by Lauren Layne
“Where’d you learn to fake cry like that?” Colin asks, lifting a hand to get the bartender’s attention.
“I’ve actually never had to pull that move before. I just did the cliché thing. You know, thinking of the saddest thing I could.”
“Delilah’s death?” he asks, referring to my second-grade goldfish that lived about as long as goldfish usually live. Delilah had been in my flash cards.
I shake my head. “That wasn’t the saddest thing. I remembered my brother ripping the head off my favorite stuffed dog, and the waterworks turned on immediately.”
“What was his name?”
“My brother?”
He smiles. “The dog.”
“Oh. Her name—Ariel. I was in a major Little Mermaid phase. But you don’t have to gather Charlotte factoids anymore, remember?”
“That’s not why I asked,” Colin says lightly, turning his attention to the waiting bartender. “Two Vespers, please. Okay?” He glances at me for confirmation, and I nod, annoyed with myself at how much I like the fact that we have a signature drink together.
The downside being that I’ll never be able to have that drink and not think of him. I wonder if he’ll think of me. Five years down the road, will he and Rebecca sip Vespers together while they talk about where to send little Colin Junior to preschool?
I wrinkle my nose. Yeeeeah, I do not want to think about that.
“You could have warned me.”
“Hmm?” I turn my attention back to Colin.
“About the interview. You could have mentioned your plan to blame our distance on my infidelity.”
“I could have,” I say with a grin. “But I wanted the surprise factor. Plus, I figured you’d have just told me not to do it, and then we would’ve fought about it. And then I’d have done it anyway, and been right, and you’d be in the very uncomfortable position right now of having to admit that you were wrong. So you’re welcome.”
A month ago, I’m pretty sure my babbling logic would have earned me a stern glare, but now he gives a slight shake of his head and an almost smile. “Your imagination is a spectacle.”
“But you would have told me not to brand you a cheater. Right?”
“Probably,” he concedes. “I can’t say I loved being the villain. Price was giving me nothing but dirty looks in between handing you tissues.”
“Sorry about that,” I say, not really that sorry. “I just figured that the entire point of these immigration interviews is to prove that people got married because of their heart, not citizenship status. So, I thought, why not show a broken heart? Reframe his image of you from an Irish immigrant to a cheater.”
Colin winces. “I would love if we could not call me that.”
“Right, sorry,” I say, smiling in thanks as the bartender puts an icy-cold cocktail in front of me. “But we did say we’d tell the truth whenever possible. And you are in love with another woman, so it’s not a lie.”
“Except the part where you’re completely heartbroken over that fact. That’s a lie.”
I hesitate for only a fraction of a second. “Right. So there was a little lie. But it worked, so … cheers?”
I lift my glass and smile, but Colin doesn’t return the smile. Or the gesture.
“About Rebecca. I need to tell you something,” he says.
Oooh boy. I take a big sip of my drink and set it back on the bar. “Okay.”
“You know she’s been struggling with this whole situation.”
Understatement. “Yeah.”
He scratches his temple, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “I did end up telling her about our trip Upstate a few weeks ago. It didn’t feel right to keep it a secret.”
“I’m assuming she wasn’t thrilled.”
“No. And not long after that conversation, she ran into a friend of hers. An ex.”
My eyes go wide. “Oh my God. She hooked up with him? She cheated? Oh my God, they could make a movie about us. Or a soap opera.”
“What? No, she didn’t cheat.” He frowns. “Why do you automatically go there? She just ran into her ex at a restaurant shortly after she and I got into a fight. They sat down to catch up, had too much wine—”
“Sorry, but how is this not leading up to a cheating story?”
He blows out an impatient breath. “Anyway. She told him about the circumstances of our marriage. The real circumstances. And I’m fairly certain the man still has feelings for Rebecca, and he’s never liked me. Rebecca fears he’s the one who sent the letter to Immigration Services, and I think she’s probably right.”
“Damn.” I take another sip of my drink.
Colin stares at me. “That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Aren’t you mad?”
“At him? I don’t even know the guy.”
“At me. For confiding in Rebecca. At her, for telling her ex and probably resulting in this whole interview process?”
I shrug. “I mean, the situation sucks, but am I mad? No. Not really. Did you think I was going to pitch a fit?” I look at him. “Oh my God, you did!”
He looks at me for a long minute. “You are never what I think you’re going to be.”
I lift my glass. “Why, thank you!”
Colin rolls his eyes, and then catches me off guard by reaching out and putting a hand in my hair, pulling me toward him. He presses a quick kiss to the side of my head. It’s a bit brotherly at first, but the way he lingers, holding me close, is not.
“Thanks,” he whispers into my hair.
“For?” My voice is a whisper as well.
I feel him give a quick shake of his head. “I don’t know. For being you, I guess.”
I run my thumb over my wedding ring and squeeze my eyes shut. The depth to which I’ve come to care for this man over the past two months takes my breath away.
And the level to which I want him to care for me back nearly breaks me.
Instead, I think of Rebecca.
I pull back and give him a quick smile. “If you’re done being weird, can we cheers to our victory? It was a victory, right? Price bought it?”
“He seemed to. And he didn’t drag me off to be detained,” Colin says, drumming his fingers against the bar. “But we still have two more meetings to get through. One of which is a home visit.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that,” I say, pursing my lips. “I have some ideas. What do you think the chances are of you getting that antique desk delivered early?”
CHAPTER 30
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 25
I haven’t been avoiding my parents, per se, but Colin and I have agreed to leave them out of the mess we’ve gotten ourselves into as much as possible, so we’ve missed the past couple of Sunday dinners.
This Sunday, my mom isn’t having it.
Colin and I have been summoned. The mandatory, maternal kind of summons that’s way scarier than any ominous letter from the government accusing you of marriage fraud.
We got to my parents’ a few minutes ago, where Colin was immediately tasked with the unenviable job of showing my father how to update Microsoft Office on his Mac, which normally, would be my nightmare, but it beats my task, which is a staring contest with my mother.
I’m a little surprised when I win. She lets out a huffy sigh and takes a sip of her Chardonnay. “I swear, Charlotte, sometimes I just don’t know what to do with you.”
“I’ve been here all of ten minutes, and all I’ve done is compliment your new lipstick. How am I in trouble already?”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
I take a sip of my sparkling water. “Nothing is going on.”
She looks perturbed. “I thought we were making progress, and now you’re clamming up. Is it The Rebecca Situation?” she asks, her tone implying she’d happily step in and remove the situation if I just asked.
I wish.
If I hadn’t been watching her closely, I would have miss
ed it—the ever so slight slump of her shoulders at what she perceives as my rejection, before she straightens them again, and pretends a fascination with her bracelet.
“Mom.” I wait until she looks up at me. “I’m not shutting you out. I promise. It’s just that Colin and I have gotten ourselves into a bit of a mess with Immigration Services …”
Her eyes widen in alarm, and I rush to reassure her. “It’s fine. We’re handling it. But we’re trying to keep everyone as far away from the situation as possible. Should they choose to interview you and Dad, the more you can plead the Fifth the better.”
She’s silent for a long minute, considering this, and then she finally nods. “But if there’s anything your father or I can do, you’ll let us know?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now. What about the Rebecca situation?”
I let out an exasperated laugh, even as my gaze flits to the door, making sure Colin is still out of earshot in my dad’s office. “I already told you—”
“That you weren’t going to shut me out,” she cuts in, trapping me in my own words. “What’s going on there?”
“Nothing. No, it’s the truth,” I say before she can get on my case again. “Colin and Rebecca are still engaged.”
“They’re engaged?”
I wince. “Did I not mention that the last time we spoke?”
“No, Charlotte, you did not. I can’t believe—how could he propose to her while he was still married to you?”
“I don’t think it was a proposal so much as an agreement. But regardless, they’re going to get married for real, just as soon as he and I can get un-married for fake.”
“And how do you feel about the situation?”
“How do I feel about the situation?”
“Nobody enjoys an echo, dear.”
I open my mouth, a saucy comeback on the tip of my tongue.
Then I shock her and me.
I burst into tears. Not the dramatic, chin-wobbling fake tears from that day in the immigration office, but real, true tears.
The kind that come from the deepest part of you, the kind that reveal your most forbidden secrets.
“Charlotte.” My mom makes a tsking noise as she sits beside me and pulls me to her.
I let her. I let her hold me against her chest as I cling to her upper arm with one hand, my other clenched into a fist as I will the tears to stop, but they don’t.
Instead of badgering me to explain my breakdown, she merely holds me, smoothing my hair back occasionally as she lets me cry it out.
“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” I say brokenly, when I can finally manage to get words out.
“Yes, you do, dear. Yes, you do.” She pats my head as she says it, and she’s right.
I know exactly what’s wrong. I know exactly where these tears are coming from.
All this time I’ve been so focused on trying to get Colin to like me, that I haven’t bothered to guard myself against a much more destructive reality: that I could come to love him.
“I feel like I can’t stand it,” I whisper. “When they’re together, whenever he goes to see her, it feels unbearable.”
“Have you told him?”
I make a clogged, snorting noise since my nose is plugged from the crying.
“So that’s a no then,” she says.
“That’s a definite no.”
“I think maybe you should,” she says, easing me gently back into a seated position. “Colin deserves to have all the information. He deserves to know that you care.”
I shake my head. “It wouldn’t be fair. I can’t just swoop into his life after ten years and turn it upside down. At least not more than I already have. He’s already had one Spencer screw up the good thing he had with Rebecca when Justin wrote that stupid prenup. I won’t make things even worse for him.”
“And you think telling him how you feel would make his life worse?”
“I know it would,” I say with miserable confidence. “He doesn’t feel that way about me, Mom. I mean, he doesn’t hate me anymore, so that’s progress. I’d say, at best, he’s hovering in the tolerance range.”
“You’re a fool to let a man like that get taken right out from under your nose.”
I rub my temple. “I guess the doting, sympathetic portion of the evening is over.”
“You’re good together. For each other,” Mom says, taking my hand and giving it a hard squeeze. “Why do you think I threw that party? Why do you think I was so determined to make him a part of this family? It’s because I saw the very same thing your brother saw back then. Potential.”
“Respectfully, you guys are nuts. Back then, Colin and I barely even saw each other when we were in the same room.”
“Ten years ago, perhaps. But now? I see you seeing each other,” she says with a smug expression.
I rub my temple harder. “Yay. A riddle.”
One that I’m thankfully saved from having to solve, as my father and Colin join us in the living room. Both men stop in their tracks when they see the two of us. Well, specifically me, and my not so pretty tear-stained face.
“What’s wrong?” Dad asks in alarm.
“Hormones. I’m on my period,” I say automatically, knowing from past experience there’s no quicker way to get my dad to stop asking questions and back far, far away from the conversation.
As expected, his eyes go slightly wide, and he gives an awkward nod before making a beeline for the bar.
Colin, however, isn’t so easily put off. His eyes narrow on me slightly. I try to hold his gaze and adopt a breezy expression, as though it really is just a rogue hormonal fluctuation at work, but the second our eyes lock, I realize my mistake and look away.
I don’t have his protective turtle shell. I’m not at all sure that he won’t be able to look into my eyes and know every single emotion running through me. Emotions that I’m positive he wants nothing to do with.
My mother’s mundane small talk, once the object of my disdain, is my saving grace, and I start to breathe a little easier. The four of us sit in the parlor and conversation turns toward safer topics like the unseasonable snow expected for the week ahead, and whether or not they’ll have more trick-or-treaters this year than last year.
At least, I think I’m safe. But when I finally manage to risk a glance at Colin, my breath goes haywire all over again, because he’s watching me. Based on the intensity of his gaze, I’m not sure he’s ever stopped watching me.
My mother’s words from just minutes before drift back to me.
I see you seeing each other.
What do you know? I solved the riddle after all.
The question is … what do I do with the answer?
CHAPTER 31
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29
A few days later, I’m on all fours with my ass in the air when Colin comes home.
It’s not what it sounds like.
“Charlotte?”
I jump at the unexpected voice, bumping my head on the bottom of the desk and slumping back down with a groan as I put a hand to my throbbing skull.
“Damn it.” His voice is more urgent now as he crosses the room and crouches down. “Charlotte.”
I grunt and open one eye, still cradling my skull. “What.”
“What are you doing under there?” His tone is slightly chiding, but his eyes are concerned, his touch gentle as his fingers brush over my hair. “Are you okay?”
“Go away.”
“You’re so damn hardheaded, I’m surprised the desk didn’t crack. How many fingers am I holding up?”
“I know how many I’m holding up,” I say, pulling my hand away from my head to hold up my middle finger.
“Nice. Come on,” he says, wrapping his hands around my upper arm and tugging me out from under the desk. “Dare I ask what you’re doing on the floor?”
“I was plugging in your new desk lamp.”
I let him haul me to my feet, but I bat his hands away when he begins messing up
my hair looking for a lump on my head. “Stop. I’m fine. I spent forever getting my hair to look like this, and you’re messing it up.”
“It looks the same as it always does,” he says, giving my hair a skeptical look.
“You’re such a guy. I straightened it more than usual. The straight hair says that I’m a respectable professional with a side of doting wife.”
“I see. What did your old hair say?”
“Sassy entrepreneur who wasn’t about to be pinned down by a male.”
He looks again at my hair then shakes his head. “Nope. I didn’t get any of that.”
“You look nice, Charlotte,” I mutter. “Thanks for setting up my office, Charlotte. We’re going to nail this interview, Charlotte.”
Colin looks around the room, seeming to see it for the first time, a surprised look on his face. “How long have I been gone? It doesn’t even look like the same room.”
I bend my knees in a quick curtsy. “That’s the other thing this hairdo says: home decorator extraordinaire.”
Actually, I didn’t do much of the real work. I had one set of movers come by at ten a.m. to haul away all the bedroom furniture that was in here. At eleven a.m., Colin’s antique desk was delivered. After forty-five minutes of me freeing the damn thing from the miles and miles of bubble wrap it was wrapped in, the second set of movers arrived with the rest of the office furniture: an ergonomic desk chair, a couple of navy wingback chairs, an end table, copper bar cart, bookshelf, an antique globe, and even a Ficus.
I check my watch. We have an hour until Gordon Price gets here for the home interview, and the butterflies I’ve kept at bay all day by staying busy with changing my bedroom into a home office start to flutter.
I blow out a breath. “Okay. I just need to put some actual books on the bookshelf, and I think we’re ready. Well, as ready as we’ll ever be.”
“You’re sure your head’s okay?” Colin asks, coming to crouch beside me at the bookcase, helping me move the pile of books from the floor to the bookshelves.
“Positive,” I say, since the pain’s receded almost entirely. “Just a bump.”