Page 109 of My Wife
Liam isbusy with playoffs and we’re like two ships passing by day and texting by night. Thankfully, I haven’t heard from Rexlan again. But my phone beeps and I check my messages.
Mr. Meanie: What are you doing next weekend?
Me: Let me check your schedule. BRB.
Mr. Meanie: I mean, what are YOU doing?
Me: Duh. I’ll be doing your bidding.
Mr. Meanie: Haha. I’m wondering if you’d like to take a trip.
Me: To elope in Vegas? No thanks. Rexlan ruined that for me.
Mr. Meanie: I was talking about an away game. But now that you mention it, we could get married. Go through with it.
I actually LOL.
Me: You have a sense of humor and a very nice smile. Hallelujah!
Mr. Meanie:
For some reason, this detail burrows into my mind and it isn’t until the end of the week when we’re preparing to head to Toronto, that I realize why.
The man has never used an emoji. Ever.
But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not joking.
However, there’s no reason for me to marry him other than to protect KJ from being indoctrinated into the criminal Coogan family. What are the chances that Liam and I would both have a connection to the lizard overlords?
The next day, I’m cautious for two reasons. One, Rexlan and his mother repeatedly harass me with messages about how I owe them for the cost of the wedding, plus interest, and promising retribution. The obvious solution is to hire a lawyer. Unfortunately, I can’t afford a minute with one, no less the hours it would take to explain the bizarre situation.
The second reason for my concern is I can’t shake the message from Liam.
He was joking, right?Right?!
KJ is excited for morning playtime at nursery school and I plan for us to make some more play dough. After I drop him off, pick up the ingredients, and swing by the pharmacy to get a muscle-cooling cream that Liam likes, I go to the house to meal prep for the week and am surprised to find him there, barking loudly into the phone from his home office before it goes abruptly quiet.
I resume peeling the sweet potatoes when he crashes into the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors.
“Good morning,” I say brightly if only to point out how dismal he’s acting.
He grunts.
Slam, pound, slam.
I say, “One of these days you’re going to tear those things off the hinges.”
He slams one harder.
I turn and tilt my head, lips pursed. “Did the mug cabinet door offend you that badly?”
He scowls.
“I brought you a smoothie.” I point to the fridge.
He attempts to slam the door, but it closes softly.
“Why are you so cranky? Does someone already need a nap or?—?”
