Marrying My Neighbor

by Roxy Reid

  Suddenly, I realize I’ve crossed a line. She said, “Make yourself at home,” but I shouldn’t be in her bedroom. This is her sanctuary.

  I turn to go, grateful that the only thing I have to worry about with my mum is how to tell her she missed my fake Vegas wedding.

  Seven hours later, I’ve tossed a bag of overnight stuff into Grace’s guest room, and Bradley and I are sitting on opposite sides of the living room, studiously ignoring each other when we both hear the key in the front door and perk up.

  The doorknob turns, then Grace nudges the door open with her hip. Her arms are laden with groceries. “Honey, I’m home!” she teases.

  Bradley runs up to twine himself around her ankles, purring. She carries the groceries into the kitchen. I follow, watching as she scoops up Bradley.

  “Poor baby,” she coos. “Were you alone all day with no one to pet you?”

  “I was here most of the day,” I point out. “He hissed at me.”

  “Yes, but you don’t like cats,” Grace says. “He can tell.”

  I’m about to say I do too like cats, just not this cat, but my brain catches up with my mouth just in time.

  Grace turns to me, beaming. “So, how did you like the house?”

  Her face is filled with hope. She clearly doesn’t want to move. I don’t have the guts to tell her that, other than the kitchen, the guest room, and her room—which I never should have seen—her place feels vaguely claustrophobic. Like the past is closing in on us.

  So I steal her line from the other day. “Let me sleep on it. Can I help with dinner?”

  She waves me off, so I sit down and watch as Grace puts on some music and starts chopping vegetables and boiling water for pasta. A song she likes comes on, and she dances a little as she cooks.

  I grin. She’s cute when she forgets I’m here.

  “Is this what you do on the nights you don’t come over to my place?” I ask.

  “Sometimes. Other times, it’s takeout or frozen food. But yeah, basically. Also, normally I would have taken my bra off by now.”

  I grin. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

  She flips me off and dumps noodles into the boiling water, but she’s smiling while she does it.

  Tragically, she leaves the bra on.

  I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of thunder, gasping for breath. My house is built so that I rarely hear the rain, but in Grace’s, it sounds like the water is all around me. Which was probably why I was dreaming I was taking a shower.

  I slump back into pillows that smell like Grace’s laundry soap as the rest of the dream comes back to me. Grace was in the shower with me, and this time, when she pressed my hands to her breasts, there wasn’t anything to keep me from her soft, warm skin. The dream just got hotter from there. I woke up just as she was about to come.

  I shift uncomfortably, trying to put the dream out of my head, trying to go back to sleep, but the more I try not to think about Grace, the more I do. This time it’s not the dream-Grace I’m thinking of. It’s Grace kissing me for all I’m worth in my house. It’s Grace feeling me up in a bar in Vegas, kissing me passionately, then wandering off like nothing unusual happened. It’s Grace casually mentioning that she takes off her bra at the end of the day.

  Okay, I know that last one isn’t sexual. It’s just because bras are fucking uncomfortable, based on how much women complain about them. Right now, in the middle of the night, as the storm rages outside, I’m wound so tight pretty much any thought with Grace in it leads to sex, and any thought I have leads to Grace.

  Oh, fuck it.

  I reach down to rub one out so I can go to fucking sleep when lightning flashes, and I see a pair of glowing eyes staring at me from the foot of the bed.

  “Gah!” I scramble upright and hit the lights, heart pounding.

  It’s just Bradley, looking at me with deep, withering disapproval in his eyes.

  For once, he’s not wrong.

  I glance at the closed bedroom door. “How did you …" I swear he wasn’t in here when I went to sleep.

  I get up to let Bradley out. He slowly pads out, then looks back over his shoulder and gives me a reproving look. I slam the door behind him. On the bright side, Bradley scaring the shit out of me got rid of my erection. I sigh as I get back into bed. Marriage to Grace is going to be harder than I thought. In more ways than one.

  When I finally fall asleep, I dream of being chased by a herd of giant Bradleys who know I’ve got the hots for their mum.

  7

  Grace

  I GOT A CAT! I had a bad day at work, so I stopped at the shelter, and there he was, the love of my life. He’s SO CUTE. Like a little grumpy old man with piercing blue eyes that stare into your soul. You are no longer the only man in my life, Sean. You have been replaced by Bradley, the sweetest cat in the history of the universe.

  —Grace Blackwood, text to Sean, a year and a half into their friendship.

  I whistle as I make breakfast, feeling ridiculously refreshed after a night in my own bed. I make oatmeal for me and stick a bagel in the toaster for Sean since he’s convinced that American oatmeal tastes “wrong, just wrong.”

  I’m whistling along to the opening music for an N.P.R. show when Sean shuffles into the kitchen, looking like death warmed over. He’s got bags under his eyes. His hair sticks up at odd angles. He moves like he was recently hit by a truck. When I catch his eye, he quickly looks away.

  He ignores the coffee I made, digging in my cupboard until he finds a box of Irish breakfast tea he gave me over a year ago. I tried it once and stuck it in the back of the cupboard. Sean opens the red box and sniffs the tea bags the way coffee snobs breathe in a fresh cappuccino.

  I bite my lip. Sean’s lived in America long enough that normally he drinks coffee, but in times of extreme emotional duress, he reverts to his tea-drinking roots. I put the kettle on.

  “That bad, huh?” I ask.

  “What?” he asks, looking up from the tea bags. His eyes are bloodshot.

  “Sean. Did you sleep at all?”

  “Sure, I did.”

  I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow. “How long?”

  He avoids my eyes and mumbles, “Probably an hour.”

  I feel my shoulders sink. I love my house, but I don’t want him to be miserable and exhausted for six months. Especially since, if it weren’t for my career, we could just get a divorce and enjoy our respective homes.

  “Maybe it was the storm?” I suggest as his bagel pops out of the toaster. I put it on a plate and pass it to Sean. Sean eats it sleepily, without bothering to put anything on it.

  “Sure. Probably just the storm,” he says, trying not to yawn. I get the feeling he’s lying.

  The kettle boils, and he makes himself a cup of tea. He’s as focused as a man trying to swim to shore in a hurricane, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he takes the first sip.

  As we eat breakfast at my little table, I weigh how much I enjoy being at home against how dysfunctional and exhausted Sean is. At one point, he tries to put salt in his tea. When I stop him, he just blinks at me in confusion.

  I finish my oatmeal and lay my spoon down. “Okay. What can we do to make you sleep better here? Do you need me to buy a better mattress? Or is it the temperature? I know it’s a little warm upstairs in the spring, but once we put the window air conditioning units in for the summer, you can make it as cold as you want before bed.”

  “You don’t have central air?” Sean asks, horrified.

  My disappointment must show on my face because he shakes himself awake and takes my hands.

  “Forget I said that. We can stay here. It’s fine. Bradley got into my room last night and woke me up, that’s all,” Sean says. “I’ll shut my door better tonight. I can spend the rest of the day at my home where the internet and the air-conditioning are better.”

  “You’re not going to rent it out?” I ask.

  “Why would I do that?” Sean says.

  “B
ecause if you don’t rent it out, it’s going to look like you plan on moving back in, which makes it look like you don’t expect this marriage to last,” I say glumly. I sigh. “We should stay at your place. Everyone knows this house is sentimental to me and packed with family heirlooms. If I just say I’m taking my time trying to decide whether or not to sell it, everyone will believe me.”

  “Are you sure?” Sean asks. “Because it’s really not your house that kept me awake.”

  “Then, what was it?” I ask. “A cat in your room isn’t that disruptive.”

  Sean looks down at his tea. “I really couldn’t say.”

  Liar.

  My house makes him miserable. His house just makes me horny. If I don’t kiss him and pack normal pajamas, it shouldn’t be a problem. I look around my kitchen wistfully. It’s so much cozier than Sean’s steel and chrome showpiece.

  If you wanted to stay in your kitchen so badly, you shouldn’t have gotten married in Vegas, I tell myself sternly. He’s doing you a favor. Put on your big girl pants.

  “I’m sure. We should live at your place. There’s more space, you have air conditioning, and it will make better sense for our story.” I stand up to clear my breakfast dishes.

  He follows me with his plates. “Thanks, Grace. I really appreciate it. If there’s anything you want to bring over that will make you feel more comfortable, anything at all—”

  “I should be fine with just my clothes and Bradley.”

  Sean sets his dishes down with a clatter on the counter. “Bradley?”

  “Obviously. I can’t leave him alone.”

  Sean clears his throat. “But won’t he be happier in his own space? You can visit every day and feed him …" he trails off as he sees the look in my eye.

  I cross my arms. “Sean. Are you saying I should abandon my cat for a year?”

  Sean takes a step back. “No, no. Definitely not saying that. Bradley is totally welcome in my house. I’ve always wanted a cat.”

  Bradley’s sitting on the kitchen window sill, and he looks over when he hears his name. He hisses at Sean, and then he goes back to ignoring us.

  Weird. Bradley’s normally a total sweetie-pie.

  I look back at Sean. “What happened last night?”

  Sean mumbles something barely intelligible about packing up his stuff, then he beats a hasty retreat.

  8

  Sean

  You know I would love to watch your cat, but it looks like I will also be out of town for your entire book tour. What a weird coincidence.

  —Sean Bronson, text to Grace Blackwood, the day after her first book tour was scheduled

  A week later, my house is filled with people, half of whom I don’t know. It’s the party Grace insisted on throwing to celebrate our wedding. At least the food is good since we got it catered from Grace’s favorite place. I’m basically filling the time by going back and forth to the buffet.

  My friend, Henry Kim, is also hovering by the buffet table. He’s a computer engineer who frequently lies to the women he dates about what he does for a living because he doesn’t want to get stuck fixing their computers, but other than that, he’s a good guy.

  “So,” he says as we both reach for the tiny slices of baklava. “Not your regular party.”

  That’s an understatement. For starters, everyone is sober. Also, you can pick out my friends from Grace’s friends just by looking at them. My people are in t-shirts and jeans. Hers are in sweater sets and pearls. Also, I only invited people I actually like. Grace’s guest list ranges from people she’s genuinely friends with to work colleagues and a friend of her mother’s who lives in the area. Basically, anyone she has to be nice to.

  I forgot how much it sucks when you’re still trying to get people to take you seriously.

  “The wedding was more my style,” I say as we finish loading up our plates and wander over to a spot where I can watch Grace from across the room. “I figured the party could be hers.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that. Getting married at someone’s bachelor party? Dude.”

  I shrug. “When you know, you know. How’s it going with what’s her face, by the way? Art history girl?”

  Henry winces. “Bad, man. She’s basically the perfect woman. I can’t stop thinking about her. My mom would love her.”

  I bite into some spanakopita. “I don’t get it. What’s bad about that?”

  “I kind of let her think I was a starving artist. So now, she keeps trying to pay on our dates, and she keeps telling me to believe in myself. Also, she wants to see my art, so any time I’m not at work or with her I have to spend fucking painting so that she has something to see when she comes over.”

  I snicker. “Bet you wish you’d just told her you’re filthy rich and you can fix her computer.”

  “That was the worst part! Her computer broke, and she wouldn’t let me touch it. She said she’d take it to the Apple store,” Henry closes his eyes in pain.

  I try to be fair. “I mean, some of the people who work in those places know their stuff.”

  “It’s not a Mac, Sean. She tried to take a Dell laptop to the Mac store,” Henry says. I pat his back in sympathy. It’s rough being in love. One of the many reasons I’ve never tried it.

  “Maybe it’s better to just cut her loose,” I say. “What are you going to do, pretend to be an artist your whole life?”

  Henry sighs and looks down at his food morosely. “Never start a relationship on a lie, Sean. It’s not worth it.”

  His phone rings. A woman’s smiling face fills the screen, and he brightens up like a kid on Christmas morning. He takes the call and wanders off, cheerfully lying his ass off about being at a friend’s art show.

  I shake my head. Grace and I might be lying, but at least we’re not lying to each other. Also, we don’t have a relationship, at least not a romantic one. We just have a great friendship, and sometimes, we accidentally make-out with each other. We’re way more functional than Henry and his girl.

  I’m about to wander out back for some air—there’s only so many times a man can go back to the buffet—when an older white woman with tightly permed hair swoops in and grips my elbow.

  “So. You’re Grace’s new husband.” She’s smiling, but there’s something about that smile that makes me feel like I’m about to face the inquisition.

  Bradley wanders into the room, sees the woman, and runs away.

  Smart cat.

  “Sure, I am,” I say, taking my hand off my elbow. “And you are?”

  “Myrtle Rose. Grace’s father’s cousin’s sister-in-law,” she says. I nod, not bothering to follow that.

  Grace really did invite everyone. I try to catch Grace’s eye, but she’s deep in conversation with her publicist, Nora, who’s probably reading her the riot act about daring to have a secret wedding so close to her book launch.

  “I hear you’re unemployed,” she says with distaste.

  I think about telling her how much money I’ve got sitting in my bank account, but I don’t have anything to prove to this lady.

  “They say everyone deserves love, even the unemployed,” I say, and Myrtle blinks. “Tell me, what is it you do for a living?”

  “Oh. I. Er. My husband’s an accountant. I raised our family.”

  I nod, supportively. “My wife’s a therapist and an author. She’s an incredibly busy woman, really. I think I might have to be the one to raise our family, at least for the first few years. Tell me, what’s your secret?”

  Myrtle warms up considerably and launches into a spiel about putting my kids first but also making time for myself and accepting that not everything’s going to be perfect. She also warns me that my kids may grow up to want very different things out of life than I do, but I should accept them and love them anyway. I think that’s a sly dig about me not being good enough for Grace until I notice the tiny rainbow flag pin on her conservative cardigan that says, “Proud Grandma.”

  Suddenly, I feel a little guilty about tryi
ng to get a rise out of Myrtle. She and I are probably never going to be friends, but all she knows is that I married into her family. She’s trying. I think of how I would feel if the shoe was on the other foot and I found out Grace had eloped with some random guy I’d never heard of. I’d probably corner him at a party, too.

  “Tell you what,” I say to Myrtle as I guide her to the couch. “Why don’t we sit down and get to know each other. Then you can report back to Grace’s family about whether or not they should sharpen the pitchforks.”

  Twenty minutes later, I think I’m doing pretty well with Myrtle. We’ve covered my childhood, my net worth, and my complete and utter respect for Grace. I’ve agreed with her that men should absolutely help wash the dishes. Now that the topic has moved to my family, I’m laying it on pretty thick. I’m talking about my younger brother, the priest, and how we were both raised in a picturesque Irish town by a strong single mother when Grace shows up, looking apologetic.

  “Myrtle! I’m so sorry, I meant to say hello sooner. Sean, the caterers had a question about … something. So if you could just go answer … the question … that they had, I’d be happy to keep Myrtle entertained,” Grace says as she sits down next to me on the couch.

  “Oh, don’t send him away! He was just telling me about his family. In Galway,” she says dreamily. “Did you know my cousin’s step-brother’s mother is part Irish?”

  “Fascinating,” Grace says as she throws me a look. I’m not sure if she’s referring to Myrtle’s sudden Irish heritage or to the fact that I managed to get the old battle-ax to like me.

  “So, what are you doing for your honeymoon?” Myrtle asks. She sighs happily. “With all that money and no job to get back to, you must be taking Grace somewhere really romantic.”