by Tamara Lush
“Here to Paradise Beach or the U.S.?”
“Both, but Paradise, mostly. The last couple of times I’ve been back I’ve wondered whether there’s something I can do here. Not at the resort because we’re probably selling that. But somewhere else. Police department, maybe.”
He strokes my back, and little tingles race up and over my skin. For a long time he says nothing, and I try to imagine him as an island cop. He sure would look amazing in a uniform, that’s for sure.
Then he makes a little humming noise, and I snuggle closer, inhaling his deodorant and man scent.
“Who knows, babe? Maybe I’ll come back and run the tiki bar with you. What would you think of that?”
My breath catches in my throat.
“I…I don’t know.” It’s true. I don’t know. “Everything’s happening so fast. Only two months ago I was in Chicago, preparing to be a digital nomad and travel to Europe while taking on graphic design clients. And now…”
“You could still go be a digital nomad for a year. I’m not going to stop you. Hell, we might even be able to see each other more, since I get a couple of R and R weeks. Usually, the guys fly to Turkey or Rome or Madrid. We could meet up.”
I gather the white duvet in one fist and scrunch it. What’s he trying to say here? “I dunno. The more Lauren talks about her social media job, and the more I’m here, the more I realize her lifestyle isn’t for me.”
“In what way?”
I release the blanket. “She’s constantly snapping photos of herself and her environment. She got like that about six months before she left, totally addicted to Instagram. Now it’s her job, and it’s…superficial. I kind of hate to admit it, but the slow pace here on the island is growing on me. I don’t need to be anybody. Does that make sense?”
“Sure. To me it does. But I’m not the guy to talk to when it comes to social media.”
“I don’t even know if Lauren’s all that happy. She looks happy in her photos. But she sounds tired when I talk with her. That’s a long way of saying, I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.”
But inside, I do know. I’m helping Mom battle cancer, running a tiki bar in Florida, and getting married. A pang of awareness hits my gut, hardening my stomach. I’m on the edge of a panic attack, and I remind myself to breathe.
“You have a year to think about it, while I’m gone.” He kisses my forehead then my mouth. “Would you mind if I got a bit of shuteye before dawn? I’m beat. And that second orgasm took everything that was left.”
He chuckles softly, and I can’t help but laugh at the sound. Damien’s laugh is like a gift: rare and magical.
“I’ll be up before your mom, I promise.”
“Sleep, sweetie.” I press my forehead into his chest, and as his breathing grows deeper, I become more wide awake. My mind churns at the possibilities.
I’d had so many plans for my life before coming back to Paradise. Now it seems like everything’s dissolving into something bigger, like raindrops into the Gulf of Mexico.
Fifteen
Kate
For a fake bride, there’s a surprising amount to do. Or maybe it only feels that way because we’re trying to keep everything on the down-low.
It’s not like we can march over to City Hall and get married by the mayor. We can’t ask Damien’s friend who’s a notary to perform the ceremony. And it’s even dicey to cross the bridge to the mainland and pop in to the court clerk’s office.
Everyone knows us, or at the least our parents. This forces a near-state secret level of intrigue about everything we do.
Hey. I'm headed to Tampa today, going to meet up with some guys stationed at MacDill, Damien texts me one morning, right as I’m waking up. We hadn’t seen each other the previous night because he was out with his brother and some friends. He’d hesitated on whether to go, wanting to spend time with me.
I encouraged him, even though I knew I’d miss his presence. Even if I was his real wife, I’m not the jealous type. Hell, I wish I had friends here so I could go out. But if I actually had friends, it’s not like I’d even be able to hang out; I’m at the bar most nights.
Okay, have fun, I peck out. Tampa’s two hours away. See you tonight. Or tomorrow.
I set the phone near my pillow and close my eyes, hoping to get another hour of sleep.
My phone pings again, and my eyes snap open as I read.
I’m going to stop by the county office there to get a copy of the thing. I think it’s far enough away that no one will recognize me.
The first thing or the second thing? I giggle out loud. He’s referring to the marriage license application.
The only thing, babe.
My mouth goes dry. It’s as if I sometimes forget that I’m getting married.
I flop on my back, staring at his message.
“It says here that we both have to show ID at the court office.” I squint at the fine print on the application.
Damien and I are at the bar, and it’s an hour after closing. We’re the only ones here, and we’ve filled out our portions of the application—him in blocky, black ink, and me in curly blue cursive.
“There’s a three-day waiting period, or we can take an online marital course to skip all that,” he reads aloud while rubbing my back.
I chuckle.
He pulls out his phone and taps on the screen.
“Here we go. Florida Online Pre-Marital Course. We get $25 off the marriage license fee if we take it. Check this out. Lesson one: change is inevitable.”
He shows me the website. It’s filled with photos of beautiful couples running on beaches with dogs.
“That could be us with Chunky.” I point at the screen.
Damien guffaws.
“Why don’t we take this course? Then we can show up at the county building, submit the form, and get married right then and there?” he says. “We could even probably knock out the class tomorrow online in our hotel room.”
“Jesus, it’s so soon,” I whisper. “Are we in a rush?”
“Kate. Look. If you don’t want to get married, maybe we can figure something else out. I can pay for your health insurance. Or pay in cash for your medical treatments.”
My stomach plummets several floors. “Somehow that seems even more like pity.”
Now I’m forced to wonder if he’s having second thoughts about this crazy plan. Of course he’s having second thoughts. Why would he go to these lengths for me?
He takes a swig of beer. “I’m going to tell you again. This isn’t about pity. Every day you go uninsured makes me nervous. That’s why I think we should do this as soon as possible. I’m worried about you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I’m not your responsibility,” I mumble.
His jaw ticks. “Actually…I want to be responsible for you. Want to care for you. Thought you understood that.”
But why, I want to scream. But can’t. Because there’s only one answer acceptable to me and my heart, and I don’t think that’s how he’ll respond.
I chew on my bottom lip and study him. “You’re so good, you know that?”
He reaches and sweeps a curl out of my face and behind my ear.
“I care about you, Kate. So much. You need to trust me, okay? I won’t hurt you.”
And when he looks at me like that, I swear my heart becomes so full of hope that my overactive mind convinces itself that maybe, just maybe, this is real.
Or could be, someday.
It’s the morning of the second Monday in December, the morning that Damien and I are supposed to go to Tampa to submit our application and take our vows. We took the online class—it ended up spanning two nights because we were laughing so hard at the videos then had to stop and kiss—and we have an appointment at the court clerk.
It’s our wedding day. Nervous butterflies have emigrated from my stomach into my veins, making my entire body flutter with excitement.
We’ve decided to make an overnight trip of it
and told our families that we’ll be staying in Tampa so we can have dinner and check out a pirate ship downtown. He’s even reserved a room at an expensive hotel.
It’s mostly true—we do have dinner reservations, and I love campy Florida tourist attractions. Damien’s agreed to take some photos of me at the pirate ship. I can’t wait to send them to Lauren. Maybe someday, I’ll also tell her about Damien and the quickie courthouse wedding.
Only Lauren would understand. Only Lauren could keep a secret. She’d definitely approve of this little pink shift dress and the sexy nude heels I’m wearing for the occasion. I peer out the window. There’s a clear azure sky, and the forecast is for eighty-degree temps.
A perfect day for our wedding. Our fake-yet-seemingly-real wedding.
I’m packing an overnight bag when Mom knocks on my bedroom door.
“Dear?”
“C’mon in, Mom.”
The door swings open. I look up, and the crease between Mom’s eyebrows is deep. Deeper, even, than when she told me she had cancer. My stomach seizes up.
“Is that a new caftan?” I say, pointing at her purple batik, flowy dress. Maybe she’s not feeling well. She’s two weeks into her chemo treatments, and although she’s been vaping medical marijuana to ease her nausea, I still worry about how she’s tolerating the treatment.
She doesn’t answer.
I zip my makeup bag and set it on the counter. Oh, this is bad. “You feeling okay? If you’re not, I can postpone the trip. Want me to call your doctor? Or is it Beau? Did he cancel on coming over tonight?”
“No, Kate. I’m fine. Beau’s coming over after his windsurfing. Damien’s here.”
“Oh, okay.” Weird. She’s always so thrilled when Damien shows up. “Thanks. Tell him I’ll be right out. Are you sure you’re feeling okay? I’m sure he’s willing to wait while we call your doctor.”
“I’m feeling okay. He’s here with his mother.”
I scowl. “Mrs. Hastings?”
“Yes. We wanted to talk with the two of you. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Uh-oh. A chasm of unease opens in my chest as I pad softly out of my bedroom, trying not to make clomping noise with my heels on our tile floor.
Damien and Mrs. Hastings are sitting at our kitchen table. His expression is uncharacteristically difficult to read. Usually, he looks smolderingly sexy, sensual, or even a bit hard, like the war-weary Marine he is. I expected him to devour me with his eyes and take a long look at my bare legs in these four-inch heels.
Today, he looks a little…lost. He doesn’t even glance at my legs. Huh?
I summon a bright smile even though my gut tells me something’s off.
His mother is beaming.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hastings,” I say, leaning to kiss her cheek.
“You look so beautiful in that dress. Pink really is your color,” she says. “And you must call me Ginger. Especially under the circumstances.”
What circumstances, I want to ask. But don’t. Because I’m too confused. And scared. Perspiration blooms under my arms even though my dress is sleeveless.
“Thanks.” I glance at Damien, and his eyes widen. I can’t tell if it’s because he thinks I look hot in the dress or is trying to signal something else.
It’s something else. There’s an uncomfortable thickness in the air.
Mom sits opposite Mrs. Hastings and gestures to the one empty seat at our Formica top, red and white 1950s vintage table. I ease out a matching red chair and sit, feeling as though we’re all a bit cramped.
This must be serious if Mom isn’t offering everyone coffee.
“Ginger and I wanted to talk with you and Damien.” Mom adjusts her purple headscarf. She’s been losing hair because of the chemo and finally shaved it the other day.
I lean in.
“Dear, I found the marriage license yesterday in your room. I wasn’t snooping, but was looking for that insurance card and stumbled on your paperwork.” Mom smiles tightly.
Oh, no. I’d left a copy of the license in my nightstand drawer. Like a fool.
“I found it while you were at work last night. And so I called Ginger. I adore Damien, and Ginger adores you. Why didn’t you tell us?”
Ginger reaches and squeezes my arm. There are tears in her eyes, and she nods. “I’d be honored to have you as a daughter-in-law.”
ShitShitShit
Mom squeezes Damien’s bicep. “We wanted to talk about your plans for a wedding and hope you’re not thinking of eloping.”
Sixteen
Damien
This hasn’t snowballed out of control. This has careened off a cliff into a canyon, and we’re in a free fall, plunging toward some sort of black-hole wedding planning vortex.
Mrs. Cooper is clutching my left arm, Ma is grasping Kate’s right hand, and Kate’s left hand is on my knee, which is jiggling up and down like a spring. The air in this little kitchen is suddenly ten degrees warmer.
Kate digs her nails into my leg, and I suck in a breath.
“We’re closing the resort at the beginning of February to finish the final repairs, but I think we could host the wedding there. In the garden.” Ma’s eyes are positively glittering with excitement in a way I haven’t seen since I’ve been home.
“That garden of yours is gorgeous,” Mrs. Cooper says, equally enthusiastic.
“Uh…” Kate’s voice comes out as a croak. “We kind of wanted a simple, um…” She looks to me, helplessly, as her voice fades.
“We wanted a simple ceremony.” I can feel beads of perspiration at my temples. The last time I broke a sweat I was trying to decide if a paper bag on a roadside in Mosul was actually a bomb.
“Honey, this doesn’t have to be a big deal. We can invite family and a few friends. It can be so very laid-back. We’re not a formal bunch. And it would give me the little boost I need.” Mom’s expression is so hopeful that my chest seizes up.
Oh, shit. Mom hasn’t been well. I glance at Mrs. Cooper and her purple head scarf. She has breast cancer. How can we say no to them?
Wait. Do I want to say no?
“Please don’t get married today in Tampa,” Mrs. Cooper pleads softly. “Let’s have a party.”
My eyes meet Kate’s. She looks shell-shocked. I suspect she’s thinking the same thing I am. Someone’s got to regain control here, or we’ll sit at this table all day, eventually deciding on flowers and invites and shit.
I want to spend the day and night with Kate, and we’ll deal with this fallout later.
“Okay, we promise not to get married today,” I say in my firmest voice. “And we’re really sorry we didn’t let you two in on this. We wanted—”
“We wanted something low key. We didn’t want to bother anyone, considering everything else that’s going on,” Kate interrupts, finishing my sentence. “Our relationship is a little—”
“Complicated,” I add. “But I would like a night away with Kate so we can discuss our future. If that’s okay with you, Mrs. Cooper.”
It never hurts to be a gentleman.
Kate’s mom laughs. “Of course not. You two go have fun. But not too much fun. Save some of that for the wedding.”
“Right. While we’re away, we’ll talk about, um, everything.” Kate chews on her plump bottom lip, and even in this stressful moment, a big part of me wants to kiss her. “When we get back we’ll have some ideas.”
“And dates,” trills Ma.
“Yeah. Those.” Kate stands up and edges away from the table and looks to me. “You ready?”
I stand up, and it’s as if the two of us can’t get out of here fast enough. By the time I grab Kate’s bag and we’re at the front door, Ma and Mrs. Cooper are at the table sharing donuts and coffee, and I suspect, planning our future.
And even though I don’t want to sit here all day and talk about wedding stuff, I’m surprisingly unbothered by the fact that our families now know about our plans.
I’m grinning wide as we drive over the bridge t
o the mainland.
Seventeen
Kate
“I’m so sorry. I never imagined she’d find the marriage license application. Why are you smiling like that?”
We’re in Damien’s Range Rover—not his Dad’s wagon—and speeding up the Interstate toward Tampa.
He grabs my hand and brings it to his lips. “I’m happy.”
I frown. “I thought you’d be upset that they know.”
He shakes his head. “I have nothing to hide.”
I close my eyes and groan. “They looked so happy, the two of them. And it’s so difficult to call it off now. They’ve probably planned the entire thing by now. Jesus. We didn’t need this.”
“No, we didn’t. But we’ll get through it. I don’t want to call it off.”
My eyes snap open. “You want to go through with this? Have a whole ceremony and reception? Doesn’t that seem a bit much?”
Wow, that sounds harsh. I pull my hand from his.
“I’m grateful to you, for wanting to do this for me. You’re incredible. But I don’t want to lead our families into thinking that we’re married.”
“A little late for that, don’t you think?” Damien strokes his stubble, and his grin fades. I’m certain I’ve upset him somehow. This is going sideways.
I twist my fingers together. “What’s going to happen when—if—you get back and our relationship…”
It’s too difficult to even say the word, so I stare out the window.
Ends.
“Why don’t we see how it goes? See what shakes out in a year.”
I turn to gape at him. “What do you mean by that?”
He shakes his head, and that awful feeling overtakes my stomach.
“You don’t think you’re going to return from Syria, do you?” I ask, almost in a whisper.