Auctioned to Him 7: The Contract

by Charlotte Byrd

  “So you think we can get an annulment instead? What is that exactly?” I ask.

  An annulment sounds more reasonable than a divorce. I mean we were really drunk. This was a mistake. How can our situation be subject to the same thing as people who have been married for years? Shouldn’t there be some sort of special clause for accidental weddings?

  “I don’t really know,” Dylan says with a shrug. “But from what I’ve seen on TV, I think it’s some sort of alternative divorce for people who were coerced into marriage.”

  “Hmm, well, maybe we were coerced. We drank too much. We can’t be held responsible for this,” I say.

  “I’m not sure it works that way.” He nods. “This is Atlantic City. If everyone said that they were drunk and should get the opportunity to get a do-over, none of the casinos would be in business anymore.”

  “I guess not,” I say.

  “As soon as we’re back, I’m going to find out exactly what an annulment is. And whether we can get it instead of a divorce,” Dylan says. “But before we do that, we have to make a promise to each other.”

  “Didn’t we already do that?” I joke. “Promised to love each other through thick and thin? For richer and poorer?”

  Dylan cracks a smile.

  “And look where that got us,” he says. “Okay, let’s promise each other that we’re not going to tell anyone about this. And I mean not anyone. Not Tristan. Not Peyton. Not even friends back home. Until this is all resolved.”

  I look straight into his eyes. They twinkle under the harsh fluorescent lights.

  “I promise,” I say with a nod.

  “I promise, too,” Dylan says. For a second, we dance around possibly giving each other a brief hug to solidify the promise. But instead, we settle on a handshake. It’s more professional. Less intimate.

  “Oh, and don’t forget to text Juliet and Tea and Tanner and tell her what we’ve decided. We can’t have Tristan and Peyton finding out any of this by accident,” Dylan says.

  I nod and get my phone.

  14

  I arrive at Dr. Greyson’s office on a cold February day. The clouds hang low in the sky and the world is so grey and colorless, it feels like it’s in mourning. The trees on campus stand stark naked, without a leaf in sight. It is on days like these that I miss the sunshine of Southern California the most. I miss the mountains and the endless blue sky. I try to remember what it’s like to not feel claustrophobic all the time – by both the tall buildings and the low sky. But I can’t. It has been more than a month since I’ve been home. And a month of clouds and grayness makes it hard to remember anything. Sitting in Dr. Greyson’s waiting room, I wonder if I can even make it here four years.

  “I feel like this weather is making everything in my life worse,” I complain to Dr. Greyson.

  She’s wearing a grey pantsuit and black heels. I glance down at her feet. A little bit of her olive skin is exposed between the end of her shoe and her pant leg. It’s barely 20 degrees out and I wonder if she wears these shoes outside or if she has boots or sneakers hiding somewhere underneath her desk, which she changes into on her way home.

  “What do you mean?” Dr. Greyson asks.

  “It’s just so cold and grey. It has been like this for more than a week and it just makes me so depressed. I don’t know if I can live here for four years.”

  “Well, February does tend to be the coldest month. But luckily, it’s also the shortest month,” Dr. Greyson says.

  I look at her. There’s an unusual amount of pep and optimism in her voice. But it quickly disappears when she finally realizes what I’m really saying.

  “Are you trying to tell me something, Alice?” she asks, pursing her bright red lips. They are large and perfectly lined. I wonder how she gets her lipstick to stick the whole time. If I wear lipstick to one of these sessions, it’s usually completely gone by the end. But hers remains in tact, bright and perfect, just as if she had just applied it.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking of recently.”

  “What?”

  “Transferring.”

  “Transferring out of Columbia? To go where?” Dr. Greyson asks.

  “I don’t know yet. But I was sort of thinking of University of Southern California. I got in there before. It’s back in LA. It’s warm there. My parents live there.”

  Dr. Greyson shakes her head. “This isn’t just about the weather, is it?” she asks.

  “Well, sort of. I mean, it’s hardly ever grey and bleak like this there. And it’s never this cold. Maybe I’d have a better perspective about everything if I went there.”

  “Perhaps,” Dr. Greyson shrugs. “But I don’t want you to discount everything that you have been through recently. That takes a toll.”

  Ah, everything. That’s one way of putting it. I don’t say anything for a while.

  “So, you haven’t told me how you’re feeling about this. Your marriage to Dylan?”

  “Accidental marriage,” I correct her. The accident part is supposed to make me feel better about this, like it’s not all my fault. Even though I know it is.

  “Okay, accidental marriage.”

  “I don’t know how to feel about it. I just feel lost. We got back last night and Tristan was there in the living room and I felt like such a liar.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we were hanging out and we were both acting like his friend. But we’re not. Friends don’t do this to friends. They don’t get married and not tell him. Friends don’t marry your roommate and not tell you. Friends don’t marry your girlfriend and not tell you. We’re both such frauds.”

  “It must be difficult,” Dr. Greyson says.

  “And on top of all that, we’re still technically on a break. What I mean is that we’re not broken up. And now I’m married to his roommate. I just don’t know what to do. I need to get out of this marriage as soon as possible.”

  “And when is that happening?”

  “I don’t know exactly. But soon. Dylan’s looking into getting an annulment. I really hope we can do that.”

  I hate to admit it, but it’s actually kind of nice to come and talk to Dr. Greyson. Juliet always has some sort of jokes or witty comments to offer, but Dr. Greyson is an unbiased third party. She never makes fun of me. Or mocks the situation, no matter how absurd. She simply listens and nods. I do, however, wish that she offered a little bit more advice. When I first started coming here, I thought she would. I’ve never been to therapy and I thought that she would give me the right answer and send me on my way. But she doesn’t. About the only thing that she does is give me one or two cryptic little sayings that could mean a number of things. But it doesn’t really amount to any actual advice since they often require me to think about what I’ve done even more (and that leaves me even more confused about the whole thing).

  “And what about your parents?” she suddenly asks out of the blue.

  “What about them?”

  “Are you going to tell them about Dylan?”

  “No! Absolutely not.” I stare at her as if she had lost her mind. “They’d freak out. And besides, I don’t want anyone to find out about this. If I could not tell Tristan about this at all, it would be even better.”

  “But you just told me a few minutes ago that you want to tell him. That you feel like a fraud by keeping this from him.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know what I want. I want to just turn back time and have none of this happen.”

  “We all want that sometime, Alice. But unfortunately, we can’t have that.”

  We don’t speak for close to a minute. This hour is really dragging by. I sigh. Only fifteen more minutes, I say to myself.

  “And what are your thoughts about public speaking class?” she asks. “Do you have any concerns about that?”

  “Concerns? Yes, you can call it that. But I would say that it’s more like I’m terrified and hopeless about the whole thing,” I say.

&n
bsp; “What do you mean?”

  “Dylan showed me a way I could get through the speeches and I was really happy about that. I even got a B+ on the first speech, which is like a miracle. But now that my old strategy won’t work anymore…” I say with a sigh.

  “Alice, I wouldn’t call drinking before class a strategy,” Dr. Greyson says, flashing a smile.

  “Why? I would.” I shrug. “It was the only thing that calmed my nerves. And now I have no idea how I’m going to get through the next one. Which by the way is in two weeks.”

  “I’m going to give you a pamphlet about this next time you come in,” Dr. Greyson says. “It will have a list of actual strategies for dealing with stage fright.”

  I shrug. “Okay,” I say. I don’t have my hopes up. I’ve read a lot of things about it on the Internet and none of them have been particularly helpful.

  “You know, of course, that you can’t drink again, right?” Dr. Greyson asks at the end of our meeting.

  “Yes, of course.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll get kicked out of school for sure. Unfortunately, I think I’m going to fail that class either way.”

  “No, you won’t,” Dr. Greyson insists. She seems so certain about it, but I’m not sure. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I will fail. What else can happen if you stand up there without saying a word?

  I walk out of her office and back into the cold bleakness outside. This semester was supposed to go differently. It was supposed to be fun and exciting. Tristan and I were supposed to be together. We were supposed to actually take advantage of everything that college and New York City have to offer. So why did it all go so terribly wrong?

  I decide to walk through Riverside Park to clear my head. I’ve been dwelling on this for far too long and I know that I’m nowhere close to being done. Juliet will come home tonight wanting to talk about this weekend – wanting to offer her advice over the whole thing without really telling me anything I don’t already know. And then Tea will call, I’m sure. I haven’t talked to her at all since all of this happened except for one or two texts asking her to keep this weekend to herself. And then, of course, there was Tristan. He has texted me a number of times since the weekend, trying to set up a time to talk. He wants to talk about our break. And I don’t want to. I don’t think I can face him. I mean, I don’t think I can face him and keep this weekend to myself. But, at the same time, I also can’t tell him what happened. It will crush him. And us. Our break will definitely become a break up. And then what? Will it mean that we’re really over? That there’s no more Alice and Tristan?

  No, that is not how this semester was supposed to go. I walk past a couple kissing on the bench in Riverside Park. They are wrapped up in each other’s kisses. Their hands are intertwined and their legs are pressed closely together. That was supposed to be us. We were supposed to be sitting on that bench and kissing, not caring that it’s nearly 15 degrees outside.

  15

  I’ve managed to avoid Tristan for a whole week. I thought it would be hard, but it wasn’t. His work schedule has remained pretty much the same since our fight. He works late Monday through Wednesday, and has classes all day Thursday and Friday. A couple of days, he came home way after eleven and left before I was up.

  On Thursday, in Victorian Literature, I space out for nearly the whole lecture thinking about him and Kathryn. Why does she have to be so hot? And so nice? I’ve never felt this way before. I never thought of myself as a particularly jealous person, but thinking about him and her working late at night at the office makes my skin crawl. I know we’re not together anymore. And worse yet, I’m married and he doesn’t even know it, but still. I don’t want him to be around her. But there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I stay out late this evening. I know he won’t be home and I just don’t feel like sitting around my dorm room all day, staring at the walls. Or reading a million BuzzFeed articles and making extra boards to pin more curious but completely unimportant things on Pinterest.

  I stop by the coffee shop that Tea and I frequent often and order a cup of green tea.

  “Hey!” I hear a familiar voice.

  “Hi Tristan,” I say, turning around and forcing myself to smile. What the hell is he doing here?

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Just getting some tea, and you?”

  “My class got cancelled. So I thought I’d waste some time here,” he says with a shrug. “Oh man, I haven’t seen you in forever!”

  Tristan puts his arms around me. His body feels warm and firm, comforting. And for a moment, I’m transported to another time. When we were still together, and in love. When everything in the world was right. And nothing could break us up.

  “You smell so nice,” he whispers, giving me a chaste peck on the cheek.

  He leans over to kiss my lips, but I turn my head away. I move away from him. My whole body tenses when he puts his arm on the small of my back and doesn’t remove it. Eventually, I just take a step to the side to get myself some space.

  “Listen, I’m glad you’re here,” he says.

  His face looks serious. Tristan furrows his brows and his eyes look earnest and under control. It’s as if he can stop them from twinkling just by willing them so.

  “I can’t stay,” I say.

  “Alice, please.” Tristan takes my hand. “I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I haven’t seen you much since…that happened. And I really need to talk.”

  “No, I really can’t.” I shake my head and turn to leave.

  “You don’t have any more classes today, Alice. You’re just avoiding me,” he says. The desperation in his voice makes me sick to my stomach. Against my better judgement, I turn around and sit down across from him.

  “Thank you,” he says, picking up my hand and kissing the back of it. As if he’s some sort of servant. As if I’m some sort of princess.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I ask. My voice is distant and austere. I’m trying to make it as impersonal as possible. As if that can save me.

  “Us,” he says. This time, his eyes twinkle. The light washes over my body as if it’s my conscience, making me feel even more horrible than I already do. I wait for him to continue. I’m afraid that I’m going to start crying if I utter even a word. My throat closes up from the pain, and my mouth runs dry.

  “I’m so, so sorry about everything that happened, Alice,” Tristan says. He takes my hands in his and looks me straight in the eye. At first I try to resist, but I can’t avoid his eye contact no matter where I turn. He forces me to lock eyes with him.

  “I was a real asshole,” Tristan continues. “I don’t want to excuse any of my behavior, but I was under a lot of stress. I had this intense Macroeconomics problem set due, which I couldn’t do at all. And I was swamped at work. And we had that fight. Oh, it was so stupid.”

  I nod and try to look away. When he notices my gaze moving, he takes my chin with his hand and points my head back at him.

  “What I’m trying to say, Alice, is that I love you. I’m not confused anymore. I know what I want.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask. I can’t believe what he’s saying. It sounds like words. Familiar words. But they don’t make any sense in that order.

  “I want to be with you, silly.” He smiles.

  “Um,” I start to say. I don’t even know where to begin.

  “Please, Alice.” Tristan’s eyes plead with mine. “I love you. And I know I hurt you again, but I want to make it up to you.”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  “I know you love me too,” he says, kissing my fingertips. “I just know it. I can feel it now.”

  Oh, if only it was this simple. Of course I love you, I want to say. But that’s not all that matters. There’s more to it. There’s all this complicated life stuff. All the things that make love so impossible and complex and difficult to handle.

  “I love you, too,” I say. I don’t know what else to say. I want to tell him som
ething true. For a second, I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to be a fraud. Every moment we’ve had together has felt like an un-truth ever since we got back from Atlantic City.

  “That’s great,” Tristan’s eyes light up. But I shake my head. “What? What’s wrong?” he asks.

  Tell him. Tell him now. Tell him that you accidentally married his roommate. He’ll forgive you. If you tell him now. I open my mouth to say it. But nothing comes out.

  “I’m not sure that’s enough,” I say.

  “Of course it is, Alice,” Tristan says. He moves over to my side of the table. There’s warmth pouring out of him, actual heat, and it wraps me in a warm blanket of love. He puts his arm around my shoulder lifting up my head. He presses his lips onto mine. I want to push him away. He doesn’t know what a horrible person I am and how wrong it is for him to love me. But I don’t. I can’t. I want to stay in this moment forever. I don’t know if it will come again.

  “Love is all there is, Alice,” Tristan says through the kiss. I can feel a wide smile form on his lips. “Don’t you know that?”

  “No, there are other things. Things that complicate love,” I say, pulling away from him. And if you knew what I did, you wouldn’t think that love is all there is, I say to him silently, in my own head.

  “No.” He kisses me again, parting my lips with his and running his tongue over mine. “All you need is love. That’s all anyone needs.”

  “That sounds nice,” I say with a smile.

  “What’s wrong, Alice?” Tristan says. His face grows more serious. Concerned.

  “Nothing.” I shrug. Just tell him. Open your mouth and say, so this is what happened that weekend we went to Atlantic City. We got really drunk, and I mean really drunk, and Dylan and I accidentally got married. But it was just an accident. We’re going to get an annulment. Everything’s going to be okay. Let’s just pretend that everything is the way it was. Like this never happened. I mean, all you need is love, right? And you love me and I love you. That’s all you have to say. Just start talking.

  “Alice?” Tristan asks again.