The Prenup: a love story

by Lauren Layne

  But he looks the same. There’s no sign of stoop in his broad shoulders. His hair is more salt than pepper now but still thick and perfectly combed into the same side part he’s worn my entire life.

  “Dad.”

  My dad’s not a particularly smiley guy, but he smiles when he sees me. “Charlotte.”

  I hand my glass to Colin, who takes it without comment, and acting on instinct, I throw my arms around my dad, who stiffens a little in surprise.

  We are not a hugging family.

  But he chuckles and pats the back of my head a little awkwardly. “Good to have you back.”

  Back.

  There’s a comfort to the word I didn’t expect. I’m not back—not for good. It’s just a three-month reprieve from my real life until I can ditch my pesky husband, but in this moment, I let myself pretend that I’m home.

  “Whiskey, Paul?” Colin asks, as I pull back from the awkward hug.

  My dad nods, accepting the glass that Colin’s already poured. There’s an easy casualness to their exchange that makes me feel … weird.

  The fact that they’re my parents, that this was my home, even the sense of familiarity when I stepped into the house—it’s an old familiarity. The kind that you inherit, not the kind you’ve earned.

  Colin has earned the familiarity. He’s been here. For the life of me, I can’t figure out if I’m annoyed or grateful.

  “Charlotte, come. Sit,” Mom says, as she gracefully lowers to the love seat, crossing her legs and gesturing to the opposite love seat.

  My mom’s navy slacks, navy pumps, and yellow sweater set are perfectly suited to the conservatively decorated room. My leather pants, not so much. Still, I do as instructed, nodding in thanks as Colin retrieves my cocktail and places it back in my hand.

  Then he surprises me by sitting next to me, my father taking his place beside my mother. It’s a weirdly domestic scene, one that suits the three of them, and leaves me feeling very much the newcomer who hasn’t read this part of the script.

  “We were so glad to hear that you and Colin decided to try to make your marriage work.”

  I choke into my cocktail and glance at Colin in bemusement.

  But his expression betrays nothing, and I look back at my parents. Surely they don’t think—?

  There is no sense of irony on their faces, no knowing smirks. Which I guess I should have figured. I don’t remember either parent having much of a sense of humor, but they’re also not stupid. There’s no way they think that Colin and I got married for real.

  Right?

  Ten years ago, Justin had very specific instructions about my arrangement with Colin:

  Don’t tell a single goddamn person the truth.

  We’d all known that those close to us would make their own assumptions, obviously, but on the off chance we were suspected of marriage fraud, we hadn’t wanted to put anyone in the position of having to lie for us.

  That had included my parents, but I always thought they’d figured out the truth about why we got married. They were well aware of the stipulations of the trust fund from my grandmother, and it couldn’t have been much of a leap to put together the fact that Irish-born Colin would benefit as well.

  Then again, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if they believed what they wanted to believe for stubbornness’ sake.

  Or wishful thinking.

  I get another one of those pangs at the thought that my parents have been clinging to hope that their rebellious daughter would return home to patch things up with the dutiful husband.

  But. It’s been a decade. Surely they don’t think that Colin and I have been actually married for that long.

  Surely he hasn’t let them think that.

  “Naturally, it’s something to celebrate, so I thought I’d throw a small get-together.”

  “Wait, what?” My attention snaps away from the unreadable man beside me and back to my mom.

  “People want to see you, Charlotte,” she says, as though this explains everything. “Just yesterday Irene Hicks asked how you were.”

  “Irene Hicks. As in Mrs. Hicks? My seventh-grade teacher?”

  “Since she was one of your favorites, I invited her over on Friday—”

  “Wait.” I hold up a hand, feeling panicked now. “Friday—”

  “For your party,” she says, sounding exasperated with me, as though I’m the one talking crazy. “Colin, I already called your office and talked to Stephanie about your schedule. She said you’re wide open.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Colin hesitate for just a second before nodding. “Sure. Friday night sounds good.”

  “Oh, does it?” I ask sarcastically, giving him a quick dark look before turning back to my parents.

  “Mom, I really appreciate the sentiment, but I think a party would be weird.”

  My mother looks affronted. “My parties are never weird.”

  “No, I know, I just mean …” I take a breath. “I mean it would be weird to have a welcome back party when I’m not back for good.”

  I stumble over the announcement slightly, feeling fifteen again. I’m fully braced for disappointment and/or a guilt trip and am a little puzzled when I get neither.

  Instead, my mom waves her hand in a dismissive gesture she’s picked up in the past ten years, because I definitely don’t remember it from my childhood.

  “Oh, who knows what will happen?” she says.

  I do! I know what will happen! In three months, I’ll have gotten out of this ridiculous marriage trap my brother got me into, and I will go back to my real life.

  I wait for Colin to chime in, but instead he stands. “More wine?” he asks my mom.

  “You’re a doll. You picked a good one, Charlotte.”

  My head drops forward in defeat.

  CHAPTER 10

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 30

  Somehow, I make it all the way through cocktail hour, dinner, and dessert.

  And then? Then I give in to the urge to lose it. The second the cab door closes behind Colin, I whirl on him, punching his shoulder.

  “Ouch,” he snaps. “What the hell?”

  “Don’t what the hell me. I’m the one who gets to what the hell. Are you seriously telling me you’ve been going over there every single Sunday night for ten years, and you haven’t once told them you married me to get your green card?”

  “No,” he says, unperturbed.

  “So you did tell them.”

  He hesitates. “No, I mean I don’t go over there every Sunday night. I’ve missed a few.”

  I punch him again, and this time he grabs my wrist. “Stop doing that.”

  I try to wiggle my arm away, but he holds firm, so I settle for glaring. “What was your plan? To just wait for me to come back to New York and deliver the bad news? Let them think you’re the patient, abandoned husband while I’m the selfish, disloyal airhead?”

  He doesn’t reply, and my mouth drops open.

  “Oh my God. That was your nefarious plan.”

  “Nefarious? I didn’t have a plan, Charlotte. I’m not a cartoon villain. I didn’t set out to let them think anything. I saw an aging, lonely couple who missed their grown children. You flitted off to San Francisco without a backward glance. Justin’s wife’s work took them to Frankfurt. It didn’t hurt me any to join them for a home-cooked meal, so I did.”

  “And in all those dinners, you couldn’t find the time to tell them why we got married?”

  “I’m sure they know.”

  “Really?” I let the word drip with sarcasm. “Because I didn’t hear you once correct my mother’s assumption that you’re wildly in love with me and have been patiently waiting for me to return home.”

  His head snaps back as though the concept is abhorrent. “She does not think that.”

  “Well, she definitely wants to believe it. And I’m betting when I head back to San Francisco, you won’t be telling them that you’re the one who asked for a divorce.”

  His finger
s tighten on my wrist. “Now who’s the one acting like the put-upon spouse? Don’t pretend that you want to stay married to me. Not when it’s just the two of us. And don’t pretend you ever wanted to get married in the first place. It was a business transaction, pure and simple. For both of us.”

  He’s right, but in this moment, nothing between us feels businesslike. He’s still got my wrist in a viselike grip. His expression is murderous, and I expect mine is too. We’re both breathing hard, with just a few inches separating us in the back of the cab, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that the tension between us is just slightly tinged with sexual awareness.

  Ten years ago, I married a quiet Irish boy who did absolutely nothing to get my blood pumping.

  Now, however, I can’t deny that grown-up Colin isn’t just objectively good-looking—he’s fiercely attractive. To me.

  His gaze drops to my lips, and I wonder if he feels the pull too. I wonder if he wants to kiss me as badly as I want him to. He releases my wrist abruptly, turning his head away, and making a noise that sounds an awful lot like disgust.

  Well. That answers that question.

  I struggle to contain my disappointment, even as I register the sudden coolness on my arm where his fingertips had been.

  “It’s just one party,” he grumbles. “We’ll get through it. Then we can tell your parents the whole truth.”

  “The truth. Meaning that you want a divorce,” I say, just to be very clear that I won’t be the lone bad guy in this situation.

  “Yes,” Colin says in a clipped tone, as the cab pulls up outside our apartment. “That I want a divorce.”

  He climbs out of the cab without another word, and I pause just for a moment before following suit, frowning in irritation and more than a little confusion, at how much his announcement bothers me.

  CHAPTER 11

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4

  Whatever easy tolerance Colin and I had developed during that first week evaporates following the disastrous dinner with my parents.

  All week, we’ve been acting like the strangers we are, barely speaking except for absolute essentials.

  Where’d you put the can opener?

  Did you move my phone charger?

  Can you please turn off that god-awful music?

  The last one is me because Colin apparently likes jazz, which has always sounded like chaos to my ears.

  Mostly, we’ve avoided each other. I found a co-working space where I’ve rented a small office. I spend all day there, and then I’ve made it a point to catch up on the Manhattan social scene in the evenings. I’ve caught up with friends I haven’t seen in years, flirted with hot Wall Street guys over martinis, and just generally let myself remember how much I love this city.

  I love it with as much enthusiasm as I hate my husband.

  I’ve been half hoping for a hurricane. Not the really destructive kind, just … you know, rough enough that my mom will have to cancel this damn party.

  But Friday rolls around, and though the day is oppressively humid, there’s zero chance of extreme weather canceling the party. Even if there was, there are stronger forces in this world than hurricanes.

  My mother is one of them.

  To her credit, she hasn’t nagged me about the party. Not about showing up, what to wear, how to behave. There are no lectures about not embarrassing her or unsubtle reminders to change absolutely everything about my personality.

  Instead, it’s as though she merely expects me to be there, expects me to behave.

  She’s treating me like an adult.

  Which means … I have to act like one.

  Given Colin’s and my deliberately misaligned schedules these days, I’m fully expecting to merely meet him there rather than coordinating our arrival. We’ll have to play nice for the evening, but we’re not on the clock until the party officially starts at six. Until then, I imagine we’ll be doing what we’ve been doing: pretending the other doesn’t exist.

  Which is why I freeze in the process of putting my earrings in when I see Colin in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  His only response is a shrug. He’s wearing a navy suit with a white shirt and bright blue tie. The tie matches the color of my cocktail dress almost exactly, and perversely, I want to go change so we don’t match.

  I don’t, mainly because the scrappy blue dress is the coolest item in my wardrobe that can satisfy my mom’s “cocktail attire” dress code. And considering it’s an atypically hot September, the fact that the dress has very little fabric, while still looking somewhat formal, means that I’m sticking with it.

  Colin’s gaze rakes over me. “Nice nightgown.”

  I ignore him, pulling a glass out of the cupboard and pouring myself a glass of water, because even with the AC blasting and the dress being blissfully shy of fabric, it still feels hot in here.

  I jump when I feel the brush of fingers against my back and whirl around.

  “Easy,” he says, holding up a hand in surrender. “Your zipper’s undone just a bit. I was going to fix it.”

  “No. I’ve got it.” The back of the dress is mostly open at the top, with a crisscross pattern running across my shoulder blades. The zipper is near the bottom of the dress, running halfway up my back, and I realize after a moment of flailing that the zipper tab is just out of reach.

  Colin’s dark eyebrows lift. “Need a hand?”

  “Fine,” I mutter, turning around. “Don’t get frisky.”

  “I’ll try to contain myself.”

  And contain himself he does. He makes absolutely no effort to linger as his fingers brush against my back, fixing the tag with as little contact as possible before pulling away.

  The brevity of the touch does nothing to lessen the impact on my pulse, and I grit my teeth in irritation at my misplaced attraction to a man I don’t like.

  I take a gulp of water and turn around to glare at him. He’s glaring right back.

  “So. Tonight should be fun.”

  He rolls his shoulders. “At least you don’t have to wear a suit in a goddamn heat wave.”

  “I didn’t realize robots registered body temperature. That’s some pretty advanced AI.”

  “A robot? That’s what you’re going with?”

  “It’s the best scenario I can come up with for why you are the way you are.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Impassive. Unreadable. Incapable of human emotion.”

  He carefully sets his glass on the counter. “How do you figure that?”

  “You never smile. Or laugh. Even when you get mad, you tamp it back down immediately.”

  “I see. So because I don’t show every emotion, I must not have any.”

  “Do you?” I ask curiously.

  He picks up his glass and puts it in the dishwasher. “Are you ready to go?”

  “See, this is exactly what I mean! Whenever I try to talk about anything personal, you shut down.”

  “Not all of us are wired to open up to perfect strangers, Charlotte.”

  “A stranger,” I repeat. “Seriously. I’m your—”

  He steps closer. “You’re what … my wife? No, you’re not. Not in a way that warrants you access into my innermost thoughts. I didn’t know you when I signed the marriage license, and I don’t know you now. And you don’t know me either, so perhaps you’ll want to consider withholding judgment.”

  I think this over, because … he’s not wrong.

  “Fine,” I say slowly. “I’ll make every attempt to withhold judgment if you do the same.”

  “What?” He looks confused and annoyed as hell.

  “Ah, look! There’s some emotion. I believe they call that one irritation. But I’m serious. You can’t call me out for judging you without knowing you when you’re doing the exact same thing.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are,” I say, stepping forward. “You’ve made it plain since our very first meeting th
at you don’t like me. You didn’t like me back then either.”

  “You were twenty-one and a brat.”

  “I absolutely was,” I say because it’s true. “I was selfish, but let’s not forget that we both got something out of this arrangement, so spare me the sanctimonious lecture. And—” I press on before he can object, “I would like to point out that people are allowed to grow and change. And I have.”

  “Have you?” Colin murmurs.

  “Yes. Something you might have noticed if you weren’t so busy brooding and avoiding me.”

  “All right,” he says affably. “Prove it.”

  I frown. “Prove what?”

  “That you’ve changed. Prove that you’re not still obsessed with getting your own way and doing the exact opposite of what your parents want just to spite them.”

  “That was never—” I break off. “Okay. That was a big part of who I was at that stage in my life. But it’s not anymore.”

  “Like I said. Prove it.”

  My eyes narrow in suspicion. “How?”

  “Give your parents tonight.”

  “Um, did you not hear me agree to the party? Am I not dressed to impress?” I say, gesturing down my body.

  “Your mom wants more than for you to simply show up in a tiny dress, and you know it. You had a vision for your life, and that’s fine, but your mom had a vision for your life too.”

  “And let me guess. That vision’s come to involve you,” I say drolly.

  “Look at that, folks. Smart and pretty.”

  I grin. “You think I’m pretty?”

  “I think you think you’re pretty.” But his voice isn’t as irritated as usual, and his eyes are almost smiling. I think.

  “So what is it you want from me tonight?” I ask. It comes out a little breathy, and I clear my throat. “I mean. How can I prove I’m not the … what was it, twenty-one-year-old brat?”

  “I already know you’re not a twenty-one-year-old brat. I’d like to see that you’re not a thirty-one-year-old brat. Do something unselfish.”