Page 20 of The Marriage Sham
Really, I blame Fen. If he wasn’t so darn nice and considerate and thoughtful, I wouldn’t be feeling so conflicted. Why can’t he just be the jerk he was in high school so I could feel justified channelling all my anger towards him, leaving all these mushy feelings locked away where they belong?
“You’re awfully quiet. Ready to call it a night?” Fen opens the door to our room, stepping back to let me enter, ever the gentleman. The single bed glares at me like a neon sign, flaring my irritation.
“Yes, I am a bit tired. So. Where am I sleeping?” I fold my arms over my chest and spin around to glare at him.
His head whips up, and he sees my expression, his eyes flickering to the bed for a moment before understanding dawns. “Oh. Um. They didn’t have rooms with double beds, so I was thinking you could sleep in the king and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I look at the couch and see it’s more like a loveseat, knowing there’s no way he could actually sleep on that thing.
“Are you kidding me?”
He pushes up his glasses and swallows carefully. “No?”
I throw my arms out, realizing I’m being difficult about it and he’s being gracious, and I should probably shut up, but I just can’t stop the irritation from bubbling out in the form of words. “Has it escaped your notice that you’re like three feet longer than that couch?”
He takes a deep breath and walks over to the armoire, pulling out some clothes. “I’m going to get changed in the bathroom. Why don’t you do the same and get comfortable. I’ll probably be up a little longer on my laptop as long as the light doesn’t bother you.” Then he walks right around me and closes the bathroom door, effectively ending the conversation.
I roll my eyes, irritation blooming into full blown anger. “Ugh…men,” I mumble to myself. Grabbing my pajamas out of the drawer, I slam it shut, finding a small level of satisfaction in the loud smack of wood on wood.
By the time I pull on the long t-shirt and shorts, I’m starting to deflate already, thinking I may have a been a little harsh over something that isn’t really a problem. By the time Fen exits the bathroom in the most delectable flannel pants and tight henley shirt, his hair all askew, I’m certain I’ve been a complete jerk.
“You can sleep here. If you want to. In the bed.” I’m twisting the end of my t-shirt in my hands, expecting him to refuse based off my temper tantrum. Hells bells, I wouldn’t want to be around me either. Instead, he just nods quickly and goes about getting his laptop out of his bag and has a seat on the small couch.
I climb under the covers and lay on my side, up against the edge, leaving him as much room as he needs. “Goodnight,” I whisper, suddenly feeling very alone.
“‘Night, Francie.”
