by Melinda Minx
“It’s fine, Mom,” I say. “Deacon and I talked about this. We’ve decided.”
“Sounds like it’s settled, then,” my dad says. “You can save a lot of money by having a smaller ceremony. I think it’s a good, financially-minded decision.”
Of course you do, I think to myself.
Deacon gives me a look, and he seems to be stifling laughter.
I smirk.
“Elsie’s going to be the flower girl,” Deacon says.
Mom scrunches up her face. “You’ll have kids of your own, too, right?”
Deacon and I look at each other, trying not to laugh.
“We’ll see,” Deacon says.
We finish our coffee, and I’m already itching to leave. My dad has seemed to take a liking to Deacon, though, and they’re talking about motorcycles.
Mom scoots up next to me in her chair, and starts talking to me in a low, reproaching whisper. “I didn’t know you were into this type, Rita.”
“What type?” I ask.
She looks at Deacon and raises her eyebrows. “That type. Or did you finally come to your senses and realize you need to get a good husband to support you?”
I sigh. “No, Mom, I just really like him, okay?”
“I mean, it doesn’t hurt that he’s got money. You’ll have to make sure he’s open to having kids again, because that can really, uh, anchor you with—”
“Mom,” I say. “Please, just relax. We’re taking things as they come.”
“You never were one for long-term planning,” she says. “Ms. Art History.”
At that comment, I stand up from my chair and cough. “Deacon, don’t we have to take Elsie to that thing?”
He looks up at me like an idiot. “Huh? What thing?”
“The thing.”
“Oh!” he says, finally understanding what I’m getting at. “Yeah, her play date.”
“Are you sure?” my dad asks. “Can’t Anna take her?”
“Anna helps out,” Deacon says. “But Elsie’s my kid, my responsibility.”
I see both my parents grinning ear to ear at that remark.
“As long as you treat Rita so well,” my dad says, “then you’re always welcome here, Deacon.”
“Thanks,” he says, reaching his hand out to shake my dad’s hand again before we turn to leave.
As we walk away from the front door out to the street, Deacon pats a hand on my back and says, “Your parents are actually pretty cool.”
“Are you kidding?” I ask. “They just want me to mine you dry.”
“Mine me?”
“For gold,” I say. “They want me to be a gold digger. That’s why they want you to knock me up, so that even if we get divorced, you’ll still have to keep paying me.”
“Oh,” Deacon says. “Maybe we should sign a pre-nuptial then.”
He grins, but I don’t think it’s funny.
He wipes the smile off his face and says, “Okay, sorry, no pre-nup then.”
“I don’t want your money, Deacon.”
What do I want from him? Why am I actually doing this? As fake as all this is supposed to be, seeing my parents approve of him almost felt real. What if things started going from totally fake to less fake, and then—eventually—became real?
That thought twists my stomach into knots, and I start to wonder if that’s the reason I’m really doing this. I never could have asked Deacon out, or even considered doing it. Only because he came to me, desperate, was I able to be this close to him. I know he doesn’t really want me, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe I want him.
9
Deacon
The days leading up to the wedding make it start to feel almost real. Anna and Rita have to go shopping for a dress, and the more time I spend with Rita, the more I start to see her as an actual woman. Before entering into this crazy arrangement, I’m pretty sure that I’ve never once spent time alone with her. The only time I ever interacted with her, Anna was there. And if not Anna, then at least Elsie or Stacy. I remember only one time when everyone else left the room and Rita and I were alone.
It was after the cancer had taken Stacy from me. It was summer, and I’d been hanging out with Anna and Elsie on the porch. Anna and I were having a beer, and Elsie was still too little to talk. She was playing with one of those plastic car toys made for toddlers, pushing it back and forth.
Rita dropped by, and when I offered her one, I remember her saying she didn’t like beer. I also specifically remember that I already knew she didn’t like beer, but that I had offered her one just to make her feel awkward and put-off.
I guess I was a bit of an asshole to her.
Elsie started crying out of nowhere—thank God she’s stopped doing that all the time—and before I could scoop her up, Anna did. I tried to get Anna to let me take care of it, but for whatever reason, Anna wouldn’t have it and took Elsie inside.
I found myself suddenly alone with Rita on the porch. It was one of those Pennsylvania summer nights, when the residual heat from the day had tapered off until it felt just right, especially with a cold beer in my hand. And especially on the front porch, watching people walk by on the street on their way to hit the bars and clubs.
I remember really wishing that Rita had taken a beer because she crossed her arms and just stood there awkwardly. I pointed to the white wicker chair and told her to sit down.
She got really prickly and said, “I’m just waiting for Anna.”
“It might be a while,” I said. “Why not sit down? You sure you don’t want anything?”
Thinking back on it, I think I only enjoyed being an asshole to Rita when other people were around. As soon as Anna was gone, I didn’t want to make her feel awkward, cause I was feeling awkward myself.
“I got some wine,” I said.
“I’m okay,” she said, and she finally sat down in the chair. That helped me relax a bit.
I took a long swig of my beer and said, “I can almost forget sometimes.”
“Forget what?” she asked.
“That Stacy is gone.”
“Oh,” she said, biting her lip. “Is that...is that good? I mean, I don’t mean to question you, or—”
“Chill out,” I said. “Yeah, it’s good. I mean, it’s not like I want to forget her or anything, but only in the past few months have I been able to go for a few minutes at a time without thinking of her. It’s important to move on, even if I never really want to forget her. You know?”
Rita looked down, and her face scrunched up. I remember thinking that she probably thought I was talking like this just to annoy her, but it was the first time I’d actually talked to her for real. The first time I wasn’t actually just trying to get a rise out of her. It made me feel bad, thinking of how I’d always messed with her.
“I pray for Stacy most nights,” Rita said.
I scoffed at that. I’d prayed for her, too, when she was first diagnosed, and then when the chemo wasn’t doing shit, and right next to her bed as she was dying. She still died.
“A bit late for that,” I said.
Rita hissed something under her breath, shook her head, and bit her tongue. We sat in total silence from that point on, and the sun set slowly behind the townhouses across the street. The heat from the day slowly dispersed out into the night, and just as it started to feel a bit cold, Anna came back.
“I put Elsie down,” she said.
I remember feeling a huge relief that Anna was back and that the awkward silence had ended. I don’t think I’d ever really thought of that single one-on-one conversation with Rita ever again. At least not until today, for whatever reason.
My wedding day.
“Do you, Rita Riela,” the minister says, “take this man as your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” Rita says. “And do you, Deacon Shepherd, take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife?”
Rita made sure that the minister didn’t talk about God during the vows. She feels bad enough making a mockery o
f the holy institution of marriage as it is without the minister talking about “the sight of the Lord,” and other stuff like that.
“I do,” I say, grinning.
Rita looks...fucking good. She usually dresses so frumpy, so seeing her in a wedding dress that really hugs her body is something else. It’s the first time I’ve seen her cleavage just out in the open like that. I find myself wishing she’d wear more low-cut shirts, but then I remember she’s supposed to look wholesome. Yeah, the frumpy outfits will do just fine. But I’ll check her out as much as I can while she’s still got this wedding dress on.
“Then,” the minister says, “if anyone should object to this union, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”
I look nervously out toward the small congregation made up of our family and friends. I did invite Stacy’s parents—even though they are fucking trying to take Elsie away from me. I mostly wanted them to know I was getting married, that I was giving Elsie a wholesome stepmother. They didn’t show up for the wedding...as expected. I look over at Elsie. She’s wearing her little flower girl dress, and she’s smiling wide as she looks up at us. She’s never seen me in a tux before, and she probably never will again, for that matter. At least not until her own wedding.
“Then,” the minister says, “I now pronounce you man and wife! You may kiss the bride.”
Rita and I lock eyes. During the rehearsal, we did a...dry run. I mentioned jokingly to her after the rehearsal that we would actually have to kiss each other for real at the wedding. She turned beet red and avoided looking at me again for over ten minutes. I pushed it and asked if she wanted to practice before the real thing, and she just told me to shut up.
Well, she dug her own grave, and now she can lie in it. Because I’m going in for the kiss now, and she’ll just have to deal with it.
I grab hold of her and crush my lips against hers. Her whole body feels stiff, so I press my tongue gently against her lips. I feel her soften in my arms, and I cup her waist, pulling her tighter against me.
I move my tongue, and her lips part gently for me—ever so gently—but I move my tongue in deeper, gaining more ground. She starts to fucking melt in my arms as her tongue moves against mine. It starts to feel really fucking good. She smells really good, and her soft body feels really nice in my rough hands.
Her warm tongue presses against mine, and my eyes are closed as I drink her in. Damn, it’s too bad this is all for show. It will be hard to get her to kiss me again, so I better make her remember this one—and leave her wanting for more.
I bite her lip, and I hear her let out a low moan. Fucking perfect. Then I pull away, and her eyes meet mine. She looks like she wants more. She’ll have to wait—she’ll have to beg me for it if she wants more.
Everyone is clapping and cheering, I realize. I look over to see Elsie’s reaction. Her face is scrunched up, but she smiles when I look at her.
I’m still a bit worried about her. I know she doesn’t really remember Stacy, but I don’t want her to think I’m replacing her mom. Making my own daughter lie to people about this marriage isn’t something I feel proud about. She’s doing a good job at it so far, though...which worries me.
No one wants his daughter to be a good liar.
The reception starts, and I sit next to Rita alone at our own table. I always found that tradition pretty weird. For a big wedding, you invite people from all over the country—sometimes the world—to pay out the ass to come see you. But then you don’t even sit at a table with any of your guests?
Rita’s parents insisted, though, that we at least follow some of these traditions. My parents are gone and buried, so at least I don’t have to lie to them.
Rita is looking down at her plate even as she chews. She’s not looking at me or anyone else. As if the mediocre food tastes that good.
“That wasn’t so bad, huh?” I ask, trying to break the ice.
“Huh?” she asks.
“It wasn’t so bad,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. “Yeah, I guess not. It was a nice ceremony, for how small it was—”
“I was talking about the kiss.”
She burns red and looks down even more intensely at her plate.
“Blushing like that,” I say, “I can only take that as agreement.”
“We had to,” she says. “How weird would it have looked if we didn’t?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess you didn’t enjoy it at all then, huh?”
“Like you did…” she mutters.
“I did,” I say.
She has some salmon on her fork, but she freezes when I speak. She stays frozen for a few moments, then puts the salmon into her mouth and chews. A good way to avoid saying anything for a few moments.
“If you didn’t enjoy it,” I say, “then I guess we don’t need to do it again. But if we’re going to be married, I figure we might as well be able to have a little fun. Or is there no passion burning inside you, Rita?”
She swallows, and then turns and looks up at me with wide eyes. She bites her lip. “I’m too nervous to talk about this right now. You’re going to make me have a panic attack, Deacon.”
She really looks scared.
“Alright,” I say, “I’ll drop it. I’m just saying you’re a good kisser, that’s all.”
10
Rita
My hands are trembling as I look at Anna. “Are you sure you’re good to watch Elsie for so long?” I ask.
“So long?” Anna says. “What kind of honeymoon only lasts two days/”
“A fake honeymoon,” Deacon says. “And also the kind you have when you have a six-year-old daughter who you don’t want to leave behind for even one night.”
He reaches down and pinches Elsie’s cheeks. “Rita and I will be right back, sweetie.”
“I know,” Elsie says. “It’s okay, because Aunt Anna said she’s going to play dolls with me every day, and she’s going to let me stay up until nine o’clock.”
Anna looks up nervously at her brother.
“It’s fine,” Deacon says. “When Aunt Anna’s in charge, she’s in charge. I can’t second guess her.”
Elsie smiles. “Maybe you can stay gone for longer, Dad.”
Deacon swoops Elsie up into his arms, and she screams. He lifts her up and pretends to drop her, stopping her just before she hits the ground. She laughs and giggles as her long hair drags on the floor.
“You want your dad to be gone longer? What kind of daughter says that?” Deacon asks jokingly.
“Rita, Anna, save me!” Elsie shouts, extending her arms out toward us.
“You better tell him you want him to come back as soon as he can,” I say.
“Please come back soon, Daddy, I will miss you so much.”
He flips her back right side up and plops her down on her feet. “Good girl! I’ll be back as soon as I can to enforce your 8:30 bedtime.”
She pouts at him.
“Ready to go, Rita?” Deacon asks.
My chest is tight. My heart is pounding.
I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. I also can't stop thinking about my idiotic reaction when Deacon tried to talk to me about it. All I had to do was say that I enjoyed it, or at least smile at him. Anything. Instead, I clammed up and acted like I didn’t like it at all. He put himself out there. He did all the work and took all the risk, and all I had to do was respond with a few words, letting him know I felt the same way he did.
And I blew it.
Now, two days after the kiss, things have cooled off. I sleep in my own room, and I spend more time with Anna and Elsie than I do with Deacon.
I see why Deacon is rich now, too—he works hard. He’s almost always in his studio tattooing, and Anna says he works most weekends, too. Having the shop right next to the house lets him drop by between appointments to spend time with Elsie, so it never quite feels like he’s not there, but between Elsie and his job, I definitely feel like exactly what I am to him: his pretend wife.
Since I’m n
ot a real wife, I couldn’t exactly tell him that I’m feeling neglected. Especially since—as far as he knows—I don’t even want him to spend time with me. Not messing up that kiss conversation could definitely have made a difference.
But now we are going to go celebrate our fake marriage with a fake honeymoon. Fake or not, it has me nervous. If something happens...if we kiss again…I have to remember not to shut down. I want Deacon to know...I don’t know what I want him to know, but I want him to know it. I feel like I’m barely older than Elsie with how inexperienced I am. Maybe I can write on a sheet of paper, “Do you like me? Check ‘yes’ or ‘no,’” and then ask him to hand it back to me.
He said I’m a “good kisser,” but maybe that’s just his womanizer instincts kicking in. When a guy like Deacon says something like that, maybe that’s all he means? Maybe it just means he liked kissing me, and that’s it. He doesn't like me.
The last thing I want is to think he’s seriously into me, and then lower my defenses enough to tell him I feel the same way, only to have him give me the “not like that,” speech. The one where he says I’m just his sister’s friend.
We board a direct flight to Miami, and by the late afternoon, we are boarding the cruise ship.
“You ever been on a cruise?” Deacon asks me.
I shake my head. “I’ve never even been south of North Carolina.”
“Oh,” he says. “This must feel weird to you, then, huh?”
I nod. My skin is so pasty white compared to many of the women waiting to board the ship with us. They all look so at ease and comfortable in their skimpy clothes. I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt, which feels pretty stifling. Deacon suggested that I change into something lighter as soon as the humidity hit me when we left the airport, but I told him I’d wait until we were on the boat.
We shuffle up the ramp, and one of the ship workers helps us with our luggage and leads us toward our cabin.
He opens the door for us, and I’m blown away by how nice the cabin is. For some reason, I was expecting something like the steerage room that Leonardo DiCaprio stayed in on the Titanic: exposed bulkheads and stark metal bunk beds stacked on top of each other like sardines. Instead, our cabin looks nicer than any hotel room I’ve stayed in.