Page 69 of Just My Fake Husband

I recognize the name Sheramy, and I think I remember which one of the residents she is. “I know, but—” I stop and take a breath. I don’t know why I’m suddenly like this, all territorial and protective about nail polish, but I am, and I can’t stop now. “She’s allergic to the regular stuff,” I tell Gabriel. “I got her some allergen-free polish, but we used it all and I haven’t replaced it.”

“I’ve never heard of an allergy to nail polish,” Gabriel says. “That’s rough.”

I puff out a breath. “Well, okay, I don’t know if it’s an actual allergy. She got hives once when I painted her nails. It was a long time ago, but to be safe, we haven’t used the real stuff. It’s healthier for her anyway.”

Gabriel studies me.

“Did you get hives when Sheramy painted your nails?” I ask Skye. “You know? Those weird, flat bumps?”

Skye interrupts belly rubbing Lunchie to shake her head.

“Maybe she’s okay now,” Gabriel says. “Maybe it was a one-time thing.”

“I still need to say something to the case manager because it’s in her paperwork.”

“I gave Sheramy green nails.” Skye cackles her cackly laugh. Homesickness hits me again.

“I’ve missed you, Skye.”

“I’ve missed my dog,” she responds.

I try to laugh it off. I know what she means. But the thought of her actually being better off here, better off without me, makes my stomach burn with injustice. Theoretically, I want her to be as independent as possible. But still. It’s the great unknown. And the great unknown hurts sometimes.

You know what else really hurts? The guilt I feel over actually enjoying my free time on occasion now that Skye is at the group home.

I didn’t expect that. But when it hits, it reminds me of the whoosh of relief I used to get back in the day when I didn’t have to bring Skye to hangouts with friends. And then the guilt churns within me on repeat.

“Sounds like it was a nail painting night,” Gabriel says.

She nods. “Girls’ Night. Friday night is Girls’ Night.”

They’re going to be painting nails every Friday night?

“Fun!” Gabriel says to her. He’s sprawled on the grass a short distance from her. I’m perched in my chair, feeling rigid and unsettled. It might be a little extreme to pick her up from Girls’ Night every Friday to keep her safe from the big, bad, chemical-laden nail polishes.

I’ve operated as Skye’s protector for so long, I don’t know how to undo it. I don’t think I can.

After our visit, which Skye cut short because she had to do her cleaning assignment, we head home with the dog.

And can I just add that I’ve been trying to get her to do chores around the house for years and she somehow weasels her way out of them every single time?

I’m both jealous of, and impressed by, the staff at Caring Souls.

We get Lunch Lady Liz settled, putting her kennel in the bedroom and her food and water bowls in the mudroom, and then Gabriel starts cleaning. Taking out the trash, scrubbing the toilet, sweeping the floor. I clean the counters and give the windows a once over. It’s all so domestic and cozy. A nice Saturday for a nice little, albeit temporary, family.

In the middle of it all, I get his attention. “Hey Gabriel. Catch.” I toss him a soft, rolled-up bundle. “Happy Second Anniversary.”

I watch as his dimples perk up when he slides the rubber band off the roll and unfurls the shirt I gave him.

“Cotton?” he asks, all polite and grateful.

I smile sweetly.He’s not going to be grateful in a moment . . .

“I told my wife she should embrace her mistakes . . .” he reads aloud.

I count the seconds of his silent reading in my head. It takes him three to shout a “Hey!” His mouth drops open as he rereads it. “I told my wife she should embrace her mistakes. She gave me a hug.”

I drop my head back in laughter. “I can’t wait for you to wear my gift!”

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