by Roxy Reid
No one stays angry after the first thirty seconds. After that, you’re trying to keep yourself angry by reminding yourself why you’re angry over and over again. Which is to say, STOP BEING PISSY ABOUT ME ACCIDENTALLY RECORDING OVER THE SEASON FINALE AND OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR.
—Grace Blackwood, text message to Sean Bronson, two years into their friendship
I sit at my office desk and stab my legal notebook. It’s been four days since I ran away from Sean. I haven’t gone back to his house yet. I was going to after the first night if only to get my laptop, but when I came home from work the day after our fight, all of my stuff was sitting by my backdoor, neatly packed up.
I’m guessing Sean doesn’t want to see me, either.
I put my forehead on my desk and groan. For the millionth time, I replay our fight in my head. I try to hold on to my irritation at Sean for springing that on me. I told him we should just be friends. I told him it was a bad idea for us to have sex. I told him if we were going to have sex, it had to be just sex. I told him. And he has the gall to tell me … that he cares deeply about me and wants to try for a real relationship.
I stand up and start pacing. I can keep pretending I’m angry at him for not listening to me, but the truth is, I’m scared. Being in love with Sean and having him love me back …
My eyes sting. I can’t even imagine how great that would be. He pushes me to be better and challenges me because that’s what he does to everyone around him. He’s also crazy about me just the way I am. The sex is consistently mind-blowing. I like his family and friends. He doesn’t like my family, but frankly, that’s a mark in his favor.
It’s true that we haven’t talked about the big, serious stuff. I don’t know if he wants kids. I don’t know if he wants to live in the US permanently or if he’s going to want to move back to Ireland at some point. I don’t know what a relationship would look like when we’re both working.
Right now, he’s incredibly supportive of my career, but how much of that is because he’s in between companies at the moment? For three years, the bulk of our friendship consisted of collapsing on his couch, exhausted, at the end of a long day.
I did that because just being near him made me feel better, I remind myself.
That right there is the heart of the problem. I’m scared to lose what we have because it’s amazing, and for so long, it was exactly what I needed. I’m also scared that what we have isn’t enough to build a real relationship on. I’m scared these past few weeks are a fluke. I’m scared that as soon as it isn’t a pretend relationship with a built-in expiration date, cracks will start to show.
Then I’ll be left with a broken heart. God, I hate that expression. A broken heart sounds so small and dainty, like a piece of jewelry that got a chip in it. If Sean leaves, I’ll be left with a broken everything. A broken life because there will be holes where I used to spend time with him. A broken brain because I’ll keep thinking about him long after it’s over. Yes, a broken heart, too, because if I let myself fall, I will love him. Then he’ll leave.
What if he doesn’t?
“Argh.” I turn to stare out the office window, and I tunnel my hands through my hair.
I’m terrified it won’t work out, but I’m also terrified it will. Because loving Sean … Sean’s not just the boy next door. He’s brilliant and controversial and filthy rich. He’s challenging. He fucks up. He does what he wants. He pushes for more. He pushes me for more.
Friendship with him felt safe because, at the end of the day, I could get up and leave. Go back to my own world. Be solely in charge of my own life.
Loving Sean would mean all the normal difficulties of a relationship would be dialed up to eleven. Of course, all the pleasures would be too.
Do I really want to love a man who is so much larger than life? Who makes me feel so out of control? Do I have a choice?
My office phone rings, and I answer it in reflex. “Grace Blackwood’s office.”
“Oh! You answered,” Nora says. “I thought you’d be gone by now. You haven’t stayed this late at the office since you got married.”
I blink, realizing that’s true. I’ve been leaving on time because I look forward to getting home to Sean. The thought causes an ache in my chest.
Nora keeps talking. “Glad that whole leaving-on-time thing wasn’t permanent. I was starting to get worried. Anyway, just calling to update you on the TV special. They’re very, very impressed. We have one hold-out who wants to see how you handle yourself on national TV, but when you rock that, which you will, they’ll be ready to sign.”
“That’s great, Nora,” I say numbly.
“Great? That’s excellent! Do you realize how rare this is for a first-time author? I know I’ve been saying you can do this, but between you and me, I was aiming us a little high, and you pulled it off.” She sighs happily. “I wish all my clients were like you.”
I think of Las Vegas and snort.
“No, you don’t,” I say. The words are out before I can think them through. For a split second, I hope Nora will brush it off as fake modesty, but no such luck. She knows me too well.
“Why would you say that?” she asks suspiciously.
“No reason,” I say glibly.
“Grace.” Her voice brooks no argument.
I sigh. “Do you think I would still get the TV special if it came out that my wedding to Sean wasn’t exactly planned?”
“Darling, no one plans a Vegas wedding,” Nora says. “That’s what makes it romantic. In a kitschy way.”
I tap my fingers against my leg nervously. “No, I mean like really unplanned. Like what if Sean and I weren’t even dating, but we got wasted, and we’ve been faking a marriage to avoid a public relations nightmare?”
There’s dead silence on the other end of the phone.
“Nora?” I ask, hesitantly.
“Don’t ever say that to anyone again,” Nora says. “If it came out you were faking a marriage, the TV special would be off the table in a heartbeat. Your book sales would plummet. I’m guessing you’d lose a fourth of your clients, at least. If you got married by accident and decided to fake a marriage, then good. Keep faking it until you’re dead. Or until you don’t want to have a career in couples therapy. Your choice.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I protest.
“No,” Nora says. “It is. I’m dead serious, Grace.”
I swallow. “I understand.”
“Good. I need you to get your head back in the game and start prepping for the New York interview. It will change both our lives if you don’t fuck it up,” Nora says, and then she hangs up.
As I drive home, I decide that this silence has gone on long enough. Sean and I need to talk to each other. If nothing else, we need to decide what our fake marriage looks like going forward.
He’s probably cooled down, I tell myself as I turn onto our street. He’s probably realized he doesn’t actually love me. I’m too difficult. Too high-maintenance. He made me a romantic dinner, and I flipped out. He’s probably waiting for me to reach out so we can go back to being friends.
Either that, or he’s planning some grand romantic gesture to win me back.
I stomp down on that thought as I park the car.
That’s when I see it—there’s a For Sale sign in front of Sean’s house.
For a second, I stare at it without understanding, and then my heart starts beating faster. He knows I love my house. At the start of this whole thing, we argued over whose house to live in. The other night, I told him we hadn’t talked about the big, long-term things. Whose house we would live in is a pretty big, long-term thing.
Is he selling his house … for me?
I can’t think of anything more reckless, but it’s also a big, larger-than-life way of saying, “I’m all in—no more safety plan. No more running back home when we have a fight. We’ll have the same home now.” Or he could mean something else entirely, something entirely unrelated to our relationship, but my heart is poundi
ng too fast to really believe that.
He comes around the corner of the house, mowing the lawn shirtless. It feels like that day all those weeks ago when I sat in my car, watching him. Then he invited me to Las Vegas, and my life changed. I blow out my breath. I feel like I’ve got two paths in front of me. I can be brave and reckless. I can be the woman who went to Las Vegas. I can be the woman Sean fell in love with. Or I can be the cautious, lonely workaholic I’ve always been.
“Be brave,” I tell myself.
Sean stops to wipe the sweat off his face with the back of his hand, and as silly as it sounds, that’s the minute I realize I’ve fallen in love with Sean. I’m not checking out his abs, as perfect as they are. No, I can’t take my eyes off his face. I’m trying to figure out what he’s feeling. I want to know if he’s okay and if he’s been sleeping enough. How badly did I hurt him when I turned him down? Oh God, why did I hurt him like that?
It’s only been a few days since I’ve seen him, but it feels like months.
I need to fix this, I think. I need to fix this right now.
If he tells me he’s selling his house for me …
As I get out of the car, I can’t stop the tentative smile from creeping onto my face. If he’s selling his house for me, I think I know what I’m going to say.
“Sean!” I call. He doesn’t hear me over the mower, so I head over to his lawn and wave him down.
When he sees me, he takes a step back like he’s been punched in the gut. Oh, fuck, I really did hurt him.
I can fix this. I can fix this. I can fix this.
I gesture to the For Sale sign, trying to keep my smile open and welcoming. “What’s that about?”
Sean’s face doesn’t give anything away. “I’m moving. I don’t need this place anymore.”
Oh my God. This is really happening. He’s sold his house because of me. God, I love him so much. It’s so ridiculous, and over the top, and wonderfully him.
I clear my throat. “And where do you think you’re moving to?” I smile coyly, waiting for him to swoop in with that cocky, million-dollar confidence of his and say, “Your place, love. Where else did you think I’d go?”
“California,” he says, and I feel everything inside me freeze.
No. He can’t … can’t … I need more time. I need to explain. I choke back my panicked protest. I want to throw myself into his arms and beg him to stay, but that’s useless. He doesn’t give in to begging—not mine or anyone else’s.
I try for logic instead.
“But we’re still married until the TV deal,” I say. I watch something in his face close off, like a garage door slamming to the ground.
“We’ll say I’m moving out there for business for the next six months. I’ll tell everyone out there that you’ll be joining me in six months. You tell everyone here I’ll be coming back. At the end of the six months, we say the separation has made us realize we’re better off as friends.” Sean smiles coldly. “Surely, even your book doesn’t expect couples to save a relationship where it’s impossible for the two people to live in the same state.”
“But it’s not impossible—”
“It is, Grace. I’m done.”
Sean turns away.
“Why wouldn’t you talk this through with me?” I demand. My voice is sharp and breaking. “We said we’d make decisions together. We said …"
He looks back over his shoulder at me, and the words die in my mouth. I’ve never seen a look so final. I know the truth even before he speaks. He really is done with me. Forever.
“This was never a real relationship,” he says. “You made that very clear the other night. So why the hell would I treat it like one?”
He bends over and turns the lawnmower back on, so I can’t talk to him anymore. As I retreat back to my side of the yard, I think of that long-ago argument we had. I thought it was better to stay and fix things. He thought it was better to walk away.
Well, he’s fucking walking away now. I ran one house over to think for a few days. He’s running to the other side of the fucking country, forever. I’m so mad, I could scream. I knew this would happen. I knew it, but he convinced me I was wrong. He convinced me to believe in him.
I’m about to cry. I don’t want him to see me. I stalk inside and slam the door behind me. Then I sink to the floor in a puddle of shame, loss, and crushed hopes.
I can’t believe I thought he was going to sell his house for me.
21
Grace
I hate seeing for-sale signs go up in front of houses. It’s like a big sign announcing that something big in that person’s life is ending. Or in the case of Mr. Danielson, their life actually ending. Which reminds me, do you want to go to his memorial service with me?
—Grace Blackwood, text to Sean Bronson, one year into their friendship
Two weeks after the sale sign goes up, Sean leaves for good. I know because when I come home from work one day, I can’t find Bradley. I search all over the house, then the yard. I let Bradley go outside sometimes, but he hardly ever wants to, and when he does, he just naps on my back porch. He’s a deeply lazy cat.
Then I hear him crying. I follow the sound to Sean’s backyard. Bradley’s scratching at the back door that leads to Sean’s kitchen, fussing to be let in. I try to pick Bradley up to take him back to my place, and he hisses at me, faces the door, and starts scratching again.
I glance through the window pane and see that the entire kitchen has been packed up. His car has been gone for a few days, and there were movers here before that, but I thought …
How do you pick up a whole life, just like that? In two weeks? The sight of that empty kitchen hurts. I feel like I’ve been staggering under a huge, unimaginable weight, and then someone went and added a bag of bricks on top.
“I miss him, too,” I admit to Bradley. I straighten my shoulders. “But we are not going to cry about him. I made my choice. He made his. It doesn’t matter if those choices were right. What’s done is done,” I say, my voice cracking.
I scoop Bradley up and carry him back to my house. Bradley protests the whole way back. Back in my kitchen, I give in and feed Bradley some tuna. Normally, I only give him tuna on Christmas, my birthday, or his adoption day, but tonight, I need him to be quiet so that I can forget how completely Sean left.
I pop a frozen dinner in the microwave, trying not to think about the meals Sean and I made together.
I go get the mail, just to have something to do. It’s bills and junk mail—nothing to distract me at all—but then I notice that one of the pieces of the junk mail is from Las Vegas. Specifically, a certain wedding chapel in Las Vegas.
I open the envelope. How ironic would it be to get a letter saying the whole thing had been a mistake? Surprise! You’re not married. Sorry for the emotional trauma and ruined friendship. Hope to see you on your next vacation!
But it’s not a letter saying anything like that. It’s a DVD of our wedding ceremony. I stare at it. Part of me wants to throw it in the trash. Part of me wants to watch it out of morbid curiosity to see if I can pinpoint the exact moment everything went wrong. The thing that convinces me is knowing that if I watch it, I get to see Sean’s face again, just for a few minutes.
I sigh and look down at Bradley. “I’m so fucking pathetic.”
Bradley ignores me. Apparently, his heartbreak can be cured with tuna.
The microwave beeps. I grab my dinner and take it to the living room so I can watch the DVD while I eat. I pop the DVD in, hit play, and settle back on the antique floral couch to watch the most disastrous moment of my life play out in front of me.
The video opens with cheesy wedding music and a shot of the building marquee, which reads: Now Playing: Shawn and Grace’s Happy Ever After! I don’t know whether to laugh or sob, so I settle for stuffing grocery store enchiladas into my face.
“You’re missing the credits, Bradley!” I shout.
The footage of the actual ceremony starts as Bradley wanders in,
licking his lips from the tuna.
It’s clear from the start that we’re trashed. It’s also clear that we’re not doing a very good job of following the rules. On screen, I start to walk down the aisle to Sean. I look beautiful in a dumpster-fire sort of way. Halfway down the aisle, I stumble into the pews to my left. I look down at my feet. I look up at Sean and the officiant.
Then I do a U-turn and start booking it back up the aisle and out of the chapel. I move surprisingly fast for a woman who’s drunk off her ass. That’s when Sean jogs down the aisle, catching up with me.
He’s steadier than me, but not by much. Even sloppy drunk, he’s beautiful. I dimly remember giving him flack for not wearing a tie that night, and he said something about there being nothing in life he wants bad enough to wear a tie for.
I shake my head and take another bite of enchilada. He clearly doesn’t need a tie. He’s perfect just the way he is.
“Grace! Wait for me, love,” he says. He catches my hand and pulls me to a stop. “You’re going too fast for me.”
“No, you’re going too fast for me,” I say, jabbing my finger into his chest. At least, I think that’s what I’m trying to do. My aim is off, and I end up jabbing him in the neck instead.
Sean says, “Ow,” which apparently inspires me to kiss it better, because the next thing I know, I’m watching myself kiss Sean’s neck in the middle of a Vegas wedding chapel.
Watching it now, I’m about to cover my face in humiliation, but then I notice Sean’s face. He’s utterly still. He’s acting like my lips on him is something rare and precious. I guess it was back then. I think of waking up next to Sean that morning. Seeing my lipstick on his neck.
On screen, the officiant—a middle-aged white man with horrible bleached-blond hair—asks if Sean and I want to get married or not.
Sean startles, scaring on-screen me. He catches my hand again as I attempt a second dash. “Why are we going fast? I mean too fast? I mean, we’ve known each other for ten years.”