The tech bro grimaces, but to Fiona’s credit, he does reach into a side drawer and pull out a pair of headphones, shooting us both a see, I don’t even care what you’re talking about eye-roll before he places them over his ears, blocking out the sound of our conversation.
Just in case, though, I lean closer to Fiona when I start talking again. “I set up the easel outside the engineering school, like we talked about. I was painting, and—”
“Oh, my god.” Fiona’s eyes light up, although I can’t tell whether it’s with approval, or a sort of frightened glee. “Please tell me you did not sleep with one of the students.”
“I didn’t know he was a student!” I hiss under my breath. God, my whole body must be blushing, now. I can feel the heat all the way down to my neck. My hands curl around my knees, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to react any more obviously.
Fiona, for her part, gapes at me, for once in her life struck silent with shock.
I shake my head. “Some other kid was bugging me, being a total creep. This guy chased him off. Then he asked me to come for a coffee, to make up for it.”
“To make up for defending you?” Fiona arches an eyebrow.
“You know, because he said I could’ve done it myself…” Fi continues to stare at me like I’m crazy, so I just shake my head. “Never mind. Anyway, I agreed, and a coffee turned into bar-hopping, turned into going back to his place…” I trail off, because, like it’s been doing all morning at all the inopportune moments, a sudden memory pops into my mind. The way Charlie stopped me just inside the door of his apartment to push me up against it. The way his hands felt as they roamed down my hips, tracing every inch of me, like he already knew me better than I knew myself.
Fuck. The man knew what he was doing. No wonder it had never even occurred to me that he might be younger than me—young enough to be a student, no less.
At least he’s a senior, I remind myself. It only helps a little bit.
“Wow, Lila.” Fiona stares at me, until I shrink in on myself.
“I didn’t know, okay? I thought he was like, a professor or a grad student or something. He didn’t dress like anyone else coming out of the engineering building, in their sweats and all. Plus, the way he acted when he chased the guy away from me was like… In charge. I don’t know.” I grimace, realizing I’m repeating myself now. “I’m sorry I didn’t get what we needed for the article. I can go to another college campus and try it again, maybe?”
Fiona sighs and shakes her head. “What, so you can rob another cradle?”
I glare at her.
She smirks. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. But no, actually…” Fiona leans forward. I’m not sure what I expect from her—a reprimand? Another word of rebuke? Instead, she smiles at me. “This could be a good thing, Lila.”
I resist the urge to groan again. “How so?”
In response, she kicks back her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “We can change the focus of the article.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Nobody wants to read about old-school dating techniques anyway. We all know they don’t apply to the modern era.”
Then why did you assign me that article in the first place? I think, though I bite my tongue before I actually blurt that out. “Okay…” I reply slowly, still not quite sure where she’s going with this.
“I got some feedback from our last article, the one about marriage statistics and how the divorce rate is skyrocketing, that we ran last month?”
The one Fiona wrote about her own parents’ divorce. I nod, recalling it. “Sure. What was the feedback?”
“Well, just that our readers really seemed to resonate with it. Everyone wanted to talk about how they went into their marriage with a certain set of expectations, only to have those blow up in their faces. Because modern relationships don’t work the way old-school ones did. We got hundreds of comments and emailed replies, even responses to our tweets of the article. More reposts than any other article we’ve written this year, in fact. Turns out failed marriages are a hot topic right now.”
Probably because so many people could relate to such an intensely personal subject. “So… you think we should write about marriages again?” I frown. “What’s the angle this time?” I thought we’d already covered modern divorces pretty well in Fi’s article.
Fiona’s smile widens. “Well, wouldn’t it be great if we could track the formation and breakdown of a marriage in real-time? Especially one that’s like those we wrote about in that first article. Marriages based on old expectations.”
“That does sound interesting,” I admit. “But where are we going to find a couple to volunteer for such an intensely personal article? Especially a couple who are only just about to get married or engaged, and who we already know will break up soon.” I let out a little laugh. “I mean, that would be like finding a golden needle in a haystack.”
“Unless you rig the system.” Fiona’s eyes sparkle. “Unless you hand someone the needle before they jump into the haystack.”
I frown, not quite sure where she’s going with this. “What do you mean?”
“Well, if we had someone who had just entered into a relationship based on old-school expectations of what it would look like… or someone who could push things in that direction, at any rate. But who plans to make sure the relationship bombs in the end, so she can write about it afterward…”
I blink at her for a few seconds, while she continues to grin at me, like she’s just spouted off the most genius piece of wisdom ever. My heart sinks into my stomach. “Hold on. You’re not talking about—”
“You said your cute student hookup saved you from some creeper, right? That’s a pretty traditional start to a relationship.”
“Relationship?” I blurt, loud enough to make all the tech bros, even the one with his noise-cancelling headphones on, look our way. I force a weak smile, trying my best to stay calm, as I spin back to Fiona again, my voice a hushed whisper now. “Are you kidding? All we did was hook up. It was basically a one-night stand!”
“Did he kick you out in the morning?” Fiona frowns. Oh sure, now she decides to act sympathetic.
“No, he wanted me to stay so he could make me breakfast in bed. But that’s not the—”
“So he does sound traditional,” she retorts.
“No. Maybe. I don’t know! My point is, I barely know him. All we did was have one night of…” I trail off. Okay, admittedly the sex was amazing. “One night of fun,” I force myself to say. “And then I left in the morning. After I learned he was way younger than I thought.”
Fiona arches an eyebrow. “What grade did you say he’s in again?”
“He’s a senior, but—”
“So he’s old enough to drink.” She waves a hand, dismissive. “That’s practically the same age as you anyway. Look, I’m not asking you to actually marry the guy. Well, not legally. Just, like, get engaged, plan the wedding, make it look real. Then break up shortly after.”
I stare at her. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“We can make it a whole series. A relationship in live-time. It will get so many views, Lila, I just know it.” Fiona’s eyes sparkle with excitement now. “I’d do it myself, but I haven’t met any potential prospects in like, well over a year, so…” She grimaces.
“So maybe you should go set up an easel outside the engineering department and start painting,” I grumble.
“Even if I did, I don’t think I’d attract the cute undergrads the way you do.” Fiona nudges my knee under the table. “It’s why I sent you to write this thing in the first place, remember? You’re my hottest staffer.”
“I’m your only staffer,” I point out.
She waves a dismissive hand. “Come on, Lila. Do you want to write for me forever? Or do you want to get your name out there and recognized, as a brand unto yourself? These are the kind of big performance serial pieces that put names on maps. After this, you’d probably be able to score freelance gigs writing for rea
l, huge name publications. Mags with actual print runs.” She nudges my knee again under the table, and after a reluctant moment, I meet her eager gaze. “C’mon. I know you want to branch out. Level up your career. This is the kind of risky next step you need to take if you want to make that happen.”
I chew on my lower lip, anxious. “I don’t know…” But she’s right. I do want to branch out. Level up. All of that. I want to write for real, big name publications eventually. I want to be recognized; known for the writing I do.
I don’t want the writing to always be about relationships, though. And I definitely don’t always want to be doing humiliating stuff like lugging easels across college campuses and setting up honey traps for unsuspecting undergrads.
But if Fiona’s right—and, to her credit, Fiona has always had a great nose for articles that will break out and go viral, for spins on stories that haven’t been done or seen before—then this could be my chance to get to that point. To get my name out there and recognized, so that in the future, I’ll be able to choose the kinds of articles I pursue. I’ll be the one who decides what stories I chase and write about. Not the market. Not even Fi, though I love the girl.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Fiona watching me with a little encouraging smile, like she knows I need the extra pep talk. “Do this, Lila, and I promise, afterward you’ll be able to pick up and write about any story you want.”
Worry sinks into my stomach. Because, it’s more than just the story. It’s marriage. I have never believed in it. After everything my mother went through during hers, it’s always seemed like the worst possible idea a woman could ever get sucked into. I don’t mind hooking up; I wouldn’t even mind having a long-term-ish relationship if the right person came along to keep me interested. But I’ve never believed it’s realistic to yoke myself to someone for the rest of my life.
In fact, I think it’s downright dangerous.
My career comes first. My work is everything. It takes precedence, and I won’t give it up for anybody.
Now, Fiona wants me to get married for my career, though. In order to write about, and prove to the world, exactly what I already believe: that the modern institution of marriage doesn’t work and will always lead to failure.
“It’s not like this isn’t a stance you already believe, right?” Fiona nudges, almost as if she can see straight into my skull and read exactly what I’m thinking written all over my brain.
I shift in my seat, and lean back in the chair, so far it squeaks in protest. If I do this, I could wind up writing somewhere with a real office. For a magazine that doesn’t share office space with nosy tech bros, somewhere with a functional coffee machine, even. I swivel back and forth in the chair, listening to it squeak under me, almost as if it’s in agreement.
Finally, I lift my hand, one single finger extended. “If I do this,” I start, but Fiona already takes it as a sign of agreement and starts pumping her fist in triumph. Her grin, which has spread across her face now, is totally contagious. I have to chew on the inside of my lip to keep from returning it instinctively. “If I do it,” I speak up a little louder, to reiterate, “I have two conditions. First off, I’m not going to lead Charlie on.”
“Charlie, huh?” Fiona arches an eyebrow, smirking. “Mm, perfect name for this. He already sounds old-fashioned.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring her. “I’m telling him the truth about what I’m writing from the start. I won’t break any hearts to write an article, no matter how good you think it’ll be for my career.”
Fiona nods slowly, humming under her breath. “I suppose that’s understandable. And it will make things easier if he’s in on the whole scam, since you’ll need to get him to propose to you pretty quickly.”
My stomach does a terrified little flip at the word propose. Fuck. What am I agreeing to? I force the thought from my mind. “Second.” I raise another finger, and this time, I smile, although it’s still with unease in my gut. “After this series of articles is finished, you let me pick whatever I want to write about next.”
Fiona’s grin widens and she sticks out a hand for me to shake. “Deal.”
6
As I stare up at Charlie’s apartment complex and wrap my coat more tightly around myself, my scarf fluttering in the wind, I have to work hard to convince myself this isn’t one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made in my entire life.
Don’t think about the marriage part, I have to keep reciting in my head over and over, since the very thought of the M-word nearly makes me want to puke. Just remember Fiona’s promise. After this, I get to decide what I’ll write. Anything I want.
I’m already daydreaming about possibilities. Mostly to keep that whole panic reaction under control.
I stuff my hands into my pockets and square my shoulders. This isn’t a mistake. It’s not. But deep down, I sense that it might be. Because already, some part of me is relieved. Grateful, even, to have this prebaked excuse ready to go, a reason to see Charlie again. To keep seeing him.
It’s for work, I can tell myself, and I’m not even lying.
How twisted is it that I can’t let myself hang with a guy I actually like unless that’s the reason? I shove that question from my mind, Charlie’s parting statement to me this morning still lingering somewhere in the back of my mind. Life can’t be all work and no play, you know. Sooner or later you’ll explode…
He’s right. But I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
I squint up at his window, but I can’t tell from all the way down here on the street if the light is on or not. So I square my shoulders and head for the building.
Crap. At the front door I freeze, unsure which apartment number is his. There aren’t any names written beside the buzzers, so that doesn’t help either. I shift from foot to foot, not sure what to do, when the door opens itself from within, and my heart flips end over end.
Charlie?
No. The woman stepping outside is in sky high heels and tight jeans, her face made up and her hair done in a gorgeous cascade of curls. “Do you need inside?” she asks me as she steps out, holding the door. “Who are you here to visit?”
“Oh, uh…” I clear my throat. “Charlie. Um, Cross,” I add, just in case, because who knows. The building isn’t that big, but there could be more than one Charlie who lives here.
The girl’s eyes light up in recognition almost at once, before her expression sours a little. “Oh, right. Charlie.” Her gaze drops over me once more, as if she’s reassessing me now that she has this new information. “He’s great. I know him really well from school.” She offers a hand, then, but belatedly, as if it’s an afterthought. “Sammy.”
“Lila,” I reply, taking her hand. She squeezes mine so hard I swear I can hear the bones creaking, before she releases it again almost as quickly as she grabbed it.
“Lila. Where did you and Charlie meet? Do you go to Hartford?” She tilts her head, studying my face more closely. “I don’t recognize you from our classes.”
“Uh, no, not a student.” I force a smile and inch toward the door, hoping I’ll give off leave me alone vibes.
Instead she only peers at me even more closely now, more interested than ever. Shit. “Oh really? Do you live in the area then? Or work here, or?”
I broaden my smile. “Um, sorry, but I’ve got to run.”
“Oh, right, of course. My bad.” She holds the door wider for me to pass, her gaze following me the whole way through. “Tell Charlie hi for me,” she calls, just as I reach the inside lobby.
When I glance back, just after I press the button for the elevator, I see she’s still poised on the stoop, watching me. Her eyes narrowed, as if she’s deep in thought.
Great. Just what I need. I haven’t even started writing this stupid article yet—I haven’t even gotten Charlie’s permission to do it—and already I have neighbors nosing around, trying to find out what I’m doing here and why. A nosy classmate is the last thing I need right now.
I shuffle into the elevator and press Charlie’s floor, holding my breath the whole way up.
Give up, a voice in my head chants as the elevator speeds upward. Turn around now, just go get back in your car and head home. You can tell Fiona he said no. Make up some excuse, anything.
But instead, when the elevator doors open, I find myself striding out of them and up to Charlie’s front door, my legs moving of their own accord, almost as if possessed.
With every step I take, more memories from last night flood through me. The way we kissed in that elevator, his hands all over me. The way he pushed me through this apartment door and then pinned me against it, his kiss desperate, his hands as hungry as my whole body felt.
Fuck. I’m getting wet again now, just thinking about it. Right when I need to keep my head screwed on the most. I suck in a couple deep breaths of air to try to clear my head. Then I raise a fist and rap gently on Charlie’s front door.
Maybe he won’t hear me. Maybe he isn’t home. I have no other way to get in touch with him, since I refused to exchange numbers with him this morning—was it only this morning that I was sneaking out of this place after our night together? Somehow it feels like so much longer ago.
Or maybe that’s just because I haven’t been able to get him out of my head all day. The memories replaying over and over seems to have given them more weight, making them stand out in my mind. Impossible to erase or forget. Just like Charlie himself.
I raise a hand, torn between knocking again or giving up and assuming he isn’t home right now, when the doorknob turns, and then, all at once, there he is again.
Charlie.
My heart rushes straight into my throat, choking off any of the many potential greetings I’d rehearsed over and over in my head before I came back here.
For his part, Charlie just grins, like he expected this all along, like he knew I wouldn’t be able to resist coming back here. “Decide you wanted a taste of those pancakes after all?” he asks jokingly, as he pushes the door wider and waves me inside.
The Husband Game Page 5