Page 7 of Valentine's Day Proposal

“Who’s that?” Mom asked as soon as the campaign volunteer left.

I turned to face her, keeping my pasted-on smile intact. “That’s Charles' assistant, Mom. No big deal.” I shrugged, wondering if I should be worried that he had the blonde bimbo here. Her hair was obviously straight out of a bottle, and I didn’t like her. Not from the second we met.

“Well, I don’t care for her makeup.” Mom fluffed her hair and turned back to face me. “Yours, however, is perfect.”

I smiled as Dad walked in, ready to give me away. If he only knew what he was giving me over to, he’d put an end to it immediately, but I kept the secret too well. He escorted me out into the living room to silence—my choice. No song in the world would express what I was feeling in that moment, and the silence of mourning was the only thing I wanted. He walked me right up the large picture window that overlooked the Potomac where the priest stood waiting, with robes on and Bible in hand.

The ceremony itself was quite short. The man read from 1 Corinthians 13, the passage about love. All I could think about when my hand slipped into Charles’s is how much I used to love him, and how he had not loved me at all. I had to close my eyes and picture that check for two-hundred grand just to get through it all. We opted for standard vows, nothing fancy, just whatever the priest came up with, which shortened the ceremony further.

When the priest told us to kiss, I froze. I didn’t really think about the “you may now kiss your bride” part of the wedding. I just thought of the money. If I kissed him, I knew I’d feel something—hate or sparks, I wasn’t sure which. If I didn’t kiss him, I knew my parents would suspect something was up. I stared up at his face, stoic and calm. He didn't lean down to kiss me, so I hooked my arms around his shoulders. It was tense and awkward. It had been seven years.

Seven years full of anger and hatred, animosity, nightmares, crying.

This man was the loathsome beast who destroyed my heart and now I had to kiss him. And what was more, I had to make it look real for the cameras, because my next job—according to my contract—was to post those wedding bliss pictures on my social media. I had to tell everyone in my life that I was married, not fake married. The real kind, with cake, and pictures, and a gown.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity staring into his eyes wishing he would vanish into a puff of smoke and a check would appear in my fingers, he leaned down and kissed me. His lips were supple but firm, just the way I remembered them. They parted slightly, spreading mine with them, and he kissed me. Not just a peck of “hey we got married and this is my new wife” but a real passionate, “look woman I want to fuck you” sort of kiss.

My knees almost buckled, and he pulled my body against his, holding me up. I let him plunge his tongue into my mouth and devour me, taking my breath and my dignity in one fell swoop. My body sparked, my heartbeat quickening as he refused to let up. It was like the past seven years of desire came out in that quick kiss that was over before I was ready. He pulled away, lingering there.

I almost melted into the carpet beneath me, and Charles must have known. He held me tightly against his body as the priest announced us man and wife and our few guests clapped for us. We stood there awkwardly staring into each other’s eyes with tension mounting between us for a few more seconds until Nina interrupted, pulling my new husband away.

“We need to get started on dinner or you’ll be late for the debate.” Nina hooked her talons around his bicep and forced him backward, though his eyes stayed locked on mine. I noticed the glare on her face at the same time I noticed the red lipstick smeared all over his lips.

Mom was there in an instant, tears in her eyes, hugging me. And Dad gave me a kiss on the cheek, escorting me to the table. The rest of the night was a blur. All I could think about after dinner was that kiss. Even when I was alone in that massive apartment opening gifts by myself.

I felt something I never thought I’d feel again.

And I was pretty sure he’d felt it too.

7

CHARLES

When I got home from the debate, I stood outside the apartment door for at least ten minutes trying to decide what to say to Willow when I got in. If she was doing things according to plan, she would be here. It would be the first time we were alone together since that night seven years ago. I had no clue what to say or do, so I leaned against the wall, preparing a speech for every possible circumstance that could arise.

Finally, when I realized that no matter how well prepared I was there would still be tension, I let myself in. The place was dim, only the small reading light next to the fireplace in the corner of the room was on. Willow sat in the uncomfortable wingback chair with a blanket and a book. The fireplace was cold, and the curtains drawn.

She looked up as I entered, then adjusted her position in the seat and looked back down at her book. I locked the door, not saying anything as I wasn’t sure what to say. All my rehearsing and preparing for the entrance hadn’t helped. I hadn’t expected her to not say anything at all. I had expected her to be sleeping maybe, or even waiting for me. But this didn’t appear like she was waiting for me.

I hung my keys on the hook by the door, kicked my shoes off, and shed my coat, hanging it over a chair in the kitchen. It wasn’t the best spot for it, but with the light drizzle coming down outside, I didn’t want to hang it in the coat closet and make everything else damp. When my coat was hung, I loosened my tie and headed to the liquor cabinet for my usual nightcap, a glass of bourbon on the rocks to help my mind settle.

“Having a drink. Want one?” The old Indiana cupboard had been refinished to a dark mahogany brown, the restoration costing more than the original piece, but I had to have it. I glanced back at her as I pulled the glass tumbler from the shelf and selected my bottle of bourbon. She didn’t respond and I didn’t even see her look up.

I scowled into the glass as I poured two fingers. Normally I’d have that amount and then relax and lie down, but I figured tonight would be tough. I downed the first glass and poured another two fingers out. Willow was known to hold a grudge; I just thought maybe she’d have lightened up at least a little bit in the past seven years. This silent treatment wouldn’t do. I’d rather be arguing.

After putting the cork back in the bourbon and replacing it on the shelf, I carried my glass to my spot on the end of the couch and sat down, propping my feet up. I wanted to put on the game—Celtics vs. The Lakers in L.A.—but I figured that would disrupt Willow’s reading and draw her ire. So in the interest of keeping the peace a while longer, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the stock market news. Boring, but not arguing.

We sat there in silence until my drink was finished. I watched her for a while, and I wasn’t sure if she even knew I was watching her. I studied her the way I used to, comparing the images stored away in my mind of years past with her current self. She had fine lines around her eyes, dark circles like she was worried about something or tired. From my vantage point I could see a few silver streaks through her hair, signs of aging creeping in.

Besides that, not much had changed. Her skin was clear, her complexion warm. She even sat in the same uncomfortable-looking position, with her legs curled up and laid to the side, draped in a blanket. If I sat like that my back would go out for a week.

I pried my eyes away from her and looked up at the black screen where the game should have been playing. Her living here would take some getting used to. I tried to convince Peter to let her stay at her place and just meet me at events, but Peter advised us both that if we wanted things to look real and be successful, we had to live in the same place.

Tired and irritable now, I wanted to rest. I stood and carried my glass to the sink, leaving it there for the cleaning lady to do with the morning dishes after breakfast, then headed to my room. Willow glanced up at me as I walked through, but if she could ignore my question about drinks, I could ignore her furtive glances. Besides, if I started a conversation now, it would definitely turn into an argument.

I slunk into my bedroom, changed out of my suit into pajamas, and pulled a spare pillow and blanket out of the closet—kept for the times we worked late, and Peter had to sleep over. It didn’t happen often, but I liked to be prepared. In this case it worked out well. So, with the blanket and pillow tucked under my arm, I headed for the living room again.

Willow hadn’t moved a muscle, except to turn a page maybe. Her eyes looked a bit more tired though. I thought about tossing the blanket and pillow onto the couch and leaving it, but then thought better of it. I strolled right up to her and held them out, and she looked up at me, her brows knit in confusion.

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