Page 204 of Accidental Husband
Juliette
After an entire YA book, a long run, and a hot shower, I face my voicemail inbox.
My mom's tone shifts from concerned business woman to worried mother to excited romantic as her message count increases. By the time she hits message seven, she's gushing.
"Juliette King, embarking on a new marriage is a beautiful thing. I've already called the airline and the hotel. We've rescheduled your honeymoon for next week. You and Griffin need to go. You need to celebrate a new marriage." The concerned business woman takes over. "I saw your pictures. Everyone saw your pictures. You looked so beautiful and so drunk. Sweetie, if this was a mistake, that's okay. If it's what you want, that's okay. But you need to talk to a lawyer, so you know your options. Your dad suggested someone at his firm. You have an appointment with Mr. Kim at nine a.m. on Monday morning. I won't take no for an answer." She pauses. "I love you. Call me."
I don't call her. But I do reply with a text.
Jules: Thanks, Mom, I'll be there. I'm good. Griffin is too. I'll let you know if I need anything. I'm staying at his place for a few days.
I don't get into the wholeis it his place or our placething. There's enough on my mind.
She's right. We should talk to an attorney. We should know our options. Even if we decide to stay married.
The timing is good. We're giving it until Monday. The appointment is Monday.
It's smart. Logical. Sensible.
So why does it make my stomach turn?
Why do I want to throw up?
Why does it seem like the stupidest thing I've ever done?
Chapter Forty-Five
Griffin
Everyone stops to offer their congratulations—Brendon, Ryan, Walker, the guy's girlfriends (the ones I barely know, and the ones I know well), old clients.
Current clients.
It feels good—like I'm a part of something—but it steals my ability to concentrate.
By the time I break for lunch, I'm out of mental energy.
I let my thoughts go. Sketch the piece I'm doing this afternoon.
It's amazing. A traditional pinup modeled after my client's wife. She's been so sweet through the entire process. She insists I thicken the thighs or nip the breasts or crop the hair. She wants the tattoo to look like her wife, not some cartoon version of the perfect woman.
(Or, as she'd say "the perfect woman, according to straight, horny men who don't understand organs take up space").
It's perfect.
Exactly what I want with Jules.
I don't want some doll like version of her. I want the real person, with the messy hair, and the oversized Dodgers t-shirt, and the scars.
I don't know how to tell her that.
It would be easier to show her. To tattoo her image to my chest. Or steal a soliloquy from Shakespeare or write her name on my skin.
No, I've already done that.
It's not enough. She needs to hear the words. I need to find a way to say them.
I send the final image to my client. Find a quiet spot at the sandwich shop. Check my texts.
