by Nikki Chase
That voice. I thought I was never going to hear it ever again.
And it's just like Ethan to answer my question with another question.
Ethan
“Page twenty-four,” Eliza says when she enters my office—without knocking.
Having worked with me for years, she knows how much I hate getting unexpectedly interrupted. Add to that the fact that my whole life got turned upside down the last time she came here with news.
Before she walked in here with that magazine? Perfect life. Only getting better. Healthy kid and beautiful fake wife I was starting to really like. About to shut up ex-wife and mortal enemy once and for all.
After? Nausea and chills all the time, except for when I’m drunk. I’d drink more, but I hate the hangovers. Besides, I have a kid to take care of.
See the difference? Same kid, but a beautiful divine gift before, and a burden that hampers my attempts at becoming a serious drinker after.
“Oh, stop glaring at me, Ethan. Trust me, you’ll want to see this.” Eliza drops a magazine onto my desk before she plops down on the chair. She leans back, clasps her hands together, and watches me.
“Another fucking magazine?” I groan.
What is it this time? Penny is secretly a sleeper KGB agent? What could be so important Eliza decides it's acceptable to break one of my biggest rules about knocking?
I slide the magazine across the glass surface of the desk.
The garish cover features women I recognize from TV, all wearing swimsuits and photographed in bad lighting to emphasize their uneven skin. The biggest headline, emblazoned across the cover in bright yellow, says, “Worst Beach Bodies in Hollywood.”
Jesus. What an uplifting read.
To the left of the pictures of perfectly slim women is the text: “EXCLUSIVE: Mrs. Ethan Hunter’s Confession.”
I raise my gaze up to Eliza and raise an eyebrow. I know how tabloids often make up their own stories from unreliable sources. I ask, “Is this real?”
“Would I bring it to you if it wasn't?”
“How bad is it?” My fingers pinch the edge of the first page, eager to read what Megan has written about me, but also afraid to find out.
“It's not bad, actually. Your wife really knows her audience.”
What kind of an answer is that? I still have no idea what to expect, and I hate that Eliza has just referred to Megan as my wife. It reminds me of what I thought I had found and subsequently lost.
I flip the pages impatiently. The graphic designer of this magazine should be kicked in the ass for making it impossible to navigate.
Wait. Oh, that's right. Eliza has already given me the page number.
I finally find page twenty-four and see a big picture of Megan and me, having our first dinner date.
Seeing her so pretty and happy feels like a kick in the nuts.
I’ve been trying to tell myself maybe it wasn't as good as I remember, but there it is sitting right in front of me: evidence that it was, in fact, as good as I remember.
I look happy in these pictures. We both do.
This article is written by Megan. It's an account of what has happened, told from her perspective.
Without going into too much detail about how it happened, Megan says that Penny was the one that who came up with the idea, and that neither she nor I could say no. Next thing she knew, we were in my office, saying our vows in front of a minister and two witnesses. “The most surreal experience of my life,” she calls it in the article.
She also admits to having interned at The Goss, and having taken the job as my personal assistant to gather material about me. But then, she got to know me and decided not to write about me at all. She cut off her editor, never expecting her to retaliate by blowing her cover.
She even mentions how the media has been unfair to me by pushing Ashley’s side of the story as truth. She doesn’t go into much detail because, as she says, “it’s not my story to tell.” But she insists that I’m not the monster my ex-wife makes me out to be.
Megan ends the article by apologizing to me for having misrepresented herself and “returning kindness and generosity with deception.”
Overall, this article actually makes me look pretty good. Instead of an evil boss who forced Megan into marrying me, I seem like a good guy making the best of bad circumstances.
Megan has painted me as a “doting father who's doing his best for his daughter,” which must gain me some sympathy from the bored housewives who are reading this magazine while their kids are climbing all over them and their husbands are playing video games.
Finished reading the article, I stare at Megan's pictures. Damn, she’s so fucking beautiful. Just look at those killer curves on her body. I want to reach into the scene printed on the magazine, and sweep her hair away so I could kiss her neck. She’s so sensitive that she’d start moaning and begging me for more in no time.
Eliza clears her throat, jerking me back to the present. “I think she’s just saved your ass. She's done my job for me. Good crisis management skills on that girl.”
“Yeah,” I say, still trying to shake off the dirty thoughts in my head.
“Although she created the problem herself, so...”
“Yeah.” I’m still in a daze, not quite believing that Megan has basically taken the blame for our fake marriage. She doesn't need to put her personal life out there for people to judge and criticize, but she has nevertheless done it for me.
“But if you want to ask her to move back in, that's entirely up to you,” Eliza says.
“Huh?” I snap my head up to look at Eliza, who's giving me a knowing smile.
“You said she moved out as soon as you found out, right? Well, Ethan, in all my years of working for you, I’ve never seen you so miserable, or so distracted. You’ve always been focused on whatever you're doing.
“Far be it from me to tell you what to do in your personal life, but I don't think it’ll be the worst thing in the world if you start living together again. It would make for such a good story. The way people have been eating up this article, they’d go crazy if you two decide to make a real go at it.”
I stay quiet. Evidently, I’ve already said too much without ever opening my mouth.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing, boss,” Eliza says with a sly smile as she gets up from her chair and walks out of my office, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
My head fills up with possibilities, while my heart begins to pound in my chest.
Make a real go of it? At marriage? With Megan?
Penny cranes her neck to check that Matt has gotten into the elevator. She looks at me, then at the grilled chicken and vegetables on her plate, and back at me again.
“What is it?” I ask. I haven't been able to pay attention to anything since I read Megan's article this afternoon, but I can still recognize it when my little girl has something difficult to say.
“Uhh…”
“Did you get into trouble in school?” I love Penny, but not everybody gets her. She's too smart for her own good sometimes.
According to her teacher, her sarcasm and offbeat sense of humor don't make her cool. I beg to differ, but apparently the popular girls don't like it when she's unimpressed by the latest designer bags that they’ve bought in Europe.
“No,” Penny says, to my relief. I’d hate to sit through another long session with Mrs. Turner, whereby she complains about all the things that make Penny great in my eyes.
“Then what is it?” I ask.
“Um… Did you read Megan's article?”
I run my fingers through my hair. Am I the only person who doesn't read gossip tabloids?
“What did I tell you about those magazines?” I ask.
“So you have read it,” she says with a grin.
“Maybe I have, maybe I haven't. The point is, I’ve warned you about those magazines, haven't I? I told you not to read them. They're going to rot your brain.”
“My brain
is not going to rot just because I read something you don't want me to. I’m not a dumb toddler you can lie to, Dad. I’m almost a teenager, and I have a smartphone. I can Google.” Penny rolls her eyes. “Besides, you so have read it. I didn't say it was in a tabloid, but you already knew.”
Damn those detective stories, turning my sweet little girl into a scary human lie detector.
“Okay, I’ve read it,” I admit. “What about it?”
“I think you guys should make up.”
“And why do you think that?” I ask as my heart begins to race. I’ve been thinking about asking Megan to come back, but I’ve been worried about how it would affect Penny. God knows she's gone through enough upheavals in her life.
“Because everything in that article is true.” A grin blooms on Penny's face and she says, “Also, you were happier when she was around. You like her. Like, like like her.”
Ethan
I stare at the suitcase as Megan speaks with a woman who seems to be her mom.
“Where do you think you're going?” I ask, terrified that I might've missed her had I come just a few minutes later.
“I, uh, I’m moving,” she says as her mom walks back inside the house.
It's a humble house in the outskirts of the city. For some reason, I never expected Megan to live in a place like this. She always looks so glamorous that I forget she doesn't usually live the way she did at my home.
“Yeah, I can see that.” I glance at the luggage, then back at her beautiful face.
That beautiful, infuriating face. I want to scream at her for leaving without telling me and for planning to use my life as fodder for her article.
At the same time, I want to grab her and hold her tight, maybe even handcuff our wrists together, so she’ll never leave my side again. I repeat my question, “But where do you think you're going?”
“Chicago,” she says softly, shock still freezing her tongue. She’s dressed in a casual pair of skinny jeans, a white shirt, and low heels. Pretty low-key for Megan; no doubt it’s because she was about to get on a plane.
“Chicago? You were going to move to the other side of the country? And you weren’t even going to tell me?” I can’t help but raise my voice, although I remind myself to hold back in case Megan’s parents could hear us.
If everything goes well, I’ll be seeing them a lot so I don’t want to make a bad impression. Come to think of it, they’re already my in-laws right now, even if they don’t know it yet.
Judging from Megan’s mom’s reaction when she saw me, she probably doesn’t know who I am, which means Megan hasn’t told her and she doesn’t keep up with the news.
I find it strange that she doesn't read her own daughter’s writing, but that's not the important thing here.
The important thing is Megan's about to leave, and I need to stop her.
“I didn't think you'd care,” she says.
“Well, I’m here, so obviously I do.”
She looks at me like she still can't quite believe I’m standing right in front of her. If she wants to touch me to make sure I’m not only here in her imagination, I wouldn't object to that.
“Is it true?” I ask.
“Is what true?”
“Your article. Is it all true?”
“Yes,” she says, fixing her brilliant blue eyes on me. She's telling the truth.
“Or did you write it just to get published?” I feel bad for accusing her of trying to take advantage of her fifteen minutes of fame, but I need to hear her say it.
“No,” she answers quickly, an offended frown on her forehead. “I wasn't planning on publishing anything about you. That's what I told Michelle, the editor at The Goss, and that's why I left.”
“Why did you change your mind?”
“Because I couldn't do that to you, after getting to know you,” she says, using the same words she did in the article.
These words may not sound like much. But I know Megan, even if she thinks she has been hiding herself pretty well from me. The truth is, as soon as I let myself see her as a woman and not as an employee, I started to see her—really see her.
She's too ambitious and organized to end a project prematurely for no reason.
During her time as my assistant, she never so much as misscheduled an appointment, or even forgotten to pick up a piece of laundry. If that's the kind of dedication she shows for an undercover job, she must place even more importance in doing her actual job as a journalist.
And, like me, she keeps her distance from people.
Even though she worked alone with me on our separate floor, she could've hung out with the staff from the other floors. My previous assistants used to do that. But Megan was always content to sit alone at her desk.
Whether as my assistant, my fake wife, or my real lover, Megan has never volunteered much information about herself. She tends to make understatements.
Which means that, when she says she says, “I couldn't do that to you, after getting to know you,” it means... It means she has real feelings for me.
Perhaps I should've known this because she gave me her virginity. But in my defense, you’d be surprised by the number of women out there who’d sleep with rich, successful men and consider it some kind of an achievement, like a tick on the old bucket list.
But Megan's different. She's more serious than most girls her age. Hell, she's more mature than many women my age.
I'm confident in her feelings for me. We have the kind of connection that can't be faked. The only thing I don't know is, will she come back to me, or is she too proud to do that?
“And yet you left without even saying goodbye. How do you think that made me feel?” I ask.
“I… I…” Megan looks around, perplexed by my question. She pauses before softly saying, “Honestly, I didn't think you'd want to see me again.”
“You should've asked me.”
“You went off on me and you drank in your room for the rest of the night.”
“I’d just found out something disturbing about this girl, whom I thought was the best thing to have happened to me in a long time. Give a guy a break.”
“I thought that was what I was doing.”
“Well, you thought wrong. The last thing I wanted was for you to give me a forwarding address for me to send the divorce papers to. In what way would divorce be a way to make someone feel better?”
“It wasn't even a real marriage,” Megan snaps. Good.Maybe now she’ll tell me what's really on her mind. “It wasn't like you actually wanted to be with me. We just had to put on a show for the media. When the media found out it was just a charade, you had no use for me.”
“No use for you?” I repeat. “Jesus, Megan, what kind of an asshole do you take me for? Did you think I was just using you? In your letter, you said it was wishful thinking, for you to imagine that we could last. Why? Why would you not give us a fighting chance?”
“I didn't think—”
“Stop thinking,” I cut her off. “Stop thinking for once and listen to your heart. What do you feel?”
“I… I don't know what kind of an answer you're looking for here.”
“Do you really feel like I was just playing with you?” My heart clenches.
Megan hesitates. “No,” she finally says.
“And were you just pretending, when we were together?” I hold my breath, afraid to move a finger. I don't want to miss her answer.
“No,” she says softly.
“So why would you think I was?”
“I don't know. I mean, you're…well, you. And I’m just me.”
My heart breaks at her answer, and I have to fight the overwhelming urge to pull her into my arms. I have one more question before I feel comfortable taking her back.
“Why me?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you go undercover specifically to write about me? Why did you choose me? Why not someone else?”
“Because I hated you,” she says matter-of
-factly, driving a million blades into my chest.
What the fuck does that mean?
Megan
“Because I hated you.” The words slide smoothly out of my mouth. I immediately realize what I've just said and regret it, but it's too late.
Ethan is staring at me, hurt and disbelief overtaking his features. He hardens his expression. “Wow. You hated me because I was a bad boss?”
“No. It was from before you were my boss.”
“‘Hate’ is a strong word for someone you didn't even know, isn't it? You had never even met me before you started working for me.”
“But I had,” I say softly.
“When?” Ethan asks, frowning. “Kitten, I would've remembered meeting someone like you. Do you know how hard it was for me to keep my hands off you when you were still my assistant?”
“No,” I say honestly, taken aback by his confession. Ethan was always professional and even distant as my boss.
“Well, it was. Now, when was it that I saw you and didn't even notice?”
“It was a long time ago.” My heart starts to race. Am I really going to tell him the one thing I’ve always hidden from him? Is he going to hate me when he finally learns the whole truth?
“How long?” Ethan asks.
“Eight years.” I hold my breath as I watch his face for a reaction.
“Eight years?” Ethan asks incredulously. “But you would've been…thirteen?”
“Yeah.”
“How did we… Where did we even meet?”
“At your office.”
“At my office?” Ethan’s forehead creases as he strains his memory. “That would've been when I was just starting out, at my first shopping centre.”
“Yeah. Here, in Flint.”
“What were you doing there? What was a thirteen-year-old doing at my office?” Ethan asks, his disbelief slowly replaced by confusion.
“Well, I wasn't there on my own…”
“Would you just…” Ethan runs his hand through his thick, dark hair and lets out a big sigh. “Would you please just tell me the whole story and not make me guess anymore? I need to know why you hated me.”