He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

by Iris Morland

“Wait, the pasta—”

  I flicked off the burner, set the pot on a towel sitting on the counter, and then turned on the sink. A red splotch covered Mari’s palm.

  “You have to be careful,” I said as I ran warm water over the burn.

  “Shouldn’t it be cold water?” She winced.

  “Warm is better. Keep your hand under the water. I’ll be right back.”

  After digging around under my bathroom sink, which was way too full of Mari’s stuff now, I found the aloe vera I’d bought when I’d stupidly gone to the lake without wearing sunscreen, plus some gauze from when I’d cut my hand on a piece of metal while working at a skate park years ago.

  “I can’t believe I forgot to use an oven mitt,” said Mari sheepishly. “I’m usually not stupid enough to grab a hot metal pot handle.”

  I poured some aloe vera on her palm. “It doesn’t look too bad. Hopefully it won’t blister.”

  I wrapped her hand in the gauze before taping it off. For reasons I didn’t want to think about, I was reluctant to let go of her hand. She’d painted her fingernails a pale pink, the tips white. I couldn’t help but notice that there was a lighter strip of skin on her left ring finger.

  “I need to get you a ring,” I said.

  Mari pulled her hand back. “Oh, no. Don’t spend the money.”

  She was right, of course. There was no reason to buy a ring for a fake marriage. But the fact that she still had her ex’s mark on her finger in a way sent me into a jealous tailspin. I wanted her to wear my ring.

  “Don’t worry about it. You need one if anyone is going to believe our story. I’ll need one, too.”

  “Oh, well. I guess that makes sense. The ring pop I got at our wedding won’t really work.”

  The heat of the kitchen had curled the baby hairs around her forehead and against her neck. This close, I could see a smattering of freckles on her nose that would darken in the summer.

  Her lips were rosebud pink, her eyes a sea green. They seemed greener today, and I realized she’d used purple-toned eyeshadow, which was a clever trick. She’d also dusted something shimmery on her cheeks. And when I peered more closely, it seemed like she’d used something darker along the edges of her face and jaw.

  I touched her chin to turn her face toward me, stopping her from plating the food.

  “Your face looks different,” I said. I turned her toward the light. “What did you do?”

  “That’s not really a great compliment to give a woman.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Do you really want a makeup lesson right now?”

  I’d never paid any attention to women’s makeup before, except when necessary for photos. The wrong type of makeup could make a huge difference in how photos turned out. Otherwise, though, it was one of those things that didn’t enter into my brain space.

  But right now I didn’t want a damn lesson. I wanted to keep touching her. I wanted to feel the silkiness of her skin against my fingers. I wanted to make her pant my name like she had in the hotel room in Vegas.

  I traced the line of her jaw. “Tell me,” I repeated.

  She swallowed visibly, especially when I caressed the shell of her ear.

  “Um, well, it’s called contouring. You use shadows and highlights to accentuate your features.”

  I touched the bridge of her nose. “You have some here.” I skipped my fingers up to her temples. “Also here.”

  “It’s kind of like painting.”

  “Or editing a photo.”

  She let out a small laugh. “Pretty much the same principles, yeah.”

  My cock was hard, painfully so, and when Mari licked her bottom lip, I was five seconds away from tossing her over my shoulder.

  But Mari was skittish. I’d learned that much about her. If I wanted to get my hands in her panties a second time, I couldn’t push her too hard too fast. Even if my cock wanted to do everything hard and fast.

  I gently pulled her hair from its ponytail. Lifting a section of it to my nose, I inhaled before wrapping it around my fingers.

  “If you don’t want me to kiss you,” I said, “then you should tell me now.”

  “Would you let me go if I said I didn’t want you to?”

  “Yes. But only after doing my best to persuade you to change your mind.”

  My other hand drifted down her back and settled right above the cleft of her arse.

  “I’m not sure that counts as really asking for someone’s consent,” she whispered.

  I should let her go. This was going to complicate everything. Although considering we were already married after a stupid drunken night in Vegas, we’d basically created a brand-new definition of complicated. That Facebook status wouldn’t contain how complicated this entire shit-show was.

  “Tell me to leave you alone,” I said.

  Tell me to go. Tell me to never touch you again. Because I don’t think I have the strength not to.

  She didn’t say anything for a long moment. I could see thoughts flit across her face. She was as conflicted as I felt, which meant that I could get her to say yes without much persuasion.

  I caressed her cheek. “Five, four, three,” I started counting down. “Two—”

  “No, I don’t want you to leave me alone,” she admitted finally.

  Triumph raced through me. I kissed her, groaning into her mouth. She tasted like cherries and summertime. I licked inside her mouth, wishing I could kiss her in other places—her breasts, her belly; her pussy, the cleft of her ass. I’d even suck on her toes if she’d let me, I was that far gone, and I wasn’t exactly into feet. But Mari had pretty feet; she had pretty everything. It was intoxicating.

  “Your beard,” she whispered when I sucked on the side of her neck. “It’s scratchy.”

  “I’ll shave it.”

  “No—I mean, I like it.” I could see her swallow.

  It was my turn to groan. The thought of her throat, her chin, all marked from my beard sent me into a tailspin of desire. I wanted to set her on top of the counter and fuck her until this madness was purged from me. Surely once would be enough. It always was. Every woman I’d ever been with had bored me eventually.

  My wife would become one of those women. She had to, because she was leaving me in six months with her money and never looking back.

  I rubbed my cock against her pelvis. “Do you know how often I jerk off thinking of you?” I growled, almost angry. “How I think about how your pussy clenched around my fingers that night in Vegas?”

  She shuddered. “You think about me?”

  Jesus, how could she not know? “You’re like some kind of virus.”

  She let out a strained laugh. “I’m sorry? Maybe you should see somebody about that. If there’s a burning sensation, it’s probably chlamydia.”

  I looked up into her smiling face. I smacked her arse for that remark, and she yelped.

  “My dick is clean, you little brat.”

  “You’re the one accusing me of infecting you.”

  “You have. That’s the only explanation. Or you’re a witch.” I chuckled. “Actually, I know what you are: a leanan sídhe.”

  “What in the world is that? And how do you say that again?”

  I repeated the words slowly, lee-a-nan sithe. Mari repeated them back with a charmingly terrible accent.

  “Is that some kind of Gaelic creature?” she then asked.

  “Kind of.” I licked a path down her throat to her collarbone. “It’s a beautiful woman who comes to artists and becomes their lover. In return for divine inspiration, she basically sucks the life out of them. They die young, but they create lasting art and have amazing sex so it’s a fair trade.”

  “First I’m a virus, now I’m a vampire? How has any woman slept with you? You’re terrible at compliments.”

  “Wasn’t a compliment. Just a statement of fact.”

  She sighed. Soon I was kissing her again, not caring if she did, in fact, suck out my life force as payment. My cock wasn’t ex
actly the most discerning when it came to life and death situations.

  We kissed for so long that it was only when the smoke detector started screaming that we realized the marinara sauce had dried up and had started burning.

  “Shit,” I said, grabbing a towel to wave at the smoke detector. “Will you shut the fuck up?”

  The alarm squealed a bit longer, as if saying to me, you’re the dumbass who left the sauce on the burner for way too long.

  Mari moaned as she tried to stir what was left. “So much for dinner.”

  When I tried to kiss her temple, though, she ducked her head. “I think you’ve made your point.”

  “My point?”

  She was still stirring that damn sauce, like if she did it long enough it’d come back to life.

  “I’m attracted to you. I won’t disagree there. But that doesn’t mean we need to keep doing this.”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  “This is temporary.” She said the words slowly, and it only pissed me off more. “And I can’t just have sex and not have my feelings be involved.”

  “Whoever said anything about feelings? This is about feeling good. Physical only. And we’re stuck together. Why not work off some steam while we’re at it?”

  She flicked a glance over her shoulder at me. “I’m a commitment kind of girl. You already know that. You said yourself that you don’t do commitment. So I’d rather take you at your word. ‘When people tell you who they are, believe them.’”

  She was using my own words against me. I wanted to tell her that—what? I was going to be a real husband? That I didn’t want this marriage to end?

  No, I wanted it to end. Marriage was pointless; love was just a fairy tale. If it did exist, it disappeared under the strain of reality.

  “You know what? I don’t need this. I can get any woman I want. I don’t have to beg.”

  “Congratulations,” was Mari’s deadpan reply.

  “But if you think you can resist me for six months, you’re wrong.” I wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed the side of her neck, loving that she shuddered when my lips touched her skin. “You’re not immune to me, wife. Remember that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Mari

  That Saturday, I found myself hiding in my parents’ bathroom during a family dinner. Why? Oh, I’d just told everyone I was married now and living with my husband. Surprise!

  At the moment, I was avoiding speaking to my husband. Because I knew that if I spoke to him, he’d try something. Like seduce me.

  So I kept our conversations as unsexy as possible if I needed to say anything at all. A guy can’t really work with questions like “Where’s the toilet paper?” and “When does your recycling go out?” Not even someone like Liam Gallagher, seduction expert.

  But now I had a more important issue than the possibility of making recycling bins sexy: explaining to my family that I was married.

  The conversation thus far before I’d run to hide in the bathroom had been as follows:

  “You’re what?”

  “To who? David? Did he beg for you to take him back?”

  “Why would you marry David? He cheated on you. He sucks.”

  “Are you joking? You have to be joking. It’s not a good joke, Mari. Stop this.”

  My parents and my youngest sister, Kate, had lobbed questions at me like tomatoes at a bad actor in a play. Dani and Jacob, who already knew all about this, had remained silent. Dani had shot me concerned looks every few seconds, though.

  “When did this happen? Why did this happen?” my dad demanded. I’d never seen him so out of sorts. Or red-faced. “Are you being serious right now?”

  “George, stop yelling,” my mom said. She then touched my hand. “Mari, please explain what you mean. Are you talking about a spiritual marriage? Did you marry yourself? Because you know I would’ve come to support you. You need to find yourself after”—her voice lowered to a whisper— “the David thing.”

  “You’re pregnant!” Kate pointed her fork in my general direction. “That has to be it. Is it David’s? Or do you not know? Oh my God, are you going on Maury? Please say yes. I want to be interviewed about how your baby daddy needs to pay child support.”

  That had been the last straw. Tossing my napkin onto my plate and standing, I said in a trembling voice, “I have to pee.”

  Now, here I was, staring in the mirror that I’d used for so many years as a teenager practicing my makeup. There was a dried bit of mascara on the bottom right corner that had never come off, and a nail polish stain on the counter. I traced the red smudge absentmindedly.

  I almost wished I’d let Liam come with me. At least my family could lob questions at him, too. But I’d thought it would be better to tell my family first before introducing him. When Liam had asked me where I was going tonight, I’d lied and said it was a work thing.

  I hoped he’d bought it. The last thing I needed was an offended Irishman pouting when I got back home.

  Home. Did I already think of Liam’s apartment as home? It was really just the place where I was living, I reminded myself. In six months, I’d find a new apartment and forget all of this had happened.

  Yeah right.

  “Why did you tell your crazy family?” I muttered to myself as I washed my hands. But I knew I’d had to, because they would’ve found out anyway. Besides, Liam and I couldn’t make this marriage seem real if we hid its existence from our friends and family.

  “Mari?” said my mom’s voice through the door. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

  Tears sprang to my eyes, which annoyed me. I wanted to tell my mom everything. I wanted to confess like I used to do as a kid, and she’d hug me and tell me I could make things right. Mistakes are what make us grow, she’d always say.

  Sometimes I’d wanted to ask her if she’d felt like having a family had been a mistake. Because why else would she have left us without saying a word those two weeks? But as the years had passed, it had seemed less important to talk about that time. It was over. Time to move on.

  I pushed the memories aside. I took a deep breath and opened the door, a trembling smile plastered on my face.

  “I’m fine,” I said way too cheerfully.

  In her mid-fifties, Julie Wright was still an attractive woman. She’d embraced her silver hair years ago and currently wore it in a French braid down her back that looked like a silvery snake. With her colorful shawls and propensity to meditate over crystals, she looked like a friendly witch—a witch who had run the financial side of our flower shop since my parents had opened it.

  My mom portrayed herself as a woman who had her head in the clouds, but it was a facade. She was hella savvy. And she hadn’t raised three daughters without learning when we were faking things.

  My mom patted my hand. “Why don’t you come back to the table? I told everyone to be quiet so you could explain.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Are you sure everything’s all right? You’re not in trouble?” She flicked her gaze to my midriff.

  I had to stifle a giggle.

  “Mom, no. I’m not pregnant. I swear. Besides, I’m twenty-nine, not nineteen. Getting accidentally pregnant wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

  Well, except if I got pregnant with Liam’s child, we’d never get away from each other.

  Just the thought of being pregnant with Liam’s baby made my heart race.

  Oh, my stupid, stupid heart.

  Except Liam didn’t do commitment of any kind. He’d said as much multiple times. And babies were about as high on the commitment ladder as you could get.

  “I guess that’s true. But married, Mari? And not to David? And you didn’t invite your family to the wedding?” said my mom.

  My mom sounded so hurt that I had to hug her.

  “I’m sorry. It was a sudden thing.”

  “You eloped?”

  “More or less.”

  “Then you need to have a real wedding. You already have a dress
and everything.”

  When I returned to the dining room, my dad looked decidedly uncomfortable. Kate had her hands folded in her lap, her gaze on her plate, which just made me more suspicious of her motives. My younger sister had some devious plan bouncing around in her head.

  Dani and Jacob were talking to each other in low tones. I sat down, placing my napkin back into my lap.

  Countdown to the first question:

  Five, four, three, two—

  “Who did you marry?” Kate burst out with. “And how? And why?”

  My mom clucked her tongue. “Kate, don’t interrogate your sister. She’ll explain when she wants to. Be patient.”

  Kate had been born impatient. She’d been two weeks early, and my mom had almost given birth to her in the car because her labor had been so fast. My mom had always said that because Kate was a Sagittarius, she would always jump first, ask questions later. If she even cared enough to ask questions.

  I was glad my mom had given me a moment to collect my thoughts. Liam and I had already discussed the story we were going to tell people regarding our marriage, and I had to remember the various details.

  Firstly, Sam had introduced us, which was true. Secondly, we’d been dating for a few weeks, which of course wasn’t true. Thirdly, when we were in Vegas, we’d decided to take the plunge because we were so in love. That one was the biggest lie of all. The only thing we felt for each other was lust with a side of frustration.

  As I told the story to my family, I waited for someone to tell me I was lying, to point out some inconsistency Liam and I had missed. It didn’t help that Dani wouldn’t look at me the entire time, or that Kate looked at me with narrowed eyes, suspicion in her gaze.

  I told myself I was protecting them. If they knew about how this wasn’t a real marriage or how I was sticking it out solely for the money Liam had promised me, they’d lose their minds.

  “Really lay it on,” Liam had said wryly when we’d solidified the details of our story. “Make it sound like you’re so in love with me you had to marry me on the spot.”

  “That’s the only way anyone would believe I’d be that impulsive,” I’d admitted.

  “Exactly.”