Good Time

by Jana Aston

  “A, chocolate or B, strawberry?”

  “That’s also a C. Strawberries dipped in chocolate.”

  “What if it’s a milkshake?”

  “Strawberry.”

  “What if it’s pie?”

  “Chocolate.”

  “Ice cream?”

  “Chocolate.”

  “A donut?”

  “Strawberry.”

  “You are wildly inconsistent.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug. “Or maybe I just know what I like.”

  “Hmm,” Vince murmurs. He’s still playing with my hair and it feels heavenly, but it’s making me so sleepy that I nod off a few questions later.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I have to go, beautiful.”

  It’s early. It’s early and Vince is leaning over me in bed, pants on and partially zipped. Shirt hanging loosely open. He presses a kiss to my forehead and repeats the thing about leaving. I take in the light level in the room and determine it’s earlier than my alarm, before seven.

  “Why?” I yawn.

  “I have to be in court at ten and I need to drive home and change first.”

  Court?

  Court!

  This is my chance! My chance to prove what a supportive and loyal wife I could be. My chance to contribute! I sit straight up in bed, gathering the sheet to my chest.

  “Why? Did you get arrested?” I blink back the sleep and focus on my math-ing. “Do you need bail money? Listen, Vince. I’ve got about fourteen hundred dollars in a savings account and if I eat all my meals in the employee cafeteria until payday, I could pull another hundred from checking. So if they set your bail at fifteen hundred or under, I’m here for you.” I smile, pleased with myself.

  Vince looks less pleased. A bit confused. Possibly alarmed.

  Oh, God. It’s serious. It’s something serious. That’s why he married me. I knew it was too good to be true. He’s not stupid, he couldn’t have been that drunk, I sorta thought he wasn’t. I’d assumed it was temporary insanity or just a really, really long time since he’d been laid but maybe what he really wanted was a bride before he got sent away.

  “If it’s more than that, or if you get convicted, I could wait for you. On the outside,” I add when he does nothing but button his shirt and stare at me. “What are we talking here? Five to ten? I’m only twenty-two so we’d still have loads of time.” I gather a lock of hair around my fingertip and twist it, because he’s not saying anything. “Ten to twenty?” I ask, and I know I must sound slightly less enthusiastic. “Do you think you’ll get conjugal visits? Because I’d like to have kids at some point and if we wait until I’m forty that might be pushing it.”

  He tilts his head to the side, tucking his shirt into his pants and fastening the belt, eyes still on mine, which reminds me of something else. Something besides how cute those kids would be, but I have to focus right now.

  “Do you have any dry cleaning that needs to be picked up?” I’m all enthusiasm again, because this I can do. “They don’t hold that stuff for more than six months, but I’d be happy to take care of it for you. But only while you’re on the inside, we’re not going to turn that into a habit.” Hot damn, I might even make myself a wife badge because I am nailing this.

  “I have to be in court at ten, Payton, because I’m a criminal defense attorney and I’m in the middle of a trial.”

  Oh. I scrunch my nose. I didn’t see that coming, I really didn’t. I was sorta hoping he needed a green card or something, but last night he mentioned he was born in Nevada so that doesn’t even make any sense.

  “You’re a lawyer?” I’m pretty sure that comes out with the kind of tone one reserves for finding out it’s going to rain on their wedding day.

  “Yes, sorry to disappoint you.”

  “It’s okay.” I shrug. “We can still play conjugal prison visit if you want. I could dress up like a sexy prison warden and get furry handcuffs.”

  Vince shakes his head and mutters something about me being insane.

  “Are you a good lawyer?”

  “Yes.” He smirks, looking amused by my question. “Very good.”

  Oh. I frown and scratch a dry spot on my arm.

  “How long have you been lawyering?”

  He smiles at my question, or perhaps my usage of the English language. “Twelve years.”

  I nod. Wait one second…

  “How old are you?” I stare at him as if I’ve just developed the ability to accurately guess someone’s age. I thought he was thirty. Ish? Thirty-two, something like that. But college plus law school plus twelve years equals something more than thirty-two.

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Stop it!” I know my eyes are wide. “You’re old. Older. Older than I thought, is what I mean.” I wrinkle my nose as I look him over again. I really thought he was younger. I wonder how I feel about this? It makes me feel a little hot for teacher if I’m being honest with myself. Which I always am. Honest with myself, that is. Like right now, I’m going to add why this turns me on to my list of things that may or may not be wrong with me.

  He laughs at me. Flat-out laughs at me. As if my complete disregard for fact-checking amuses him.

  “You should learn to ask a few questions before you elope with someone, Payton.”

  “Yeah well, you really shouldn’t have married me without a prenup. That sounds like a pretty rookie move for a very good lawyer. With so much experience.” I side-eye him when I say it. Except that I’m looking straight at him so it’s more of an eye roll.

  “Watch it, or I’ll take you for half of that fifteen hundred dollars you’ve got.”

  “That’s fine.” I shrug. “Because I’m going to need my cut of your club. We’ve only been married for a couple days though and I pride myself on my reasonableness so I’ll settle for a month’s worth of free drinks.”

  “You pride yourself on your reasonableness? Did those words just leave your mouth?”

  “I’m extremely reasonable! Everyone says so!”

  “No one says that.”

  “You have no idea if that’s true.”

  Vince exhales and shakes his head. “Never do your own negotiating. I just took half your net worth and all you want is a month of free drinks?”

  “Did I aim too low? Can I get free nachos too?”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Says you, wait until you see my student loan debt.”

  “Student loan debt obtained before a marriage is not transferrable to the spouse in the event of separation in Nevada.”

  “Well, that sucks.” I sigh dramatically. “Do you work at a fancy practice? Do lawyers call it a practice or is that only doctors? Are you the boss? Do you have a good benefits package?” I cross my legs under the sheets and rest my elbows on my knees.

  “I have my own firm so yes, I work for myself and yes, I’m the boss. And yes, I offer a comprehensive benefits package to all employees.”

  Comprehensive. I try not to roll my eyes. He really didn’t need my health insurance.

  “I guess all that legal knowledge will come in handy for annulling me.”

  “I think you’re improperly using ‘annulling.’”

  “Yeah, like English language rules have ever slowed me down before.” I shrug mulishly. “I’m not paying for half of the annulment, so don’t even think about billing me. It probably took you eight minutes to fill out that paperwork and you’ll bill me for fifteen minutes at some ridiculous rate of two hundred an hour.”

  “Seven hundred.”

  “What?”

  “I bill at seven hundred an hour.”

  I stare at him, trying to compute that, but that kind of math-ing is meant for a calculator.

  “I have to go, I’ll see you later.”

  “I don’t understand. What kind of lawyer who makes that kind of money owns a gentlemen’s club? What kind of a lawyer owns a gentlemen’s club period? Oh! Is it because of your mom? Did she used to work there? Do you have some kind of
emotional attachment to the place?”

  He bends his neck like I’m possibly asking too many questions for this early in the morning, or ever. He rests a hand on my doorframe, already halfway out the door.

  “It’s complicated.” He ruffles a hand through his hair and I wonder if this is a thing he does when he’s thinking about things he doesn’t want to talk about. “It’s more of a hobby thing.”

  I nod. Most guys play golf, or join a fantasy football league, but it’s fine. I don’t want to be that wife who rolls in and demands he give up his stripper hobby for me.

  “A strip club must make a lot of money.” What in the hell does he need the money for if he’s already making a calculator amount per hour lawyering?

  “Good ones do.”

  “Is yours a good one?”

  “No.” He shakes his head, seeming amused with my question. “I suppose it’s not based on that criteria.”

  “It’s okay, I’m not judging you,” I assure him.

  “No?”

  “I spend a lot of money on my hobbies too.” Fuck, I don’t have any hobbies.

  “Such as?” Of course he’d ask.

  “I spend somewhere around eight or ten dollars a week on Cheez-Its.”

  “Your hobby is eating crackers?”

  “I’m also quite crafty. I make dirty Girl Trooper achievement badges for Lydia.” Crap, I really do need a hobby. Maybe I can get Lydia to teach me something useful like sewing or crockpot-ing. “Anyway, good talk. Good luck in court today. Break a leg. Bill some hours.”

  He pauses, a smile on his face as he looks me over one last time. Then he taps the doorframe twice with his hand and leaves. I hear the kitchen chair scrape against the tile as he grabs his suit jacket and then the front door opens and closes.

  Damn. Vince is a real conundrum. Usually the super hot ones aren’t this complex. I stare at the empty doorway and think about last night. That was fun, staying in and playing a board game. It was even more fun than our drunken night on Fremont Street. The sex was even better than it was the first time too, and the first time was mind-blowing. It’s like every encounter I have with him is better than the last, but I’m a little bit crazy so I’m not sure my feelings can or should be trusted.

  I reach over and grab my phone from the nightstand to confirm the time. My alarm won’t be sounding for another hour, but there’s no chance I’m going back to sleep now. I swipe the alarm to off and tap the side of my phone with my fingers, a bundle of nervous energy. I might as well get ready early. I could run an errand on the way to work. Like stopping at WinCo to pick up some groceries. Nothing perishable since it’ll have to sit in my car all day, but I could replenish my Cheez-It supply. I could go to work early and get a head start on my day.

  I could review the contents of the envelope that’s sitting on my kitchen counter.

  I toss the sheets off and get up. I’ve showered, dressed and applied my make-up in under twenty minutes. Mornings are faster with a bit of adrenaline. I braid my hair on the way to the kitchen to encourage the curls while it air-drys.

  The envelope is gone.

  I know it was on the countertop last night, I know it was. I cleaned the entire counter, put everything away and wiped down the counter. All that was left was that envelope. I tapped it with my fingers, didn’t I? I held it in my hands, just before Vince wanted to play Scrabble. I check the floor, wondering if it somehow fell. I check the trash and the kitchen table and the dishwasher.

  It’s gone.

  What the hell does that mean? Vince wanted me to read them or sign them or something, didn’t he? I consider texting him, I do consider it. It’d be the most logical way to proceed, but I like to think outside of the box. Thinking outside of the box is probably what my life coach would tell me to do if I asked her. If she had any idea who I was.

  Measure twice and cut once is what a carpenter would tell me, which is completely irrelevant to the issue at hand, but it’s a nice sentiment, isn’t it? It’s a nice way of saying, Do your research. Which, now that I think of it like that, makes it totally relevant. Plan and prepare in a thorough manner before taking action.

  I know just what to do.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “So then he’s all ‘it’s more of a hobby,’ and I’m not the hobby police, right? I’m not that girl. I’m very reasonable, in case you didn’t know that about me. It’s true. People say it.” I pause there and hold up a hand in a very casual stop gesture. “Maybe not a lot of people, but it’s been said at least a couple of times.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “But then I thought, maybe he has other hobbies. Maybe he builds model trains or plays softball. I’ve seen him naked so softball is much more likely than model train-building, but I don’t know for sure do I? Maybe it’s golf or running that he’s into. I know he’s a good cook, but is that a hobby or a chore? I’m his wife and I should know these things, take an interest in his interests. Do a little research so I can impress him with my knowledge.”

  “Payton?”

  “Wait! One other thing. Then he took the envelope with him! When he left the envelope was gone. Like what does that even mean?”

  “Payton.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why in the hell are you in my office telling me all of this? And why did you”—Lawson glances down and back to me—“put a dollar in change on my desk?”

  “Oh, that’s your retainer. I didn’t have any singles. You can count it though, it’s all there.”

  “My retainer?”

  “Yeah. So you can tell me everything you know about Vince, because now we have attorney-client privilege.”

  “That’s not what a retainer is for. Nor how attorney-client privilege works,” Lawson replies with a slow shake of his head and an expression that indicates he thinks I’m very, very incorrect.

  “But you’re a lawyer.”

  “I am.”

  We stare at each other for a moment.

  “And now I’m your client.” I nod towards the pile of change on his desk.

  “Nope.” Lawson shakes his head back and forth. “First of all, I’m a corporate lawyer, and I’m employed by the Windsor so I don’t take on clients. Secondly, I believe you’re under the misapprehension that attorney-client privilege means I’d tell you everything I know about Vince.”

  “Right! And I won’t tell him anything you said. Because we have the privilege!”

  “Lastly, what you need for your annulment is a family law attorney.”

  I slump in the chair across from Lawson’s desk. “So you think he’s going to annul me? I was hoping he’d changed his mind when he left with the paperwork.”

  “Payton, I have no idea what’s going on between the two of you and I don’t know Vince well enough to guess. If it helps any, I don’t think he can serve you with annulment paperwork himself so maybe he wanted to go over it with you so you’d know what to expect.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I sigh as I stand up. “Thanks anyway. You’re fired.” I get the first real smile of the day out of Lawson as I swipe the pile of change off his desk and into my palm.

  “Canon golfs with him. He’d know more and that fucker loves to gossip.”

  “Thanks. By the way, did your parents name you Lawson because they hoped you’d become a lawyer?”

  “It’s my mother’s maiden name.”

  “Oh.” I nod. “I suppose that makes more sense.”

  “A little bit.” He nods. “Good luck, Payton.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  On Thursday Vince texts because he has a late meeting. He texts because he’s been over every night but tonight he has to work late. It’s downright domestic, right? The way he checks in. The way he shows up every night after I arrive home from work, arriving with a bag of groceries or takeout. We cook and eat and play games. Then we fuck like rabbits and he spends the night. It’s domestic anarchy. I think? A domestic revolution? It’s playing house while ignoring the elephant in the ro
om, is what it is.

  So on Thursday he texts first telling me he’s got a late meeting and asking if he should still come over, or if I want to eat without him. Of course I still want him to come over. I even volunteer to make dinner, like some kind of housewife. By housewife I mean a shitty one, not a Lydia one. I don’t have chicken-roasting skills in my wheelhouse. I make scrambled eggs and cinnamon French toast because other than opening boxes of Cheez-Its, it’s my specialty, but Vince doesn’t seem to care. Instead he thanks me. Then we eat breakfast for dinner at nine PM before playing a children’s board game because it’s the only game in the stack we haven’t played yet.

  The envelope doesn’t make another appearance. I start to wonder if it was ever real to begin with, if I ever saw it at all. Maybe it was just a figment of my overactive imagination? Or maybe hoping I never saw it is the delusion? I know the wedding really happened because I have this gold band on my finger to remind me, same as Vince, because we’re both still wearing them.

  I could ask him what exactly our status is, as a couple. I know I could ask. I know I should ask. But the thing is, this marriage is still very new. So I don’t want to remind him that we’re married by asking about the marriage. You know? Fine, you probably don’t know, but it’s a really tricky situation and I’m not a marriage expert. It’s not as though you’d ask a guy you’d been dating a week what his intentions were. I just happened to marry a guy and then date him for a week after the wedding. By ‘just happen’ I mean a drunken elopement that is no more than seventy percent my fault. Fine, eighty. Eighty-five percent, max.

  Maybe you’d know better how to handle it, if it happened to you. Maybe you’d never get yourself in such a situation to begin with. I get it—I have a lot of opinions on things too—but I’m not an expert on anything. I’m not even an expert on being me, but I’m trying. I’m trying to be the best me I can be. I’m trying to make the best of this incredibly bizarre situation I’m in and work out my feelings for Vince at the same time. Live my best life and all that.