” Ian rattles his espresso mug in its saucer, but doesn’t pick it up. “Isn’t that basically a giant cup of sugar?”
“But no fat, apparently. And what the hell is upside down, anyway?”
“I think it’s a way of avoiding stirring your own beverage,” he says. “Because that’s too cumbersome?”
I giggle and take a sip of my drink, secretly wondering if Ian’s going to answer my question about why we should get married at all. I’m genuinely curious what he’d say.
“This is why,” he says. He gestures to the space around us, and it takes me a second to get his meaning.
“Why—oh.” I glance around the bustling little coffee shop. “You mean you want to get married for coffee dates?”
“Not just coffee dates,” he says. “Social engagements. Business meetings. Sunday brunches. It’s nice waking up in the same bedroom as someone and walking down the street hand in hand to have brunch in the neighborhood café.”
“Right.” When he puts it that way, it doesn’t sound much different from the sort of marriage I always pictured. Except—
“So the main thing we’re ruling out is love,” I say. “We’re not writing each other romantic sonnets or making declarations about how we complete each other. We’re basically houseplants existing in the same space.”
Ian tilts his head to the side. “Houseplants that have sex?” His teasing smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something slightly more serious. “Wait, I don’t want to presume. If you feel better having separate bedrooms, I understand the need for privacy.”
I snort into my cappuccino. “Please. One of the chief advantages of this arrangement is having a permanent butt-warmer.”
“Now who’s the romantic?” He grins and runs a finger around the rim of his mug. I glance away, not wanting to get too lost in thought about what else he can do with that finger.
“So what happens if someone falls in love?” I say the words fast, like I’m swallowing a spoonful of medicine instead of spitting out the question that’s been nagging at me.
Ian looks startled, like I’ve asked what happens if I grow reindeer antlers and a bulbous red nose. “That’s not—possible.” His throat moves as he swallows. “Not for me.”
“Right.” Here’s where I’m supposed to say the same thing, right? I take a deep breath. “I suppose if I make up my mind at the outset—”
“You can resist falling in love with me?” He grins like it’s the most absurd thing imaginable that someone would fall for him without meaning to do it. “You were immune to my charms in college, so I don’t think there’s too much risk of you falling now.”
“Right.”
It makes sense. Everything about this makes sense, if I focus on the cerebral instead of the emotional.
“Sure,” I say, forcing the words out. “I can keep love out of the equation.”
I wonder if he can tell I’m not convinced. I’m trying, but part of me isn’t buying it. I open my mouth to ask again, “What happens if we fail?” but something in Ian’s expression tells me he’s not in a place to consider failure. Not that kind, anyway.
I close my mouth and spin my coffee mug on the table. If he’s determined to make this work, I can do the same.
We’re quiet for a few beats. The air around us hums with coffee shop chatter and whatever the hell has been buzzing between us for the last week. That never existed before, not in all our caffeine-fueled study sessions, but I can’t put my finger on what caused the shift. I pretend I’m scanning the room, indulging in a session of people-watching like we used to. But I’m really thinking about Ian. About the reason behind the other big shift.
His eyes are locked on me when I turn back to him. “Are we going to talk about it?” I ask.
I see his throat move as he swallows. “About what?”
“About why you seem so hell-bent on eliminating love from your life.”
He clears his throat. “Haven’t we already covered this?”
“It’s about Shane,” I say. “And your parents.”
He nods, looking uncertain. “Losing him—knowing my parents’ volatile marriage had something to do with that—”
“Your parents’ ugly divorce didn’t kill Shane,” I said. “A lot of people with Down Syndrome have cardiac abnormalities. It happens.”
Ian’s face has gone hard, and his jaw is tight with emotion. So much for my old friend’s claim he’s shut down his feelings completely, but at least now I know for sure this is why he wants to.
“Shane died of a broken heart,” he says stiffly. “No one will ever convince me otherwise.”
My eyes well with moisture. Maybe it’s memories of Shane or the agonized crack in Ian’s voice. As a tear slips down my cheek, I watch his face crumple.
“Don’t cry,” he pleads as he pushes the napkin dispenser across the table. It takes me a moment to realize what it’s for. “Please, Sarah, don’t cry.”
“I’m fine.” I mop at my face with a napkin, determined to hold it together. The desperation in his eyes, the tremble in his voice—this is what he’s worked so hard to shut down. This is why he’s ruled out the possibility of love or anything else that might hurt.
“Ian, you can’t blame Shane’s death on your parents’ split,” I tell him once I’ve composed myself. “I know he took it hard, but—”
“You were there, Sarah,” he says. “You saw how it affected him. He was never the same after those last big fights between them. After they sat him down and told him they were splitting up.”
“You can’t blame your parents,” I say softly.
He looks surprised. “I don’t,” he says. “I truly don’t. I blame love.”
“Well.” I don’t know what else to say to that. I pick up my cappuccino, which has gone lukewarm in my mug.
Ian reaches across the table to run two fingers over my wrist bone. It’s not meant to be an intimate gesture. Just a way to get my attention, but my nerves fizz with warmth anyway.
“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s nothing personal. I just don’t think I’m capable of love. Not the kind we’re talking about.”
I’m not sure I believe him, but I let it drop. “I guess it’s good to know your own limitations.”
“What about you?” He lets go of my hand and sits back. “Have you been in love?”
“Absolutely.” I don’t even hesitate.
“Sounds serious.”
“Chronic is more like it.” I smile, even though there’s an unexpected rough edge to my voice. “I’ve been in love lots of times. Head over heels, tripping over my own lips, mindlessly dizzy, Facebook-stalking, obsessive love.” I give a helpless shrug. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this, Ian—I’m a sucker for love.”
“But you’ve never felt that way about me.”
There’s no ego behind the statement—it’s definitely a statement, not a question—and I appreciate that more than he knows. Ian isn’t the sort of guy to be hurt by my honest answer.
“That’s true,” I say slowly. “I have never driven past your house at two in the morning to see if you really are out of town on a business trip or if your secretary’s Subaru is in your driveway.”
“Ouch.” Ian winces. “I take it that’s a true story and that you saw the Subaru?”
“You did that for a guy?”
“Um, definitely a guy when we dated.” I clear my throat. “But it turned out our lack of sex life had less to do with being super-Catholic and everything to do with a desire to—um—not actually be a guy anymore.”
Ian blinks. “Oh—wow, that’s—”
“Totally okay,” I assure him. “She goes by Cassondra now and is married to an amazing woman named Katie.” I smile to let him know it really is fine. “I was in their wedding last fall. It was beautiful.”
Ian flattens his hands on the table, sympathy clouding his eyes. “Still, that had to be rough.”
“Not as rough as the time I gave up my rent-controlled apartment near the Pearl District and sold all my furniture to move in with a guy who changed his mind eight months later and said we were better off as friends. This was right after college.”
“Shit.” Ian looks thoughtful. “Is that why you’re so committed to owning your own place?”
“Bingo.” That, and other reasons. My mother being one of them. I’m way too familiar with what happens when a woman allows herself to become too dependent on a guy. Maybe that’s one reason I’m actually considering Ian’s ridiculous proposal.
Ian rubs a hand over his chin. “So that’s what love looks like,” he says. “Stalking, religious conversion, and loss of valuable real estate.”
“Not all love,” I insist, though I don’t know why I feel compelled to defend the institution. It isn’t like it’s been all that great for me. “Just the unhealthy love.”
“I guess that’s kind of my point.” He smiles his lopsided Ian smile. “There’s nothing about me that makes you want to stalk my house or change religion or give up valuable property or anything like that. And you don’t make me want to do those things, either.”
“True.”
“So I guess that’s what I’m after,” he says. “Without the emotions that make people do illogical things.”
God, he makes a decent point. I’ve been hung up on what I might be losing by agreeing to this marriage-of-convenience, but there’s plenty I’d be gaining. Friendship. Loyalty. Sanity.
“Okay,” I say slowly.
“Okay what?”
“Okay. Let’s get married.”
Ian blinks. It’s his turn to look shocked. “You’re serious?”
I pat the paperwork in front of me. “I still want to go through this, and I’m taking you up on your offer of the lawyer. But yeah—I think this makes a lot of sense.”
Since we’re keeping feelings out of this, I won’t go as far as saying Ian’s eyes flood with emotion. But there’s something there that lets me know he’s touched. That he’s really, truly ecstatic.
“This is great,” he says, shuffling the papers into a tidy pile. “Seriously, this means a lot to me.”
“I’m glad.” God, are we going to shake on it? This feels weird, like a business transaction or something, but isn’t that the point? “Maybe we should have a deadline.”
“Deadline?”
“We already agreed to test drive this thing by doing social engagements together,” I say. “So maybe we check back in with each other on a certain date to make sure we’re committed.”
“I’m committed,” he says, folding his hands on the stack of paper. “But yeah, okay. Just to give us both a chance to be sure. What did you have in mind?”
I think about it a moment. “Cassie and Simon’s wedding,” I tell him. “You already agreed to be my date. By then we’ll have a solid sense of whether we’re compatible. Whether this thing will work.”
“Good, yes, that’s good.” He nods, clearly pleased with our agreement. Again, I get the sense he might shake my hand. Like I’ve just sold him a used car. “If both of us aren’t positive this is the right move, we can walk away by that date, no hard feelings.”
“Exactly,” I tell him. “And if we’re still on board then, we move forward. Get a license, set a date, all that jazz.”
“Deal. God, this is great.” There’s that flicker of emotion in his eyes again. Joy, this time, or maybe something a little more melancholy. It’s gone in an instant, and I realize how skilled he’s become at masking it. At shutting off his feelings like he’s tapping the power button on his phone. “Sarah, I’m so—”
“This cappuccino was supposed to be made with exactly one-third espresso, one-third milk, and one-third soft microfoam.” The woman’s loud voice snaps our attention from this conversation as she marches past our table. “The proportions are all wrong, and I can tell the foam was spooned and not free-poured. What kind of place are you running here?”
I look at Ian and giggle. “Should we call the police?”
He shakes his head morosely. “It’s too big an offense for that. We should go straight for public stoning.”
With the heaviness lifted from our conversation, it’s time to move on to the reason we’re here. “So tell me about this dinner tomorrow. Am I going as your fiancée or your girlfriend or what?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he says. “You’re there as my moral support. And to humanize me.”
“Humanize you?”
“Yes.” Ian looks down, his cocksure attitude slipping just a little. “Apparently the execs at Wyeth Airways have been happy with my work on this contract, but for this COO role, they’re looking for someone who’s not so—”
He trails off, so I’m forced to guess. “Impersonal? Stoic? Robotic?”
“Thanks.” He grimaces, but I can tell he’s not really hurt. “See, this is another reason I need a wife. Who else would be able to finish my sentences like that?”
I grin and do a little hand-flip to urge him to continue. “Come on, tell me who I’ll be meeting.”
“The CEO and the CFO,” he says. “And their respective spouses.”
“Oooh, do I get to play the Stepford wife?” I rub my hands together as I imagine myself charming the other ladies with my chit-chat about banana bread and—actually, I have no idea what I’d talk about. I’m not much of a Stepford wife. “We can make bathroom runs together, me and the other corporate wives. We’ll swap stories about the best places in town for manicures.”
Ian smirks. “Your preconceived marital stereotypes are showing.”
“What do you mean?”
“The CEO is a woman,” he says. “Her name is Dana Peschka, and she was named one of the top female entrepreneurs by Oregon Business Magazine last year. And her husband is a stay-at-home father to their triplet daughters.”
“Oh.” Okay, now I feel like a narrow-minded idiot. Of course CEOs can be female. That was an asshat assumption on my part. “She sounds impressive.”
“She is, but she’s terrifying. In the two weeks I’ve known her, I’ve never once seen her smile.”
“Maybe you’re not that charming,” I tease.
“True enough,” he says. “This is why I need you. To offset my utter lack of charm.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding, but the Ian I knew in college was perfectly charming. This Ian—well, he’s the same Ian, but more serious. Less likely to cut loose, though that’s hardly true in the bedroom.
“I don’t think your sexual prowess will be a big selling point for this job,” I muse aloud.
“What?” Ian looks startled.
“Nothing. Tell me about who else I’ll be meeting.”
“The CFO is named Walter Williams. Nice guy.” Ian takes a sip of his drink. “He’s married to an equally nice guy named Trevor, who I’ve only met once when he came by to drop off Walter’s lunch. They have two teenagers who may actually be joining us for dinner.”
Tiny slivers of embarrassment embed themselves into my lungs. Despite the diversity of my social circle—I was a bridesmaid in Cassondra and Katie’s wedding, for crying o
ut loud—I still have some old-school preconceptions about marriage. I know damn well marriages don’t all look like the kind I saw on sitcoms as a kid, but apparently I need reminding sometimes. That’s one thing to say for this agreement with Ian—It’s an opportunity to open my mind to the huge variety of couplings that make the marital world go ‘round.
“Your colleagues sound awesome,” I say. “Seriously. I can’t wait to meet everyone.”
Ian squeezes my hand. “You’ll be perfect,” he says. “Charming and witty and exactly who I need to counter my stuffiness.”
“You’re not stuffy.” There’s a flicker of defensiveness in my chest, which is weird. Am I defending Ian from himself?
“I’m not touchy-feely, either,” he says.
“You’re touchy-feely in the ways that matter.” I can’t help giving a sexy little smile. “Not just the sex, though that’s amazing, too.”
Ian grins. “Speaking of touchy-feely, could I persuade you to forgo panties again Friday night?”
I give him a coy smile and pick up my mug. “Possibly,” I tell him. “You do have a record of persuading me to do some pretty out-of-character things.”
Like this engagement. Holy God, am I seriously going to do this?
The fact that it’s starting to sound less insane might be the weirdest thing of all.
…
On Friday night, Lisa comes over to help me get ready. She’s the one person I know who owns a makeup palette the size of my kitchen counter and has the expertise to use it.
Junie is with her to offer moral support.
“Hold still,” Lisa commands as she tickles my eyelids with an impossibly tiny brush. “I need to get your highlights just right.”
“You should let her do the fake eyelashes,” Junie advises. “It’s like having spiders on your eyelids.”
“I don’t want spiders on my eyelids,” I tell them both. “Or anywhere else on my body.”
“Quit moving around.” Lisa swats at my hand, which I didn’t realize I was using to fiddle with the beachy waves she created for me using a curling iron large enough to deserve its own zip code. “We’re almost done here.”