Here, Have a Husband

by Heather Gean

  “Oh, Rainy, be serious,” Mrs. Schroeder said.

  I smiled. What about that statement hadn’t been serious?

  Chapter 9

  A positive outlook on life was only a phone call away, and when I found myself in need of that it was always Sasha that ended up on the other end. Sasha wasn’t always rainbows and sunshine, but she wasn’t as intense as Liz either. While Liz would ask a million questions that would dig a deeper emotional hole, Sasha would listen and try to keep me grounded. At the moment I was more interested in keeping my head above water, not keeping my feet on the ground, but I knew that Sasha was the girl for the job.

  “How’s Ringo?” I had seriously been missing my oversized cuddle toy, even his sloppy kisses that I normally discouraged.

  “He misses you. And he has taken a fancy to your neighbor’s Pomeranian.”

  “Well, somebody should tell Ringo that puppy love is a thing of the past. He’ll have to check with the DML before he starts anything like that.” Sasha paused when she picked up on the underlying anti-government sentiment of my statement.

  “Are you all right?” It was an open-ended question that I could only answer with a sigh.

  “Besides the fact that I’m struggling to make a connection with my fiancé and that his mother and her assistant or assassin or whatever she is have taken over my wedding, things are great.”

  “Right. Well, it could be a good thing. You’re busy, and planning a wedding takes a lot of time.”

  “Sasha, as a bridesmaid, you’ll be wearing one of those shapeless, runway-model dresses in chartreuse, with all of your hair slicked into one of those up-dos that was obviously inspired by Star Trek.” I waited for that to sink in.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” Even Sasha couldn’t find anything positive about that.

  “Oh god! Are they insane?” I enjoyed her disgust and was proud of her siding with me on the Mrs. Schroeder/Monica situation, especially since she could always think of positive things to say about someone, even if it was only his or her blood type.

  “Yes, they are. Oh, by the way, salmon, chicken, or steak?”

  “What?”

  “My request for a vegetarian option is under review.”

  Sasha let out a low growl. “What does Ashley Schroeder have to say about that?”

  “Well, he isn’t allowed to make decisions about it either, so nothing.” I knew she was miffed about it, but she saved the rant for another time.

  “When is this freak show supposed to take place?”

  “The second weekend in December.”

  “Yikes… soon,” she said. “Well, I mean, soon for a couple who just met. Jeesh. So how’s the guy?”

  I searched about for the words to explain Ashley. I no longer could portray him as someone totally wrong for me, but I could not confirm any perfection in our relationship either. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “You think he’s the one?” I didn’t know how to answer that either. Impulsively, I would have to say no, but I also hoped that my mind would change on that.

  “I hope so.” I looked down at the sparkling diamond ring on my finger.

  “Well, I hope so too,” she said positively. “Liz is organizing a little welcome home party for you on Friday night. Nothing fancy, just us girls.”

  It made me overwhelmingly happy to think about being back home with my friends. “After the week I’ve had, I can tell you that fancy is overrated.”

  I heard someone talking in the background on Sasha’s end. “Sorry, but I have to get back to work. These monkeys can’t behave themselves.” The funny thing was that I imagined she literally meant monkeys since she worked at a zoo. I laughed and thanked her for the good news.

  “Tell Ringo ‘hi’ for me,” I threw in.

  Having talked to Sasha made me feel saner. Thoughts of home made me feel comfortable even in the upside down world I had been living in for the past few days. It felt like ages since I had been in a normal place doing normal things. Though most people didn’t, I quite enjoyed normal. I missed it.

  I did, however, quite enjoy getting all dolled up for my big date with Ashley. Well, I quite enjoyed it in theory. In reality, I could only put the items in the top half of my make-up bag to use without looking like a clown, and I was pretty positive (scratch that, extremely hopeful) that Ashley did not have a clown fetish. This was mainly an issue because I felt the occasion called for glamorous, and only the bottom of my make-up bag was qualified for that. Liz was my go-to girl on things like eyeliner and lip liner and that ridiculous contraption known as an eyelash curler. Liz also had a way of scaring away the flesh-eating butterflies making a mess of my stomach. Since I was obviously without Liz, I needed to figure out my next best option.

  Desperation found me knocking on Walker’s bedroom door, or what I assumed to be her door considering it had the giant, Old English W hanging on it. She eyed me suspiciously through a small one-inch crack of the open door then relaxed, sighed, and let it swing the rest of the way open. “I thought you were mom,” she said. I shuddered at the thought. Walker dropped her hands to her sides and sauntered back across the massive bedroom with high ceilings. Still standing at the doorway, I noticed a couple of huge, designer suitcases lying open on her bed.

  “Going somewhere?” I asked. I couldn’t fathom the sort of lavish vacations that eighteen-year-old could take on a whim.

  Walker chortled. “Yeah, the hell away from here.”

  “Really…?” I leaned awkwardly against the doorframe.

  Walker paused and gave me a look of skepticism. “Don’t sound so surprised,” she said as she picked up a pair of heels from the floor and tossed them into one of the suitcases. “You saw the fiasco at dinner last night.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Walker. Families are supposed to be dysfunctional.”

  “Not like this one. If you only knew...” She grew annoyed over which pair of black heels to pack and flung them to the floor again. “Did you want something?”

  I snapped back into pre-date mode. “Ah, yes! I’m going out with your brother, and I need a little help with my make-up… if you have time.”

  Walker ran her hands through her blonde hair and sighed at her lack of progress in packing. “Sure. Why not.”

  That’s what found me sitting on her bathroom counter with Walker standing in front of me, armed with her mysterious make-up bags. Yes, bags, as in she had more than one. I was amazed that such a tiny girl could need so much make-up. I was actually amazed that anyone without a face the size of Texas could need that much make-up. But no matter the amount of supplies, I was grateful that Walker was working her magic.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I said as she brushed shadow onto my eyelids. “I’m pretty useless with make-up.”

  “Hm,” she said shortly. She brushed on for a few more seconds before moving on to the next eye. “Well, you have nice skin so I guess that’s not really a big issue.” I assumed the hint of annoyance in her voice was directed at her parents and took it as a compliment.

  “Thanks.”

  “So you’re really going to go through with this?” I was in the dark about what she was talking about, besides the fact that my eyes were closed.

  “With what?”

  “With marrying into this psychotic family. I mean, God, what’s so great about my brother? I guess he’s one of the saner Schroeders, but it’s still in his blood. I have to get out of here before it rubs off, ya know?” Considering her tabloid appearances, I figured it already had rubbed off on her, but mentioning that seemed inappropriate.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m not sure I can see you two together anyway,” she said. I opened my eyes in curiosity, but Walker reprimanded me and began dabbing them again.

  “Oh yeah?” That made me nervous.

  “You’re not ruthless. You aren’t cutthroat enough to run in the circles my family runs in. I’m telling you that it will be torture.” Again, I tried to take her state
ments as compliments in disguise. “Okay, open,” she instructed. I did as told, was assessed, and told to close my eyes again for more blending. “You have to undergo the process before you can truly become a Schroeder.”

  “The process?” The way she said it made it sound illegal and something along the lines of being BTKed to death.

  “You know, how they squeeze the individuality out of you by trying to control your every move, and then they lie about you to the press to make sure you’re putting forth the right appearance for the family, and then you end up resorting to drugs or alcohol to cope with them, and you end up sleeping with your therapist or the pool boy or both, but you get to drive Porches and Bentleys. Then, you will truly be a Schroeder and, of course, that is when your life will truly be over.” I sighed without warning. A self-reprimanding look crossed her face. “I mean, you know, it’s not guaranteed, I guess. I’m not a psychic or anything.”

  Walker finished with my make-up as well as her ominous, pre-date pep talk. I left her room to the sound of more things being thrown into her suitcases. In some ways, I felt very connected to Walker but then again not at all. The Schroeder family hospitality made me want to pack up and leave, but if I had learned anything as an art history major in college it was not to run away from an uncomfortable situation but to use it to create change. I wasn’t sure it applied to real life situations devoid of art, but after all, art is only an imitation of life to begin with. And for some reason, upon making that connection, I could only think of Van.

  ~*~

  Though the rain outside had convinced my hair to hang lifelessly about my head and leave me with the sole option of twisting it up as elegantly as possible, and though two of my fingers were still the same color purple as my silk dress, I actually felt confident as I had paced about my room in wait of Ashley. However, being me, I could rarely be a single mood at a time, and nervousness kept sneaking up from within me. Put the purse on the bed. Pace one room length. Sling the purse over my shoulder. Pace towards the door. Consider going downstairs to wait. Toss the idea and the purse aside again. Hum a song I had no clue as to why was in my head at that moment. Stop myself from humming, also inadvertently stopping the pacing. Try to talk myself out of going. Talk myself into going. Repeat. Until the knock on the door, at which point I froze momentarily before excitedly rushing to open it.

  “Good evening,” Ashley said along with his million-dollar smile. “You look beautiful.” He leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek. What I hoped to be his cologne smelled like expensive bourbon, but I was distracted by his stunning jacket and tie that looked like something straight out of GQ. Nervousness, excitement, uncertainty, and confidence all played ring-around-the-Rosie in my stomach as I greeted Ashley and took his arm to be escorted out. I was finally going out with Ashley on what felt like a real date, and even considering the bad case of first-date-itis, I was elated. Finally, some level of reality was being reached in the Rainy-Ashley saga.

  Though I had never seen Ashley make use of the expensive stereo in his millionaire mobile, Frank Sinatra sang to us on our way into the city. I had never been a fan, really, because when I thought of Sinatra a playboy came to mind far before any catchy tunes, but it added a nice touch of personality to Ashley’s car. The rainy day had turned into a drizzly evening, and the traffic was thick and yellow in the city due to all of the people who didn’t wish to walk in the rain. As we sat in traffic only a few blocks from the theater, Ashley smiled over at me after what had been a conversationless drive. “I would like to make all of my days Rainy days,” he said. I blinked a few times before accidentally bursting into laughter. Ashley’s smile was adorned with embarrassment. “Bad line?” I could only nod and attempt not to laugh any longer, but what was a first date if it didn’t include awkward moments and horrible pick-up lines?

  “It was a nice try.” Another chuckle or two randomly escaped me, and for lack of another option Ashley had begun to laugh along with me.

  When we pulled up right in front of the theater, Ashley passed his keys off to a valet standing in wait and came around to open my door for me. As I exited the car as an extension of Ashley’s arm, I became aware that our arrival had drawn some attention. Ladies looked on enviously at me, and their stares fueled my enjoyment. I wasn’t used to being the arm candy to a New York billionaire, and though the independent woman in me wriggled uncomfortably, the vainer side of me was pleased. A small crew of paparazzi ruined the moment for me, rushing up and using their cameras like weapons intended to blind people with the high-powered flashes, and as I clung closer to Ashley, I realized that he was still cool and composed. He smiled and posed like we were in a photo shoot. I attempted to tug at his arm and edge us into the safety of the theater, but he lingered out there with me for a couple of minutes before ushering me inside. I was so relieved to escape into the dim lights of the theater.

  We were guided to our seats, fifth row, front and center. Ashley leaned close to me as we waited for the production to begin. Without Frank Sinatra playing too loud to talk over, I took the opportunity to spark a little conversation. “Have you noticed that you’re a real attention-grabber? I mean, the paparazzi couldn’t miss you.” The whole paparazzi scene had warranted suspicion since I felt they’d been too strategically placed not to have been tipped off.

  Ashley’s gray eyes intimately met mine. “Me? I was sure it was you everyone was looking at.” I realized I wouldn’t get anywhere with accusations, so I decided to save my sanity and buy into his romantic tone.

  “Maybe it was the Porsche?”

  Ashley nodded. “Definitely the Porsche.” We shared a soft laugh. I noticed the seats began to fill up around us.

  “Do you think this Mel Brooks revival production will be any good?” he asked. “It got good reviews in the Times, but only half of those can be trusted.”

  “Well, this would have to be the worst cast in the world to mess up Mel Brooks.”

  “Good point,” he said. People filling in around us down near the first ten rows continuously interrupted us, stealing away Ashley’s attention to say hello. Nobody seemed to notice that we’d been talking, not even him, and whenever he returned his attention to me I felt the momentum had been lost each time. It was like starting a million small-talk conversations with the same person.

  “Are you back to work tomorrow?” I asked. Ashley’s wandering gaze landed back on me. It took him a moment to reenter the conversation.

  “That I am. I’m supposed to meet with some guys we’re thinking of hiring on as designers. I’m leaning towards no. I mean, how many ways can you change the appearance of a coffee maker? A dryer? But they’re flying in from Sweden, and I’m supposed to be impressed.” He paused to say hello to another couple filing into the row behind us. That time he did a better job of keeping things going. “You should come have lunch with me. Make my day worthwhile.”

  Just as I began to consider it with a smile, the lights of the theater dimmed. Any minute our conversation would be cut off with the beginning of the show. It was a relief to once again have something to focus on other than our fragmented conversation and my sneaking suspicion that this was not so much a first date as it was a publicity stunt.

  ~*~

  I left the show with an optimistic view on life, as good comedies often left viewers with. I had excused the pre-show incident and was ready to take this first date more seriously. Outside of the theater, I stood trying to convince Ashley that we should snag an umbrella from the desperate-looking vendor peddling umbrellas on theater-goers and trek through the misting rain to the first coffee shop we came to. “Walking in the rain isn’t as romantic as it is in the movies,” Ashley protested.

  “How do you know if you don’t give it a try?” I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t keen on losing a battle to me, but for the sake of the date he caved. He traded the vendor ten dollars for a black umbrella just big enough for the two of us to walk under. Once he had it open, he wrapped his arm around my waist, and we ven
tured out from under the shelter of the inlet at the front of the theater.

  We dodged a few people darting around with coats or newspapers over their heads and maneuvered around a few especially large puddles that glowed from the city lights. The rain didn’t have a calming effect on the city; if anything, it busied things up even more. I clung to Ashley as we crossed the street. “If I’d known that all I needed was an umbrella to get this close to you, I wouldn’t have argued,” he said against my ear. I giggled a little and prompted a chuckle from him that vibrated through the hand I had on his chest.

  “See, I told you it would be romantic.” And it was. It was probably the most romantic thing that Ashley and I had done together. When we paused at the next crosswalk, he reached across me to smooth hair on the side of my head and smiled.

  “Most girls would mind if their hair got rained on.” In theory it could have been a compliment to my lack of vanity, but something about the way he stroked it until I assume it was back in place made me think otherwise. Self-conscious defiance replaced the tenderness I’d been feeling.

  “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not your typical beauty queen.” The crowd around us quickly started moving, and any response Ashley might have given was lost in the bustle of crossing the street.

  “What did you think of the show?” he asked once we were no longer moving in a herd of other people. I expressed my positive opinion on the show, mentioned a few scenes I found especially funny, and attributed it to typical Mel Brooks. When I prompted him to give his response, his mind seemed to already be elsewhere. His inability to focus was beginning to annoy me. I nudged him gently with my elbow.

  “Um, definitely not his best,” he said reflexively. “By far.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  Ashley dodged the question with an encouraging, “I’m glad you liked it!”