The Marriage Contract

by Rose Wulf

  Ophelia arched a brow at him. “You know I don’t drink much.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, popping another mouthful of egg into his mouth. In two more bites, he cleaned his plate, quickly rinsed it and the fork, and stuck both items in the dishwasher. Ever so thoughtful.

  Ophelia had turned toward her living room, assuming he’d either follow or leave altogether, when he spoke again.

  “My mother called earlier.”

  The way he said it made her freeze, hand extended toward the sloppily discarded throw blanket. Receiving a call from his mother really shouldn’t be noteworthy. It wasn’t as if they didn’t have a relationship. But he’s making a point of it…

  Batson walked into her line of sight, holding the water in one hand. “She wants to throw us an anniversary party.”

  The shock on her face had to be blatant. Ophelia was so surprised she actually had to grab hold of the backrest of the couch just to stay on her feet. “She … what?”

  He gulped from the bottle, twisted the cap back on, and set it on the coffee table before meeting her gaze solidly. “Yeah. Some bullshit about the ten-year milestone.”

  That was all it took for the shock to disappear in a surge of anger. “What is she thinking? This isn’t—we can’t—that’s ridiculous!” Ophelia threw her hands into the air then dragged them through her loose hair. “Is she making fun of us? Is it a joke? We aren’t allowed to be seen together, for crying out loud!” She was starting to feel hysterical now, but she couldn’t stop. The whole concept was outrageous. An anniversary party? For an arranged marriage that had been treated like a government conspiracy from day one? “Has she thought about how we’re supposed to explain—”

  Batson caught her gesturing arms and tugged her up to his chest. “I get it, Lia,” he said firmly. “Believe me, I fucking get it. But what the hell am I supposed to say?”

  Ophelia slumped against him, her head landing on his shoulder. “I don’t know,” she whispered. Tears stung her eyes. They were a little over a month shy of their ten-year anniversary and, really, she still didn’t understand why their families had forced them to marry. She had no idea what either family had hoped to gain from binding them together in a marriage they weren’t supposed to acknowledge in the light of day. They weren’t even allowed to live together, not really. The one thing she should have gotten out of this whole mess, to her mind, was some kind of companionship. If their families didn’t want them together, why did they stick them together?

  “Goddammit,” Batson muttered before he pulled her back and pressed his lips to hers.

  Chapter Two

  Lia whimpered quietly into Batson’s kiss when he sucked her tongue into his mouth. His hands dragged down to her waist as he angled his head and deepened the kiss, holding her firmly in place against him. Her fingers twisted in his shirt. He swirled his tongue over hers, fingers digging into her hips, and groaned in the back of his throat when she pressed her chest into his hard enough to squish her voluptuous breasts between them. Gods, how he wanted to move them to the couch they stood beside and get to know her body again. Strip off their clothes and all the invisible walls between them.

  But he knew better.

  He always felt like a piece of shit after, because no matter how willing she was in the beginning, regret inevitably dimmed her pale-blue eyes when they were done. He didn’t know if it was because they needed to keep a distance between them thanks to their parents’ fucking stupid agreement, or if it was because she didn’t want to be there at all. Or something else entirely. He’d never had the balls to ask. In the end, it all looked the same on her face—she couldn’t believe she’d let him touch her.

  Remembering how much that look had gutted him the last time, Batson pulled away from her sweet lips. Her chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath. He loved the way the hair around her face always fluttered when she gasped for breath, the way her cheeks flushed a little brighter when he flustered her. He had a thousand problems with the circumstances of their marriage, but he wouldn’t deny he had a beautiful wife.

  She was several inches shorter than him at five-foot-six with enough curves for a man to get lost in. Once or twice, she’d let slip comments that indicated she was self-conscious about her size, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. Her body was fucking perfection. Plump in all the right places. Her hair, which she kept dyed a faded blonde to avoid funny questions, reached the curve of her ass when she wore it down, which was her preferred style, and her pale-blue eyes haunted his dreams more often than he was comfortable admitting.

  Those eyes searched his face, confusion in her gaze.

  Batson released her and stepped back, lifting his bottle from the table in an effort to keep his hands occupied. “Sorry.” He did his best to ignore the flicker of pain that crossed her face at the word. He’d probably never know how to handle this. “I should go. I’ll let you know … you know, when I hear more.”

  “Right,” she said quietly. “Good night, then.”

  He inclined his head and started down the hall, toward the hidden door that connected their units. “Night,” he called back. She didn’t follow him.

  Batson shut the door behind him and clenched his fist. Damn near ten years and he still felt like he could never get it right, regardless of what he tried. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he shouldn’t be trying at all. Nothing about their fucked-up situation was right. How could he expect to make it better?

  He turned a glare at the unassuming display case. Sometimes, he felt like it perfectly symbolized his life.

  Almost entirely floor-to-ceiling and completely enclosed, the glass display case housed an assortment of items he’d collected over the years that a man might reasonably want to show off. Especially a bachelor, the kind of man he always had to pretend to be. Hand-crafted figurines depicting action heroes from movies and comic books, sports trophies, and a few detailed replicas of some of his favorite classic cars. All presented for any potential guest to see and fawn over. The perfect cover for the secret passage into the house next door.

  His father had suggested a bookcase. Batson still wanted to snort at the idea. Bookcases were too fucking cliché. Besides, anyone who might ever get to know him would never believe he read enough to need a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. When he read, he did it like all the other people of his generation—on his phone.

  Batson could feel his body temperature rising the longer he glared into the glass. With a disgusted shake of his head, he turned and stomped in the direction of his kitchen. He actually was still hungry, so he shoved the water into the fridge and dug out whatever leftovers were sitting in the Tupperware.

  While the microwave hummed with the rest of his late dinner, he twisted the cap off a beer and reflected. On Lia’s reaction to the bombshell his mother had made him drop. On his mother’s crazy news.

  What the fuck is she thinking?

  Lia was completely right. There was no way they could have an anniversary party. None. That would mean going to the same place, at the same time, for the same reason. How the hell were they supposed to pull that one off? One of them could leave hours earlier, and he assumed his mother wouldn’t invite anyone who didn’t know—which meant it wouldn’t be much of a party—but both their cars would wind up in one driveway. Or parking lot. Wherever the hell she chose to throw it. Or did his mother expect Lia to fucking fly there?

  Batson scrubbed a hand down his face a second before the microwave dinged. I know we were eighteen and our families were pressuring us, but what the ever-loving hell were we thinking? Going through with the arranged marriage had been bad enough, but signing that bullshit contract immediately afterward—that might actually have been the dumbest thing Batson had ever done.

  He set his beer on the table, grabbed a fork, and pulled the second half of his dinner from the microwave. Mashed potatoes and partially congealed gravy. Not the most appetizing to look at, but whatever. It’d do the trick. His ass had barely settle
d in his chair when his cell rang. He was tempted to ignore it, but sitting and stewing in his bad mood wasn’t going to help. So he fished it out of his pocket and tapped the necessary buttons that enabled him to talk and eat at the same time.

  “What?” he asked by way of greeting after glimpsing the name on the screen. Kipp Kirby, the closest thing he had to a best friend. Granted, the man had claimed the title without permission sometime during middle school, but he’d proven to be a decent enough guy to have around when Batson was in the mood to have people around.

  “Batson!” Kipp exclaimed, dragging out the “o” at least four times longer than necessary. “Listen, buddy, I know it’s a little late, but I’m itching to get out of the house and work off some energy. You wanna go for a drink? Hit up the gym?”

  Batson took his time with his mouthful of potatoes. The gym didn’t sound too bad. If that was really what Kipp was aiming for. “How many times do I have to tell you I ain’t your fuckin’ wingman?”

  Kipp laughed into the phone. “No, I swear, I’m not looking for a woman!” There was a distinct pause. “I mean, I won’t turn one away—”

  “Goddammit, Kipp,” Batson said with an irritated growl.

  “But I only mean that in the sense that I never turn a pretty lady away!” Kipp hurriedly added. “Seriously, I’m bored, Batson. Let’s have a drink. Lift some weights. Do something.”

  Batson mulled over the offer while he polished off his leftovers. He took an extra moment to chase the meal with the rest of his beer and finally said, “Fine, we’ll go to the gym. But that’s it. I’m not hauling your drunk ass all over town again, got it?”

  “Sweet!” Kipp responded, probably punching the air like an idiot in victory. “I’ll meet you there in like twenty.” The line went dead before Batson could respond.

  He tossed his dishes in the sink to deal with later, dropped the bottle in the recycling, and headed toward his bedroom to grab his gym bag. Maybe going out for a late-night round with a punching bag was a good idea. It’d help him blow off steam. If there was one thing he appreciated about Kipp, it was Kipp’s unquestioning understanding of the need to blow off steam on a semi-regular basis. That was the benefit, he supposed, to having a full-blooded salamander for a friend.

  ****

  Two days later, Ophelia smiled warmly as she pulled out the chair across from her grandmother at the small bakery and café where they liked to meet. Not that they met up very often. “You’re early, Grandma,” Ophelia greeted, brushing a stray strand of fake blonde out of her face. “How are you?”

  Yvette Flynn returned the smile and gestured to the cup of hot coffee and small pastry bag in front of Ophelia’s seat. “I wanted to make sure I got your favorites,” she said. “You always insist on paying.”

  “Of course, I do!” Ophelia said. There was no upset in her words, though. It wasn’t as if either of them were hurting for money. She sighed. “Anyway, you—”

  Yvette waved her fingers lightly. “Oh, I’m fine, Ophelia. You worry too much. I’m not ancient.” She sipped at her drink, equally indiscernible in a hot cup, but undoubtedly tea instead of coffee. Something herbal, though the flavor varied with her mood. “It’s you I worry about.”

  Ophelia’s shoulders sagged a little and she extracted the lightly glazed sticky bun from the bag, busying her fingers. “Grandma, please don’t,” she said quietly. They went over this every time they met and every time, Ophelia had to ask her grandmother to drop it. She appreciated her Elder’s concern, but it was far too late. All it did now was hurt her heart. So she drew up a smile and said, “I’m all right. There’s no sense talking about it. Tell me how you’ve been.” Part of her wanted to ask about her father, but she bit the question back. One uncomfortable conversation at a time was plenty.

  Yvette studied her for several seconds over the rim of her disposable cup. “Okay, fine,” she said at length. She pulled her purse around and dug out several pieces of paper folded together. “I wanted to show you these. I’m thinking of downsizing and I wanted your opinion.”

  “Downsizing?” Ophelia repeated. “You’re moving?” Her grandmother pushed the papers across the table and Ophelia moved her coffee aside in order to examine the images. Printouts of quaint, single-story, one- or two-bedroom homes. The two-bedroom wasn’t actually much smaller in square footage than Yvette’s current house. All three options were within city limits. Ophelia looked up. “You’re moving here?”

  Her grandmother smiled again. “Why not? You’re my only grandchild and I hardly ever get to see you. I want to be closer.” She shrugged. “Besides, what do I need with all the space I have right now? No one ever visits.”

  Hello, guilt. Ophelia looked again at the papers, simultaneously nibbling at her breakfast. “The two-bedroom really isn’t much smaller, Grandma,” she finally said. “But this one’s cute.” She pointed to one of the others. “I have no idea if it’s priced right, but that’s what realtors are for.”

  Yvette chuckled and took a drink of her tea. “You like that one? I thought it might be worth looking into.” She reached over and covered Ophelia’s hand. “Could you come look at it with me? I’d love the company.”

  Ophelia paused. She did have the time. But she’d planned to use some of her afternoon on shopping.

  “You can’t?” Yvette asked, disappointed.

  Dang it. Her grandmother was, in so many ways, the only family Ophelia had left. She couldn’t possibly say no. “I’ll just have to do a little mental shuffling,” she said. “I was planning to do some shopping this afternoon.”

  “Grocery shopping? I’m sure we could squeeze that in,” Yvette said. “Us old ladies still do that, too, you know.”

  Ophelia laughed and sipped at her mocha. “Well, yes, but—” She really didn’t want to have to say it. Oh well. “Also, Batson’s birthday is next week. I still have to get him something.”

  The amusement vanished from Yvette’s faded blue eyes as if a switch had flipped. She huffed and set her tea on the table. “I don’t see why you should bother,” she said sternly. “What has that man ever done to deserve your kindness?”

  Ophelia lowered the last bite of her bun with a frown. “Grandma,” she said. “That’s not fair.” To sidetrack the conversation before it could further derail, she reached into her own purse and pulled out her phone. “Anyway, let’s see if we even can look at this house today.” She dialed the listed number without waiting for her grandmother’s reply.

  ****

  “Thank you so much for letting us look at the house,” Ophelia said, turning a grateful smile to the man who’d shown up to meet her and Grandma Yvette that afternoon. Keith Butler was about the same age as her and, apparently, helping his mom sell her house. Ophelia had no idea what, if any, plans he might have had to rearrange for them and she felt bad about it.

  He returned the key to his pocket and offered her a lopsided smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I just hope your grandma liked it.”

  Ophelia glanced around for her grandmother, finding the older woman examining one of the trees in the front yard. Grandma, really? How did she not understand how weird that looked to regular people? Shaking her head, Ophelia replied, “I think she did. Although, to be honest, I have no idea what she’s really looking for. She just sprang this whole moving thing on me this morning.” She looked to the cute little house again as they stepped onto the subtly sloped driveway. “I could really see her here, though. If she actually figures out how to downsize.”

  The house was a single-story one-bedroom, just as the ad had promised. A fresh coat of tan paint on the outside, with a classic, steeped roof. The shape of the house allowed for two peaks, and in addition to that, there was even a chimney. A working chimney which accompanied a glossy stone fireplace in the living room. The interior was well-kept, both in maintenance and quality, as far as Ophelia could tell. House shopping wasn’t near her strong suit. She didn’t watch the popular relevant shows. Still, she wasn’t an i
diot. This was good. Inside and out. The yard space was, like the rest, smaller than what her grandmother currently had, but that was to be expected. Three healthy trees and a well-kept line of flower bushes decorated the front, with more trees and a few more flower varieties out back.

  Keith laughed as he stood beside her. “Downsizing is rough,” he said. “My own grandparents went through that about a year ago. If she’s not absolutely sure she’s ready, she might regret it.”

  Ophelia pursed her lips. His words made sense. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Still,” Keith said, turning his focus to her. “I would personally love it if she wants the house. It’d make my mom happy to see it go to someone like Yvette, and then we wouldn’t have to worry about it sitting on the market for forever.” He grinned. “Did that come out bad? I told Mom to hire a realtor.”

  Trying her best not to laugh too loudly, Ophelia shook her head. “No, no, you’re fine. I don’t have a lot of experience dealing with realtors, but mostly I prefer the personal touch, anyway.”

  Yvette stepped up to them with a bemused smile on her face. “Should I leave you two here and do the grocery shopping on my own?”

  Ophelia felt herself flush scarlet. “Grandma!”

  “Well, I’ve been waiting on you,” Yvette said, her smile widening.

  Doing her best to contain her glare, Ophelia replied, “From the woman who was consulting the trees. If you’re ready, we can go.”

  Yvette hummed. “Sure, sure.” She focused in on Keith, adding, “Thank you so much. Keith, was it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It was my pleasure. Call me if you have any questions, and of course if you’re interested in buying.”

  “Oh,” Yvette said, frowning faintly and glancing between them. Warning bells went off in Ophelia’s head. “I’m pretty sure my phone’s died. Could you give your number to Ophelia? I’ll get it from her later.”

  Keith chuckled. “I’d be happy to.” He lifted his phone from a pocket, looked at Ophelia, and asked, “Should I text it to you?”