Page 18 of Never Say Yes To Your Fake Husband

I might not be able to fix anything else, but I’m going to work my ass off to fix that.

Even I’m shocked straight down to my socks, which are still on my feet—fancy dress style socks that are more than due for a change, and can anyone say shower and a fresh set of clothes before I start to stink like Beans here—that she defended me. She said she wanted this, which was more than she said back at her place.

I don’t know why she’s changed her mind.

And I don’t know why I put it out there in the first place.

But I do know that when I do something, I don’t do it halfway, and now that we’re doing this, we’re full-ondoing it.It doesn’t matter if I haven’t dated anyone in ten years. I’ll figure it out.

Chapter nine

Weland

Ihave a boyfriend.

I have a husband who is also kind of a boyfriend.

I have a husband who is also kind of a boyfriend but who is also kind of neither.

A few days ago, I thought my life was complicated. But I hadnoideawhat that word even truly meant.

I still haven’t figured it out. Part of me can’t even believe this is real. There’s this huge part of my brain that keeps giving me the same foul thought pattern over and over again, which is that Sterling is just going to disappear. That he’s going to just leave and go back to his life. I don’t even know his last name yet. Then again, I didn’t ask. He asked me if it was okay if he checked into his hotel after my parents’ house in order to give me time to process everything, and it truly felt like a dismissal.

I mean, what was I supposed to say? That no, it wasn’t actually okay because I went to freaking bat for him with my family, and him leaving felt like a rejection, and no, I didn’t want to go hometo my tiny little condo and resume my pathetic, boring, lonely, boyfriendless, and childless life? Was I supposed to tell him I had my doubts and that I thought he’d be on the first plane out of here, leaving me in his rearview mirror, never to think of me again except when he should ever need me because you know…evil cousins?

But of course I didn’t say any of that. Of course I didn’t ask for his last name so I could internet stalk him all night and then maybe stalk him some more if he should happen to ghost me. There are things I don’t do, and they’re mostly to tell people what I need. I just don’t do that. I don’t have a long list of things I need, but even if I did, I wouldn’t put it out there. I’m the one who fixes problems. I’m the strong one. I’m the one who has it all together and needs to have it all together so I can repair what’s broken.

When I look at the past few days, it’s pretty obvious to me that I don’t have it together. That I haven’t been so good at fixing what’s broken for myself. And that I do have a list of things I need. The venting I did to Smitty might not have just been a product of my frustration. There might have been a lot of truth and need in it too.

After an evening with Beans where I tried to shut down my overactive brain and then had a night of restless sleep, I opened the door the next morning to a fresh, sparkling, sunny-eyed, bushy-tailed, real-life, real-in-person, didn’t-skip-town husband holding a bouquet of sunflowers and a huge bag of chocolates—the ball kind that are all different flavors wrapped in brightly colored foil—and by a huge bag of chocolates, I mean a white sleeve thing so big that it looks like it weighs at least twenty pounds.

“I sent a care package to your parents’ house too.”

I block the doorway with my body, which is hard because I don’t want to advertise that my nipples are suddenly going intofull-on piercing mode, and there’s a wild heat flooding through me in the most disturbing and consuming manner.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think they can be bought with chocolates and flowers.”

“It’s probably a good thing I also included three new tablets, a seventy-two-inch TV, one adorable snail purse, and eighty-seven greeting cards because I sponsored eighty-seven rescue cats. When you donate, the site automatically generates e-cards. I donated in your parents and brother’s names.”

My jaw slowly moves toward unhinging, but I have things under control. I’m not going to let it go flapping all over. The same goes for my nipples and ovaries. It doesn’t matter that myhusbandis real and here, and he didn’t leave, or that he brought me chocolates and flowers because he thought of me. Or that he looks so deliciously hot that he might as well be a twice-baked potato with hot dogs on top, all smothered in cheese and homemade salsa with a side of sour cream and barbeque sauce because, yes, that is my favorite food and, yes, my mouth is watering right now.

It doesn’t matter that he’s tall or that his Henley clearly shows off his masculine shoulder goodness and his muscly arms. It doesn’t matter that jeans do something for him that is definitely unnatural because it’s so smoking hot. He’s like a god wrapped up in a baked potato, in hot dogs, and then smothered in cheese with a side of extra smoking eye candy, ovary-busting goodness.

It also doesn’t matter that he thinks the way to my family’s hearts is through helping homeless cats.

Nope. Not one bit. That burn in the back of my throat and that sting at the back of my eyeballs? Not happening. I’m sure it’s not happening for my parents either. And I’m sure my brother doesn’t really like the new tablet or the new TV. Sterling was probably kidding about those things anyway.

“How did you get their emails?” I ask.

“I printed off every single one it generated, folded them up—they each come with a photo of the specific cat you helped save—and put them with the pile of stuff that got couriered over.”

“Gah. And snails? How do you know my mom has a thing for snails?”

“They were everywhere in the house,” he replies nonchalantly.

That makes it sound like my parents’ house has some kind of problem, but by everywhere, he means the décor. My mom has been collecting snails for a long time. Little knick-knacks and ornaments, stuffies, paintings, whatever we can find for her that is snails…we usually pick it up if the price isn’t crazy. A lot of her collection came from thrift stores and garage sales.

I don’t want to show him how touched I am or how hopeful I am that my parents and my brother will come around to this because I most certainly should not be hopeful, and whatthisis hasn’t even been defined yet. I want to put on my best ambivalent face, but I swear I fail.

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