The Prenup: a love story

by Lauren Layne

  And very much out of reach.

  CHAPTER 24

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

  “ You accused me of not expressing sentiment over food.” Colin uses his fork to point at the plate of fried artichokes we’re sharing. “These are surprisingly excellent.”

  “They really are,” I agree, dragging an artichoke heart through the provided dipping sauce, something creamy and salty and delicious. “My friend mentioned the restaurants in this area were outstanding, and so far, she’s right.”

  After a couple hours of driving, in which I’m proud to say, my husband worked his way all the way up to a respectable forty miles per hour while staying on the right side of the road, we realized we’d skipped lunch and opted for an early dinner before checking into the hotel for the night.

  Joc had given me a handful of recommendations and I’d picked the one that was open, but it’s been a good choice so far. The cocktails are strong, the appetizers flavorful, the company …

  I look across the table at Colin, who looks more relaxed than I’m used to him being.

  The company is growing on me. A little too much.

  “Any questions about the menu?” our server asks, a relaxed twenty-something guy wearing jeans, flannel, suspenders, and a bright red goatee that suits him perfectly.

  “Yes,” I say, picking it up and gesturing at it. “How big are the plates over here on the Mains section?”

  “Probably a little smaller than your typical entree size. Generous enough to work as a lighter entree, certainly, but we always recommend getting a couple of things for the table and sharing them. More things to try that way.”

  I glance at Colin in question, and he shrugs in what I’m pretty sure is acquiescence. As established, it’s hard to tell with him.

  “How are the scallops?” I ask the server.

  “The mussels are better,” he says without hesitation.

  I look at Colin. “Mussels okay?”

  “Sure. Order whatever you want.”

  “Okay, we’ll do one order of the mussels, the sweet potato gnocchi, and … Brussels sprouts?”

  Colin gives a quick shake of his head.

  “Carrots,” I correct. “We’ll get an order of the carrots.”

  That gets me a slight nod of approval from Colin and assurances from the server that we chose well, as he picks up our menus and goes to place our order in the computer.

  “Ah ha,” I say, leaning forward, smiling gleefully. “I learned something about you. You, sir, do not like Brussels sprouts.”

  “I’ll eat them. But I don’t love them.”

  “Taste or texture?” I ask, sipping my drink, a light pink confection with something foamy and sweet on top.

  “Shape,” he says. “When I was a boy, I thought they looked like little alien heads.”

  I tilt my head back and forth, studying him. “Nope. I don’t see it.”

  “What?” he asks, slowly chewing another artichoke heart. “Brussels sprouts looking like alien heads?”

  “No, you as a boy.”

  “You thought I was born thirty?”

  “No, I thought you were born eighty. Be honest, have you ever uttered the phrase get off my lawn?”

  “I have not. Though, over the past few weeks, I sure have wanted to utter the phrase get out of my house.”

  I look quickly down, a little surprised at how much his comment stings. Not that it’s been any big secret that he doesn’t like me, but I hadn’t realized it’d been that bad.

  “Well, good news,” I chirp, forcing the hurt somewhere else, to be dealt with at a later time. “Only two months to go, and then you’re officially done with me.”

  “Charlotte. I didn’t mean—”

  “No, you did,” I interrupt. “And it’s okay. You’ve never pretended to like me. I’d be insulted if you started faking it now. So, I’ve been thinking, do you think we should have a divorce party?”

  “A what?”

  “A divorce party. I know it’s not typical, but then we didn’t exactly have a typical marriage, so why would we have a typical divorce?”

  “Why in God’s name would we want to have a party?”

  “Oh, come on. You know you’re going to want to celebrate being done with this.”

  “As will you.”

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  “Well, to be honest,” I admit, “I’ve been thinking lately that I was robbed of a proper wedding and a proper wedding reception, so maybe I’ll just do it in reverse and have a divorce reception. We could have people come over for cocktails and canapés and dancing.”

  “A divorce reception,” he says. “You are …” He rubs at his eyes. “I don’t know what you are.”

  “I’m fabulous. And the party would be fun,” I insist.

  “It would not be fun. And I hardly think we need to spotlight the fact that we’re parting ways for the immigration authorities. Why don’t you save whatever plans you’re cooking up in your head for your next wedding?”

  “My next wedding,” I repeat. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Don’t you expect to get married again?”

  I give it some thought as I chew on an artichoke heart. “I don’t know. I hope so, but there’s definitely nothing on the horizon.”

  “Hasn’t there ever been someone—?”

  “No,” I interject. “I don’t have a Rebecca. I mean, I’ve cared about people over the years, but I’ve never really been able to see myself growing old with any of them. I spent my twenties pretty focused on the company.”

  “What about your thirties? What will those bring?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I say, dragging my pinky through the sauce on my plate and sucking it off. “Maybe starting something new? A new company?”

  “Husband? Kids?”

  I feel an unexpected tug at the thought of a family, and I realize that’s part of what’s been getting under my skin the past few weeks. It hasn’t just been being back in New York, and it hasn’t just been reuniting with my family, or even playing house with Colin. It’s been the sense of wanting something more. My adult life to this point has been almost entirely about my professional development and having fun, and it’s been great. Really great.

  But lately it feels as though I’m ready for the next stage. One that involves diapers and dogs and someone to come home to. The same someone to come home to.

  “I guess it’s possible,” I say, answering Colin’s question. “A few years ago, I don’t think it would have appealed to me, but the same ticking that’s got Rebecca acting all crazy didn’t pass me by altogether. I think I’d like being a mom. I think I’d be good at it.”

  “I think you would too.”

  “Wait.” I wave my fork at him. “Did you just … compliment me?”

  “It slipped out.”

  “Uh-huh. Anyway, if I do have kids, I hope I get boys. You going to eat that?” I point at the last artichoke heart.

  “All yours. Why boys?”

  “Girls are hard. I mean, you saw how I was ten years ago. If my daughter is like me, I’ll go insane.”

  “We’re all entitled to a few growing pain years,” he says, his voice surprisingly kind.

  “I bet you didn’t have any. I bet you were the perfect son.”

  He shrugs. “I was easy. I tried to be easy.”

  “Tried. Why?”

  “My parents wanted to have more children. They were devoutly Catholic, and I don’t think it ever really occurred to them to have fewer than five kids. But it also didn’t occur to them that they’d struggle to conceive. They were left with just me.”

  “Must have meant they doted on you.”

  “The normal amount,” he says with a faint smile. “But they were fairly strict. Serious.”

  “No,” I say in wide-eyed surprise. “But you’re so fun-loving and free!”

  He ignores the sarcasm. “I was always painfully aware that I was their one shot at being parents, so I tried to be what they
wanted. Quiet. Respectful. Good grades, sat still in church.”

  “Was it easy or hard?”

  “Easy,” Colin says. “If you’re hoping there’s some wild child beneath the frown waiting to be freed, you’ll be disappointed. Not that I was perfect. I put a frog in my babysitter’s bed, broke a few windows with my friend—accidentally. But mostly I’ve always been, what was it—emotionally stunted?”

  I wince. “I guess I could have just said you were quiet.”

  “You could have.”

  “Did I hurt your feelings?”

  “Can someone who’s emotionally stunted even have feelings?”

  “That’s not an answer,” I challenge.

  He looks down at his plate then slowly lifts his gaze back to mine, his eyes guarded. “Just because I don’t show my every emotion, doesn’t mean I don’t have them.”

  “Fair enough,” I answer carefully, knowing I need to tread lightly. “So, I’m curious … how did Rebecca coax you out of your turtle shell?”

  He rolls his eyes. “What?”

  “You know. If you’re the turtle,” I say, awkwardly miming a little creature tucked into the safety of its shell. “How did she get you to show your soft side?”

  “Why do you always have to make everything so weird?” he mutters, taking a sip of his drink.

  “Emotions aren’t weird,” I say a little sharply. “If you don’t want to be criticized for not showing every emotion, shouldn’t the opposite also be true? Shouldn’t I be allowed to wear my heart on my sleeve?”

  He looks surprised by my outburst. “I guess it’s never occurred to me that you ever wanted—or needed—to be allowed to do anything. You just … do it.”

  “And that drives you crazy. You said as much in the car.”

  “Well. Yes. You’re a bit turbulent to be around.”

  “Turbulent,” I say, my anger fading slightly. “I like that.”

  “You would.” But he’s smiling a little, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s starting to realize that a little turbulence might be exactly what he needs in his life.

  CHAPTER 25

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

  “Hi!” I say with a smile, setting my weekender back on the floor and greeting the woman at the front desk of our hotel. “I have a room reserved under Walsh?”

  “Two beds,” Colin says before the woman can say a single word. “We’ll need two beds.”

  I step hard on Colin’s foot, gratified when he winces.

  “Yes, two beds would be great,” I say smoothly. “My husband here has a pretty intense rash.”

  Now he tries to step on my foot, but I’m way ahead of him and shift out of the way.

  The woman wisely ignores my overshare as she clicks away on her computer. “Ah. Yes. Here we are, one room for Mr. and Mrs. Walsh.”

  Colin gives me a sharp look, which I ignore. I’ve never pretended to take his name before now, and I’m not entirely sure what compelled me to do so when I made the hotel reservations. Nor do I completely understand why I like the idea of being a Mrs. so much. Apparently, all it takes is a two-minute conversation about remarrying and having kids, and I turn into an aspiring June Cleaver.

  “I see you’re one of our Platinum members, which makes you eligible for an upgrade, but I’m afraid the only suite we have left has a king bed …”

  “The regular room with two beds will be fine,” Colin says, already handing over his credit card and ID.

  “It’s a really bad rash,” I say in a loud whisper. “You remembered to pack your cream, right, darling?”

  “Yes, my pet. I tucked it in right alongside your hemorrhoid cream so we could keep all the medicated ointments together.”

  I choke on a laugh. Not bad, Mr. Walsh. Not bad at all.

  The woman completes the transaction and hands us our keys in record time, wisely wanting no part of our verbal sparring and medicated ointments.

  “There’s a complimentary breakfast from six thirty to eleven tomorrow, though I feel I should point out that tomorrow being Sunday, there are a couple of great brunches in town. We’re also known for our antique stores, and a lot of people enjoy grabbing a bite on the main street before or after perusing the shops. Do you like antiques?”

  I try to think of a polite way to say not really, but Colin answers first. “My mother loved them.”

  I look over in surprise, and I’m not the only one. Colin looks downright shocked at his own announcement. But the woman behind the counter isn’t aware that my husband isn’t exactly famous for sharing emotional anecdotes ever, and she merely smiles.

  “Any era in particular?”

  “No. She couldn’t afford to buy much, but any time we passed one, she’d drag me inside. Said being surrounded by items with a story reminded her that we’re all the same. That we’re all just people, regardless of what decade we’re born in. Anyway,” he says quickly, looking embarrassed as he holds up the key cards. “Thanks for these.”

  She points us to the elevators, and the second the doors close, Colin speaks: “Be quiet. I don’t want to discuss it further, so not a single word.”

  I stay quiet. I also do my turtle mime, which earns me a growl.

  The elevator doors open again, and he hands me the keys then picks up both our bags, following me down the hall until I find our room.

  Despite not being a suite, it’s bigger than your average hotel room, and more modern than I expected, which is a welcome surprise, especially since we’re still on the tail end of the heat wave; I was a little worried about the AC effectiveness in an older building like this one.

  “Hmm,” I say, gripping my chin, as I study the room. “Are these two beds far enough apart, or should I move one into the bathroom for your sake? Also, should we call the woman downstairs? Remind her one more time we’re not sleeping in the same bed? I don’t think she quite grasped it the first two times you made it clear.”

  He tosses my bag onto one of the beds and sets his own duffel on the other. “I’m already dreading enough telling Rebecca that we took this trip. I at least want to be able to assure her that we didn’t share a bed.”

  I hop onto my bed, kicking off my shoes and letting my feet swing. “Do you have to tell her at all? Not that I’m advocating keeping secrets, but based on what I saw last weekend, I don’t know exactly how chill she’ll be about this.”

  “Maybe you should have thought about that before you forced me on the trip,” he said, unzipping his bag.

  The brusque dismissal stings and because I’m not as adept as him at pulling back into my turtle shell, I let him know it.

  “You just keep telling yourself that,” I say, as I stand up. “Keep telling yourself that I’m some god-awful tornado that makes you do things you don’t want to do. I’m sure it’s easier than admitting that you’re actually having a good time. And whatever you do, don’t let yourself remember that the entire reason for me instigating this trip was to help you, and that I endured two hours going at turtle speeds while you remembered how to operate a moving vehicle.”

  “What is it with you and turtles?”

  I stare at him for a moment. “That’s your response? You claim to have emotions buried somewhere inside you, and I’m sure you’re right. I’m just not sure you have any of the good ones.”

  I grab my toiletry bag and stomp to the bathroom, giving in to the urge to slam the door. Which does absolutely nothing to make me feel better.

  I’m annoyed with myself for being upset in the first place. You’d think over the past few weeks I’d have gotten used to it—used to the fact that no matter what approach I take, he just plain doesn’t like me.

  But instead of becoming easier, the pain seems to get worse and worse every time he makes his disdain plain, every time he goes out of his way to keep his distance.

  The Madonna song “Open Your Heart” has been going through my head ever since the car ride, and now I’m realizing that I hadn’t made him listen to it on repeat simply because it w
as my favorite song.

  Now I’m wondering if I wasn’t subconsciously singing it to him.

  “Stupid,” I mutter, jerking open my toiletry bag and scrubbing off my makeup with more force than necessary. I brush my teeth and finish the rest of my night routine, taking my time to give my temper a chance to cool. Luckily, while my temper is fairly easily ignited, the flame dies down pretty quickly.

  My good humor is mostly restored when I open the bathroom door a few minutes later.

  “All yours!” I say, giving him a friendly smile.

  He’s sitting on the bed with clothes folded in his lap. I assume they’re his, and he’s planning to change in the bathroom, but he stands and hands them to me.

  “What’s this?” I ask, glancing down at the neatly folded white T-shirt and … blue boxers.

  “To sleep in.” His voice is gruff, and he doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

  “I packed my own pajamas,” I say, as he walks past me toward the bathroom.

  “Yes, I’ve seen your pajamas. I don’t suppose you also brought the robe?”

  “No. But—”

  “Then you’re wearing those,” he orders, pointing at his clothes in my hand.

  I wrinkle my nose. “But these are cotton. Mine are silk.”

  “Charlotte, for the love of—I’m engaged, but I’m not a saint, okay? Just … wear the ugly T-shirt.”

  Now he closes the door, and I stand still, a little stunned by the outburst and what he’d just admitted.

  I bite my lip, thrilled at the prospect that maybe his insistence on the two beds hadn’t been disgust at my proximity, or even appeasing Rebecca.

  He hadn’t wanted to be tempted.

  Hmm.

  I change into his shirt and boxers. Not because they’re particularly comfortable or because he told me to, but because despite the weird feelings toward Colin, I’m not a home-wrecker. I may think Rebecca is all wrong for him, but the last thing I want to do is be that woman. The one who deliberately tempts a man who belongs to someone else.

  I’m pulling back the covers on my bed when Colin comes out of the bathroom.