The Prenup: a love story

by Lauren Layne

  If I had to guess, Colin’s neighborhood of choice probably has more to do with the fact that Tribeca borders the Financial District, which is where Colin’s law firm is located. Since he’s a corporate attorney, I’m guessing he must find that the short commute is a fair trade for finding himself riding elevators with nannies, mannies, and golden retrievers.

  Given all of that, I think in the back of my head, I’ve been expecting some place shiny and minimalist when the Uber drops me off at Broadway and Park Place (not to be confused with Park Avenue, darlings, that’s Upper East Side territory).

  I’ve come straight from the airport with only a suitcase and my laptop. Colin’s assured me the guest bedroom is comfortably furnished, so other than a couple boxes of clothes and shoes arriving via UPS tomorrow, I don’t have much stuff.

  As you can imagine, the whole thing has left me feeling strangely in limbo. On one hand, I’ve left my San Francisco apartment more or less “as is,” since I’ll be returning to it. At the same time, this isn’t a one-week getaway to Cancun or even a two-week escape to Europe. It’s three months of not just visiting somewhere else but living there.

  In the name of positive thinking, I’ve been trying to spin it in my brain as an extended vacation. After all, maybe if I call it a vacation, it’ll start to feel like one. A girl can hope.

  Anyway, where was I?

  Oh right, Colin’s apartment building. It’s a high-rise, as expected, but it’s not sleek and shiny and modern. It’s not a pre-war building either. Instead, it’s somewhere in between, a newish building that’s clearly been designed with a nod to old New York. The structure is sort of a cozy off-white instead of being comprised of shiny panels, and the ornate detailing around the windows gives one the sense that the building’s been around a lot longer than I suspect it actually has.

  I exhale a long breath, and before I can chicken out and go running back to San Francisco, I force my feet forward through the front door.

  The lobby, too, is a surprise. It’s white marble, but instead of feeling cold and unapproachable, it manages to feel warm and homey. The flower arrangements are lavish, but inviting, the doormen smiling and welcoming.

  “Mrs. Walsh, I presume?”

  It takes me a solid thirty seconds to realize the man behind the enormous desk is talking to me.

  “Oh! No. I … I’m Charlotte. Spencer. I kept my maiden name,” I say, fumbling through the introduction like a newlywed who hasn’t come to grips with her status as a married woman.

  Which, of course, I haven’t.

  “Of course, I’m sorry. Mr. Walsh said his wife would be arriving today—I shouldn’t have assumed.”

  “No worries.” I give him a friendly smile, knowing I’m going to need allies if I’m to survive the next three months. “What’s your name?”

  “Matteo, ma’am.”

  I wince. “Does the job require you to call me ma’am? Or can we go with Charlotte?”

  He smiles. “Well, Charlotte. I’ll just need to see some ID, and I can hand over the keys to your new home.”

  Home. Ha.

  Matteo and I make the exchange: me proving my identity, and him handing over a little fob that is the key to my prison.

  Did I say prison?

  I meant prison.

  Matteo points me to the elevators, and I find myself on the fortieth floor, scanning the doors until I find Colin’s apartment.

  My apartment. Nope. It still doesn’t feel right.

  Though, I have to say, opening the door and seeing where I’ll be serving my sentence for the next three months is a pleasant surprise. Yes, there are the expected whiffs of a bachelor pad. The TV is ginormous, the sofa clearly chosen with a mind to accommodate Colin’s large frame. But as with the lobby downstairs, the rest of the apartment is surprisingly homey. The kitchen, while modern, is all white wood, the backsplash and counters bright white instead of the expected sleek, dark that I’d pictured in my head.

  Everything is spotless, so I’m pretty sure the lone sheet of paper on the kitchen counter is for me. I’m right.

  The smaller bedroom is yours. -C

  I roll my eyes, tossing the note back on the counter. I wheel my bag down the hallway, sticking my head into a bathroom that is super tiny and I’m really hoping isn’t what I’ll be stuck with for the next three months. I have never been, nor am I currently, one of those girls who claims to be low-maintenance. I have a look, and my look needs a lot more counter space.

  I flick off the bathroom light and continue to the end of the hallway. The doors to both bedrooms are open, and I can see at a glance which is the smaller—which is mine. I drop my bags just inside the door, but instead of entering and making myself at home, I instead turn and go into Colin’s bedroom.

  I’ve always thought you can learn a lot about someone from their bedroom. The theory isn’t holding in this case. Colin’s bedroom tells me almost nothing. The bed is large and the bedding white, reminding me of something you’d see in a generic, chain hotel. The furniture is large and a little more old-fashioned than I’m used to. Dark wood with sturdy black handles.

  I wander into the walk-in closet, which is small by my closet standards, but I suppose when you have nothing but dark suits and white shirts, as seems to be the case with Colin’s wardrobe, you don’t need much space.

  Still looking for more clues about what makes him tick, I reach out and spin the fancy, rotating tie rack. Not as neutral as I feared, but not exactly full of bright and fun tie options either. Mostly there are lots of conservative blues and dark reds. I pause when I get to a bright green tie, my eyebrows lifting when I see the pattern is little tiny Rudolph heads.

  I smile. My husband has a Christmas tie! A dorky one. It’s the most telling thing I’ve seen so far, though I don’t know exactly what it’s telling me. Was it a gift? A gag gift? Does he actually wear it?

  I’ll never know. I’ll be out of his life for good before the holidays roll around. Back in San Francisco, celebrating Christmas the way I usually do. Christmas Eve at Kurt and Lewis’s annual party, and Christmas Day … alone.

  I punch out Colin’s closet light and head back into the bedroom. I yelp when I see someone standing in the door, putting a hand over my pounding heart.

  “You scared the crap out of me.”

  Colin doesn’t move from the doorway, his scowl never wavering. “You didn’t see my note?”

  “No, I did.”

  “And this seemed like the smaller room to you?”

  “I wanted to learn a little more about my darling hubby.”

  His dark eyebrows go up fractionally. “And?”

  “Do you ever wear the Rudolph tie?”

  Instead of replying, he steps to the side, making space for me to exit his bedroom. “Out.”

  I pretend to write on my palm. “Note to self, spouse does not share his space well.”

  “While you’re making notes, jot this down … stay out of my bedroom.”

  “Were you this much fun when we got married?” I ask.

  “Were you this annoying?”

  I give his chest an affectionate pat as I walk past him. “Oh, hubby. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 20

  Honestly? I thought my last retort was a pretty good zinger. A solid last word that would have him retreating into the kitchen to ponder what I meant. Instead, he follows me into the guest room—my room—managing to look disinterested by my presence and highly perturbed at the same time.

  I give Colin a perturbed look of my own. “If we’re going to survive the next few months, we’re going to need to talk about boundaries.”

  “Says the woman who was just snooping through my bedroom.”

  I go to the closet and slide open the doors, inspecting the unimpressive space. “This is smaller than yours. Criminally so.”

  “It’ll hold whatever’s in that suitcase and then some.”

  “Yes. But not the stuff arrivi
ng tomorrow.”

  “What stuff arriving tomorrow?”

  I turn. “You really thought I was going to move across the country with no more than what fits in an overhead compartment?”

  He slowly lowers to the side of my bed, his hands clasped loosely between his spread knees. “I guess I hadn’t really thought about it. This whole situation is … atypical.”

  I sit beside him on the bed, not close enough to be weird, but it’s still … weird.

  I’m married to this guy. Objectively, I’ve known that for a decade now. But there’s a distinct difference between having a husband in name only and seeing the flesh and blood man.

  And Colin Walsh is a man. Those suits that seemed so boring in his closet aren’t boring when they’re on him. His shoulders are broad, his waist lean, his legs are long, and probably …

  “Where do you work out?”

  He glances at me. “Excuse me?”

  “Exercise. Is there a gym in the building?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I can show you where it is tomorrow. I go every morning at six.”

  “Which will feel like three to me, so … no, thanks.”

  “You’ll have to get used to the time change at some point.”

  “Oh really? Will I?” My tone is more snide than before, my patience quickly evaporating at his lecturing tone and the fact that he’s making me feel like a childish nuisance who’s invaded his home.

  “Just a quick reminder,” I continue, flooded with all the frustration of the past week. “None of this is my fault. We both said our vows. We both signed that prenup agreement without reading it carefully. You’re the one who initiated the divorce, necessitating this three-month stint as roommates, and yet I’m the one who’s upended her entire life, moved across the country, and has a closet the size of a coffin. So how about a little patience?”

  Instead of apologizing or acknowledging my very excellent points, he lifts his eyebrows. “And here I thought I was supposed to have the Irish temper.”

  “Do you? Have a temper?”

  “I have more important things to do with my life than lose my temper.”

  “As opposed to me, who just fritters away her days getting manicures and shopping?”

  He doesn’t bother to dignify that as he stands and goes to the door. “At least there’s one upside to all of this,” he says, turning and gesturing between the two of us.

  “What this?” I ask. “The fact that we don’t like a single thing about the other person?”

  His smile is grim. “Exactly. With all this antagonism and bickering, if Immigration Services comes looking for us, there should be no doubt in their mind that we are, in fact, man and wife.”

  CHAPTER 6

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 20

  “I still can’t believe you’re back!”

  I laugh as I’m pulled into what is probably the tenth hug of the evening, each one getting a little bit sloppier as our drink count ticks steadily up.

  “I can’t believe we’re drinking legally now,” I say, grinning at the petite honey-blond woman sitting next to me at the bar.

  Meghan Barker was once one of my closest friends, and though our contact over the past few years has been mostly limited to birthday phone calls and Facebook messages, I’m delighted to find that the rapport of our teen years holds strong in our thirties.

  “Oh, God,” she says with a laugh, taking another sip of the Champagne she’s switched to after declaring herself over the cocktails we’d started the evening with. “Do you remember the first time we tried Scotch?”

  I wince at the memory. “I don’t know who was more pissed, my dad that we’d helped ourselves to ‘his best bottle,’ or me that I’d gotten grounded for trying something that tasted so god-awful. What a waste.”

  “It was god-awful,” she agrees. “Though, to be fair, I seem to remember that usually when you got grounded, it was for things that were worth it.”

  “It certainly seemed that way at the time,” I say with a smile into my own Champagne, remembering the rather numerous occasions my exasperated parents banished me to my bedroom for all sorts of classic teenage offenses. Helping myself to the liquor cabinet. My first cigarette. Letting Drew Callahan get to second base when I was supposed to be helping set up for the church fundraiser. Though, I would like to be very clear, I did help set up for the church fundraiser, we just wrapped up earlier than expected. And then I let Drew get to second base.

  And all that was just during summer vacations. If my parents had known and grounded me for every bit of mischief I got into at boarding school, I’d have spent my entire teenage career under lock and key.

  Still, I have a hard time mustering up much regret for those years of my life. I was a rule breaker but the harmless variety. Rebellious, yes, but the annoying kind of rebellious, not the dangerous variety.

  “How are your parents?” Meghan asks. “I saw them a few months ago at … gosh, I don’t remember. Someone’s wedding, I think. They look exactly the same.”

  “They’re fine!” I say, grateful that Meghan doesn’t know me quite as well as she once did and doesn’t realize that my voice is just a touch too high at the lie.

  I don’t really know how my parents are. I mean, I do. They’re alive. Healthy, I think. I hope. But Meghan’s words cause an unexpected pang at the realization that she’s seen them more recently than I have. Her brief encounter with them at a wedding is about as much as I’ve had with them in the past decade.

  If you walk out that door, Charlotte Spencer, don’t expect to walk back in again, now or ever again.

  I hadn’t expected to. And I haven’t walked back in again.

  Years later, I can understand that my mother said those words in anger and probably no small amount of hurt. She’d just found out that her only daughter had not only gotten married without telling her but had booked a flight to San Francisco for the very next day. Looking back, it’s easy to see that I’d been young and more than a little careless with my parents’ feelings.

  Just like I also know that there were two sides of the war that was my youth, and not all the mistakes had been mine. I can’t even remember how many nights I’d sit on my bed, pep talking myself to gather the courage to go downstairs to talk to them. Just to talk. To tell them about my dreams, about things that excited me in hopes that they could be happy for me, if not necessarily with me.

  I’d wanted—needed—someone to listen. To at least try and understand, even if they couldn’t support. Instead, I’d gotten dismissive eye rolls and comments that it was my youth talking. I’d gotten sent back to my bedroom with instructions not to speak again until I’d come to my senses. But worst of all were the icy silences, as though they hoped if they didn’t move, or blink, or speak, that I’d suddenly become the perfect cookie-cutter daughter they so clearly wanted.

  Strictly speaking, my parents hadn’t thrown me out of the house. The twenty-one-year-old Charlotte and thirty-one-year-old Charlotte know that I was the one who bought that plane ticket; I’m the one who got married for the sole purpose of financial freedom from them. I’m the one who left.

  But let me tell you, when your own mother tells you not to come home—ever—it takes a little while to get over.

  About ten years, in my case. And I’m still working on it.

  “So, okay, we covered work stuff,” Meghan says, propping her chin on her hand and looking at me with the fuzzy smile of someone a few drinks in. “You’re doing amazing, like I always knew you would. Your parents are healthy. Now, onto the good stuff …”

  Her face contorts, and I laugh. “Are you trying to waggle your eyebrows seductively at me?”

  Meghan laughs along with me. “Blame it on the booze, and give me a break. It’s been forever since I’ve had a night out!”

  “But mommyhood suits you,” I say, affectionately waving a finger around her face. “Raphael is nearly three and you’ve still got your new mom glow.”

  “I do,” she says with a little smile. “Thoug
h to be fair to Camden, some of the glow is the newlywed glow. I didn’t think we needed to be married to be good parents, and I’m sure that’s true, but there’s definitely something extra special about making it official.” She bats my arm. “Well, why am I bothering telling you! You’ve been married longer than any of us.”

  I give her a wry look. “Colin’s and my situation is hardly anything like yours and Camden’s.”

  Like me, Meghan settled down from her wildest teen years, but she still knew how to break a few of the Upper East Side rules. For starters, she’d nearly given her conservative mother a heart attack by doing the whole family thing out of order: baby, then husband. And like me, when Meghan and Camden finally got married last year, it was in a small civil ceremony at the same courthouse—by the same judge, no less, that had married Colin and me.

  Unlike Colin and me, however, Meghan and Camden are very much a love match, and together with Raphael, they’ve made the world’s most adorable family.

  “So, what’s going on with you two?” Meghan asks, reaching for the menu to peruse our next wine option that I don’t need, but I’ll probably drink anyway, because it’s been a long time since I’ve done irresponsible, and it feels delightful.

  “I still don’t understand how you did the whole long distance thing for so long,” she continues. “Weirdest marriage ever.”

  You have no idea.

  Although, she probably has some idea. For obvious reasons, Colin and I have always maintained we’d reveal the true circumstances of our marriage only when absolutely necessary, which means we’ve only told a handful of people the truth.

  Even still, I’m pretty sure most of the people closest to us, Meghan included, have a fairly good idea why we got married. They’re just too polite to say so.

  “So?” she presses, a touch impatiently and a lot curious. “Are you guys like … together now? For real?”

  “We’re trying to make it work,” I say slowly, testing out the line Colin and I agreed upon. It’s a hell of a lot easier than trying to explain that for the first time in our marriage we have to actually spend time in the same state, all so we can get divorced.