Page 10 of Where Happiness Begins
“No risk of that happening,” he says, head cocked, eyes right on me. It’s hard being under his stare, like he’s even bigger than he actually is and I’m utterly exposed.
“It won’t be some private thing. If this is to be believable, you’ll need to meet my family and friends and vice versa. Do you really want me to tag along to your family dinners?” I ask. That part, to me, is not a problem. If Mr. Ray Of Sunshine here gives any indication, his parents might not be the type of people I usually hang out with, but I love meeting new people and I’d die to eat home-cooked meals with a full table around me every once in a while. However, he might not feel the same way.
“I don’t have those, so problem solved.”
“Have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
He lifts a careless shoulder.
I trudge on. “We don’t know each other.” Or more like, I don’t know him and he could be a serial killer for all I know.
“So? It’s not like it would be a real marriage.”
I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat. I think out of all the reasons I’ve just named, this is the one thing that makes me the most hesitant. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always dreamed of marrying someone I loved. Even during my harder days during dialysis, when I’d get bouts of sadness at the thought that this was not what life was supposed to be like, I’d comfort myself by thinking of the life I might one day have, waking up with a man who loved me and maybe a few kids around. I didn’t mind that it was cliché. I wanted it so much I ached for it. A life surrounded by love.
And now here I am, living my future life, but instead of marrying for love, I’m thinking of marrying someone who could not care less about me, me as a business transaction.
It kind of makes sense, though. I’m not the same naïve little girl I was when I lived that Barbie doll dream. I know that loving someone means being at the mercy of their own feelings toward you. I know how it feels to crave someone’s attention and never feeling like what you are is enough. I know what it’s like to be with a man who pities you instead of loving you.
Even though I still have a pinch of disappointment at the thought of not having a love marriage, deep down, I’m not sure I even believe in such a thing anymore, at least for me.
“Ifwe are to consider this, we need to set some ground rules.”
He nods once, all business-like.
“First, we can’t get caught, ever. I’m not getting a criminal record anytime soon.”
At that, I’d swear his face blanches, or maybe it’s just the lighting in the bright diner.
“We’d need to keep our arrangement a secret,” I continue.
“The band already knows we’re not together,” Carter deadpans.
“Right. I guess they can know, then, but you need to make sure they keep quiet about it. And we don’t tell anyone else.”
“Fine by me.”
“All right.” I tick another point on my fingers. “Then we need to set up an end date. Like…” How long is long enough to be believable and to give me enough time to profit from his insurance? “In two years, we get a divorce.”
“All right,” he says.
Look at us, agreeing on things. My shoulders loosen as we continue going through the terms, from prenups—not a problem for either of us—to my responsibilities as the band’s promo worker. I’d have to mention publicly how I’m married to the band’s producer to explain why I’m spending so much time with them, and then post at least three times per week to feature them and their music. Not too bad. I might end up losing followers who usuallyexpect a different type of content from me, but it should mostly be okay if I continue to intersperse my own posts in between subtle promo.
“Great. Anything else?” Carter says, circles shadowing the underside of his eyes. I probably have the same, if not worse. Outside, the sky is starting to pale, the stars long gone and slowly getting replaced by hints of daylight. I need to go find my bed, and soon.
Maybe fatigue is the only reason I’m even thinking of going through with this insane plan. Maybe I’ll wake up later today and realize how dumb I was. I almost wish I would.
But when I look at the pros of this, I can’t pretend it’s not a great deal. Short of robbing a bank, I don’t know how else I’d be able to keep on going. Just two years. That’d give me respite for my medical bills and allow me to take on fewer shifts at The Sparrow. I could use that time to figure out how to get a job with insurance so that by the time we divorce, I’d be fine. A buffer of sorts.
“Yes,” I say. If I want to actually consider this, I need a clear plan in my head that includes all possible questions that would arise. “We need to figure out where we’d live.”
“What do you mean?”
“If we wanted our marriage to be credible, we’d need to live together,” I say.
His jaw tightens as if he hadn’t ever considered that possibility before. Or as if the thought of living with me disgusts him.
To be fair, I’m not that keen about living with a total stranger who’s stoic and rude most of the time, but at this point, I don’t have the luxury of shopping around for a better fake husband.
