Marrying My Neighbor

by Roxy Reid

  “Three years,” I correct him.

  “That’s what I said,” Sean says. “We’ve known each other forever. I know it’s you ever since you kissed me tonight. Last night. This morning. Whatever it was. You kissed me, and then I knew, of course it was you. Why is that too fast?”

  I bury my face in Sean’s chest. “We haven’t talked about the big things. Babies. And I don’t wanna be a CEO wife. And retirement, and sickness and health, and what if you get cancer? What if you get cancer and leave? And then … and then you’ll be gone, and I can’t do it. I can’t do it without you.”

  Sean’s arms come up to hug me. He pats me on my back. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I ask.

  “Do I still get to keep my money?” the officiant asks.

  “But I won’t get cancer,” Sean says with determination. “I’ll make an app, and it will fix cancer, so then you won’t be lonely.”

  Watching now, I choke back a laugh. Drunk Sean really does look like he thinks he can cure cancer. I’m looking up at him all starry-eyed like I believe him.

  God, we’re dumb.

  Then Sean’s face shifts, and he tucks my hair back tenderly. “I won’t leave you,” he promises. He thinks about what he said. At least I think he’s thinking. Maybe he’s just trying not to puke. “I won’t leave unless you want me to leave,” he amends. “I’m not creepy. But if you don’t leave … like, if you don’t run away, I won’t leave. I won’t leave at all. I promise.”

  Sean leans down to my ear like he’s whispering a secret, but he’s so drunk, his whisper carries to the back of the room. “That’s why I don’t go over to your house. ‘Cause if I go over, I’ll never want to leave. ‘Cause it’s you.”

  On screen, I frown like I don’t understand what he’s saying. “I leave you all the time,” I say. “Every time I come over, I leave.”

  “I know,” Sean says. He lifts my hand and presses it to his heart. “I just thought if we got married, you wouldn’t have to leave. I could kiss you again, and you wouldn’t have to leave.”

  “Are we having a wedding or not?” the officiant asks, exasperated.

  “No,” Sean says, and starts to tug me to the door.

  At the same time, I say, “Yes,” and start to tug him up the aisle.

  We both lose our balance, and the heel of my shoe snaps in the process.

  Sean looks very, very confused for about ten seconds. Then he realizes I’m towing him up the aisle, and he gets very, very happy.

  The rest of the wedding is relatively painless, except for the part where I sit down in the middle of it. Seans sits down, too. The officiant swears under his breath but eventually joins us. He speeds through the rest of the service like he’s scared of what else we’ll do.

  We exchange slurred I do’s.

  I’m about to turn the TV off when the officiant says, “You may now kiss the bride.”

  Sean kisses me like I’m the most precious, delicate, wondrous thing in the world. He’s so tender, it physically hurts to watch. I press my heart with the palm of my hand and rub, like maybe I can make it stop hurting. When Sean pulls away, the officiant has wandered off. It’s just Sean and me, sitting on the floor of a Vegas wedding chapel.

  “I love—” Sean starts to say, but I stop him by clapping my hand to his mouth.

  “We should say it when we’re slober. Slower. Sober. We should say it when we’re sober,” I say to him.

  Sean pulls my hand away, clearly grumpy. “But what if you run? ‘Cause you don’t remember?”

  “I won’t run. I’ll remember I love you,” I say.

  “Hey! How come you get to say it?” Sean asks.

  Someone shouts, “Hey? What the hell is going on here? Are they drunk?”

  The screen cuts to black. I stare at the screen, shocked. I was so worried that Sean and I didn’t know each other well enough for a real relationship, but even blackout drunk, Sean knew he loved me, and he knew as soon as he told me, I’d run.

  I don’t need a big romantic gesture from him, I realize. I just needed that.

  I grab my cell phone and call Sean. My heart is pounding as it rings. And rings. And then I’m sent to voicemail.

  I hang up and text, Sean, I need to talk to you.

  He doesn’t respond. An hour later I text, I got our wedding video. And then ten minutes later, I was wrong, please call me. Then I call him for good measure and leave a voicemail.

  I shoot him an email for good measure, too, in case his phone’s not working.

  Maybe he’s just sleeping, I think.

  Then I remember Sean’s three hours behind me. He’s definitely awake. He’s ignoring me, I realize.

  I pop the DVD out and stick it back in its case.

  I can’t even be mad at him for ignoring me. He tried to tell me so many times what he felt, and I shut him up or ran away, every time.

  I’ve lost him, I think, feeling numb. I really have lost him for good.

  I curl into a ball and sob. I sob until Bradley starts butting my head and meowing to indicate he would like more tuna. I don’t give him more tuna, but I do sit up and wipe my eyes.

  When my phone buzzes, my heart jumps into my throat. I scramble for it, thinking it’s Sean, but it’s just Nora, reminding me I have the big New York interview at the end of the week and to make sure I wear something flattering.

  I stare at the phone.

  “I guess life goes on, Bradley,” I say. “Even when I really, really don’t want it to.”

  22

  Sean

  By the way, I don’t think Grace will be joining us for Christmas. She’s got a big work thing scheduled. I don’t really want to talk about it right now.

  —Sean Bronson, email to Deidre Bronson, two days after his move to California

  I don’t know what’s worse, all the texts and calls Grace sent me two nights ago or the fact that she’s made no effort to contact me since. She’s clearly given up.

  Good, I tell myself. You wanted her to.

  My realtor is driving me through San Francisco, showing me all the houses in the area that meet my requirements. They’re all crazy expensive, and even if they weren’t, deciding where to live is a big decision. Every day of my life has been shaped by where I live. If it’s peaceful, exciting, inspiring. If I’m living by myself or living with friends. What the neighbors are like.

  What one specific neighbor was like.

  Don’t think about that, I tell myself.

  We pass an old Victorian house with a For Sale sign in the front yard.

  “Wait,” I say. “Stop.”

  My realtor, an older Chinese-American woman named An Cheng, neatly pulls into an impossible parking place, cutting off a car of young guys who make rude gestures at her as they drive by. She waves at them sweetly.

  An dresses a bit like a hippy, but a colleague of mine says she’s one of the best realtors in the Bay Area. I don’t know why she decided to squeeze me in on such short notice, but I’m damn lucky.

  An turns in her seat and realizes why I asked her to stop. “Oh, you don’t want this one. I mean, it’s beautiful. I want it, but it doesn’t have any of the items on your list.”

  “Humor me,” I say.

  In ten minutes, she has permission to show it to me and the code to the lockbox. She gets the key and opens the door.

  “As you can see, it’s a gorgeous example of a Bay Area Victorian,” An says. She’s so polished, you’d think this had been on our tour from the get-go. “The rooms are smaller than in a more modern house, and it’s status as a historical landmark will limit what you can do in terms of renovation, but I’ve been a realtor long enough to learn one very important thing. Sometimes, it’s the house you least suspect that wins your heart. So, let’s take a look around and see if you fall in love.”

  An leads me through the house. It is smaller than I want, and there’s no central air, but there’s no denying the house is beautiful. I can picture a family living here—a mom, a dad, k
ids. It’s not small. If Ma or Peter came to visit, I could still host them. Plus, that clawfoot tub is great. I have a brief fantasy of coming home from a long day’s work and seeing Grace already relaxing in the bath. She’d ask for a towel, and I’d tease her. She’d laugh, and we’d end up in the bedroom—

  No. I shake my head viciously. That’s not a fantasy I get to have anymore. Grace is over. I’m moving on.

  Why am I having such a hard time moving on? It’s never been like this before. Not from a job, and not from a woman. Hell, I didn’t even give it a second thought when I left my own dad.

  It’s been practically three weeks since our fight. It wasn’t as if our fake relationship was all that long. Plus, it was fake. More importantly, Grace made it clear she didn’t want anything serious. Over and over again, she made that very clear.

  Yet, apparently, my heart is a masochist because, after thirty-something years of not falling in love, it saw a woman who didn’t want me and went, “Ah, yes, let’s fall for her! That will do nicely.”

  An finishes showing me the house and leads me back into the front room.

  “So what do you think? Does it feel like home?” An asks.

  Yes is my gut answer, but I can’t figure out why. I turn around with my hands in my pockets, taking in the space. I’ve really liked Victorians, but something about this one called to me. Grace is the one who likes Victorians. I blink, putting two and two together.

  This place feels like home because it feels like a place Grace would like. Grace feels like home.

  “No, you’re right,” I say curtly to An. “This place doesn’t have anything on my list.”

  She gives me a look like she knows there’s more to the story, but she’s been doing this job long enough to pick up on the fact that I don’t want to talk about it.

  “In that case, let’s go on to the next place. I really think you’ll love the pool, and the kitchen is …" she kisses her fingers like a chef. Then she turns and heads out to the door.

  Suddenly, I can’t make my feet move. Which is stupid. It’s just a house. A house I have no intention of buying. But it feels like Grace. Just a little bit. Just enough that, for once, I can’t make myself leave.

  “Can I have a minute? Alone?” I ask.

  An looks back at me. Her eyes are curious but kind. “Did you grow up in a house like this?”

  “Something like that,” I say.

  An checks her watch. “I can give you five minutes, but we really should be going if we want to see the rest of the houses on your list. I promise you, houses go fast in this market.”

  I nod, and she starts to head out the door. She snaps her fingers and turns around. “I know what it is. Your wife has a house like this.”

  I stare. Okay, that’s creepy.

  “In her photo on the book jacket! She’s in an old Victorian. I’ve got a mind for houses.” She taps her forehead.

  “You read her book?” I ask, surprised.

  “Of course! It’s why I fit you into the schedule if I’m honest. Some of her book was a little bit crap—I mean, is she even thirty yet?—but the rest of it …" She places a hand over her heart and sighs peacefully. “It touched me right here. I didn’t realize how much I needed to read some of the things she said. So, of course I’m going to help Grace Blackwood find her next home. Anyway, I’m babbling. Take your five minutes, then on to the next adventure!”

  An bustles out the door like a superhero flying off to save the world, one home at a time.

  I feel my throat tighten. An isn’t going to help me find Grace’s next home because Grace isn’t going to ever see my home.

  The prospect of a life without Grace stretches out before me, impossibly grim. Who’s going to call me to task when I’m being an ass? Who’s going to torture me in bed and then give herself to me so sweetly? Who’s going to be the warm light at the end of my day that makes everything just a little bit better? Who’s going to turn my life upside down on a semi-regular basis?

  You could have stayed a few more months, a wistful voice says inside of me. You could have had more time with her if you stayed until the divorce.

  I know myself better than that, though. It would have hurt too much to keep living with her, to keep wanting so much more when she wanted so much less. I’m not the type to suffer quietly. I would have lashed out at her, gotten cruel. By the time the divorce finally came through, she would have hated me. I would have hated myself.

  Lead us not into temptation, as the prayer goes.

  No, best to leave now, while I can still respect myself and Grace can still have fond memories of me. It’s a good decision. I know it’s a good decision. So why does it feel so crappy?

  Suddenly the house feels too empty. Abruptly, I turn on my heel, ready to be out of here. A day of listening to An tell me how much Grace will like various houses feels like torture, but it’s better than standing here alone, missing Grace so much I can’t breathe and wondering if I’m doing the right thing.

  23

  Grace

  The five stages of grief are not actually backed up by any psychological studies, but for many people, they feel true, especially when you’re grieving a change in a relationship. Yet, you do not have to accept that this is the end. Take a deep breath and put yourself out there one more time.

  —Dr. Grace Blackwood, excerpt from her book

  A few days later, I’m in New York at one of the major network news stations. I stand in a waiting room, trying not to think about the much smaller waiting room in Seattle. I try not to think about Sean seducing me, partly because I was nervous, and he wanted to distract me. Partly because he really, really wanted me.

  If I tell you I love you when we’re sober, you’ll run away. I shove the words from the wedding video out of my mind.

  I run through my talking points in my head. I practice my answers to the questions I’m most likely to be asked. I pull my copy of my book out of my purse so I can check the exact numbers on some of the statistics I cite.

  I glance at the title of the book. We Can Fix This: Why Your Relationship Can Be Saved and How to Do It.

  It seems so smug now. I’m surprised no one came up to me on the book tour and tried to punch me in my know-it-all face.

  “Grace Blackwood? We’re ready to get you mic’d up,” an assistant says.

  I thank the assistant and follow to the backstage area near the set. They’re doing a segment on a man who makes prosthetics for all sorts of animals who are missing limbs. He brought a puppy with him, and I can hear the audience “ooh” and “aww.”

  It sounds like it’s a big audience. I wish Sean was here to tell me I can do this. Hell, I wish Sean was here so that I could have spent yesterday prepping for this interview. Instead, I made the mistake of trying the tea he bought me in Ireland. The tea was delicious, but I couldn’t think about anything but Sean all afternoon.

  “There you are!” I look up to see Nora elbowing her way past various TV people to get to me. “Sorry I’m late. They kept trying to tell me I wasn’t allowed back here.”

  The man holding out a mic for me to clip onto my shirt glances at Nora and says, “That’s because you’re not allowed back here.”

  Nora ignores him.

  “Okay, the Netflix people are in the front row to the right. Don’t look directly at them, obviously, but make sure you’re giving them a good profile. Remember to suck your stomach in when you sit down. Keep your shoulders back. But not too far back. Are you wearing enough blush?”

  She reaches over to touch my cheeks, and I bat her hands away.

  “Nora, I can do this. Trust me.”

  “I know. I know. But this morning, when you called to talk to me, I thought for a second you were going to cancel.” Her laugh is strained.

  I avoid eye contact. The reason she thinks I was trying to cancel is that I was trying to cancel. I really don’t feel up for telling the whole country how to have a perfect relationship when my own imploded in such a spectacularly
depressing fashion. Nora wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise, though, so here I am.

  “Remember, if you do this right, we get the TV special,” Nora reminds me for the millionth time.

  I nod. “I know.”

  Just then, a harried assistant catches up with Nora, grabs her elbow, and hauls her back to the audience area.

  I check my phone. I tell myself I’m just checking the time, but when there’s no message from Sean, my heart sinks. He hasn’t messaged me in weeks. I keep thinking I’ve lost all hope, but still, there’s that prick of pain whenever I see that, yes, Sean’s still ignoring me.

  I turn my phone off and shove it in my pocket. Then I roll back my shoulders and focus. This is the defining moment of my career. This is the tipping point. This is the reason I faked a marriage with Sean in the first place—so I could get here.

  “Time to focus,” I tell myself.

  “We’re turning your mic on now,” the mic guy says.

  Before I know it, I’m striding out on set in front of a national audience.

  The first part of the interview goes well. The host is a young, white woman named Lisa, who looks peppy in a bright yellow suit. I vaguely remember it being a big deal to the queer community when she landed this show.

  I haven’t watched her show much since I’m not into daytime news, but now that I’m sitting across from her, it’s clear she’s a good interviewer. She’s got that hyper-prepared thing some women get when they’ve had to work twice as hard as their peers to succeed.

  It’s so easy to talk to her, I’m almost having fun.

  Then Lisa says, “You talked about your recent marriage to tech entrepreneur Sean Bronson when you were on your book tour. As a newly married person, is there anything you find particularly true about your book? Or anything you’d go back and change?”

  It’s a normal, predictable question, but for some reason, I’m not prepared. Hearing Sean’s name in the middle of this interview feels like a knife cutting through the happy-therapist mask I’m wearing. I know what I’m supposed to do, or rather what Nora and the Netflix people are expecting me to do. Laugh charmingly and talk about how, now more than ever, I believe that it’s important to invest in your relationship. Or I could just make a joke about how my marriage doesn’t need saving quite yet, but I’m happy to have a backup plan.