Page 8 of Valentine's Day Proposal

“What’s this?” She closed her book and laid it on the stand next to the lamp, then took the pillow and blanket and tucked it under her arms.

“To sleep?” I quirked an eyebrow and pointed my thumb over my shoulder. “I only have the one bedroom.”

She scoffed, her face screwing up into a scowl. As she rose to her feet I backed away, suddenly defensive. I was only trying to be helpful, so I didn’t understand what her problem was. It would get cold in here over night and I thought offering her a pillow and blanket would be the right thing to do.

“You really expect me to sleep on your couch?” She pushed past me, her shoulder bumping into my chest as she went. “You really have changed, Perish. I thought maybe you’d have gotten beat up by life enough that you learned that it isn’t all about you.”

“What the hell? I was trying to be nice.” I whipped around, my hands turning to fists. She glared at me, the sort of painful glare where you know you’ve done something wrong, you’re just not sure what.

“Nice? You think making a lady sleep on your couch while you curl up in your nice king-size bed and sleep is nice? I might be your fake wife, but I’m not putting up with fake niceness.”

Fake niceness? Where had she come up with that? I was genuinely thinking of her by getting her the pillow and blanket. I glanced at the couch then back up at her face. She couldn’t possibly think we’d sleep in my bed together, could she? This marriage was only a contractual obligation, nothing more. Hell, I’d sleep on the couch for a year if I got paid two-hundred grand.

“I don’t see what the problem is.”

She screamed through a clenched jaw and turned on her heel, storming into my bedroom and slamming the door. I shook my head, not even understanding what happened, then followed her. But the door was locked. I jiggled the handle and banged on it.

“Willow, let me in there.” I banged again and again, but there was no response. “Willow, that’s my bedroom.”

I took a step back, hoping she’d open the door for me any second, but all I saw was the light beneath the doorway extinguish. I heard rustling and then silence, so I banged again. “Willow, this is ridiculous. Let me in. You’re acting like a child.”

I stood there for a long time, waiting, banging on the door every few minutes until my arm got tired. The apartment was too quiet, frustratingly so. I looked over at the cold couch, no pillow, no blanket. Then turned back to the door, realizing she was forcing me to sleep on the couch—in my own apartment. I rolled my eyes and sighed, then banged on the door again.

“At least give me the pillow and blanket.”

After waiting a few more minutes, I decided she was not listening, and resigned myself to the fact that I would, in fact, be sleeping on the sofa, I shuffled over and grabbed the remote. At least I’d be able to watch the game now. I turned it on and lay down, curling up into a tight ball, but I was cold. So as angry as I was, I lay there, stubborn and refusing to cave. But when I started shivering, I headed to the coat closet and grabbed one of my spring jackets to use as a cover, and a sweater to use as a pillow.

My neck was going to hurt in the morning and so was my ego.

8

WILLOW

My cell phone chirped, waking me. I wanted to hit snooze and sleep more, but for some reason something inside my head told me if I did, I’d be late. So, I shut off the alarm and forced myself to a seated position, suddenly acutely aware I was not in my bed. For a moment I panicked, looking around at the dim light stealing through the black-out curtains. A strange scent wafted past my nose, and I recognized the familiar fragrance of Charles’s shampoo on the bed clothes.

I rubbed my eyes, letting them adjust to being pried open, and noticed the pillow and blanket he’d tried to push off on me last night. They still lay on the floor by the door where I dropped them when I locked myself in here. He said I was childish, and perhaps I was, but he was rude for expecting me to sleep on his sofa.

I yawned and stretched. The bed wasn’t like sleeping in my bed, but it was better than a couch, and my things were being sold off this week anyway. I couldn’t afford to keep paying rent on that place if I wasn’t living there. I’d find a new place when this chaos was over, maybe a better place.

I showered, noting how his fancy rainwater shower head had no water pressure, and dried off. The heated floors were nice, better than at home, but I still liked home better. Home was where I put my Keurig in the bedroom so I could have one-minute coffee before even showering. Here I had to be cleaned, fully dressed, and full makeup before I could even pass through the living room to the kitchen to get coffee. That was if Charles hadn’t become a weirdo drinking tea instead.

I dressed, pantsuit straight out of my suitcase which I hadn’t unpacked yet. I couldn’t live out of suitcases, and I’d have boxes of clothes and belongings coming to the apartment today or tomorrow that would need a place to be put away. As much as I loathed the thought, I’d have to ask Charles how we would manage that. Some of my larger things were being put in storage. It was cheaper than paying rent to keep the apartment up. And Mom and Dad had taken Mr. Boots. Charles was allergic.

I stared at myself in the mirror as I dried my hair with the blow dryer. I had to jump through so many hoops for this damn bastard, and to think he had the nerve to make me sleep on the couch. I showed him, didn’t I? I wondered if his night was restless, or if he’d wake with a kink in his neck. He deserved a kink in his neck.

When I was totally ready to hop on the train, I finally unlocked the bedroom door—briefcase in hand—and walked out into the living room. It was dim, but not as dark as the bedroom had been. And it was cold, so cold I shivered. He had to have had a separate thermostat for the bedroom itself.

Charles lay on the couch sleeping, curled up in a tight ball beneath a coat. His bare feet dangled off the edge of the couch precariously, and he snored loudly. I felt a strange ambivalence in my gut, wavering between wanting to laugh at how pathetic he looked, and feeling guilty that I was the reason he was so obviously miserable. I watched him sleep for a moment, remembering the good days, but feeling so hurt by him I didn’t see any path back to that time at all.

Then I left for work without coffee because I didn’t want to wake him. That would mean a conversation and I wanted my morning to start right—not with an argument.

After the long train ride down the green line and across the red to Foggy Bottom, I had a painful six-block walk. The entire trip took nearly an hour with all the line changes, but I made it, and probably faster than if I had tried driving.

I passed a quirky little coffee shop and picked up a coffee for myself, and while I was there decided that having a coffee for Mel might help smooth the conversation when I told her I was married. So, I bought her a soy triple latte and had the barista make the foam into a heart shape. Mel would appreciate the gesture.

I strolled into the office a few minutes late thanks to my coffee pitstop, but Mel was all smiles. It appeared a few other staff members were running late too; a few desks empty still. I glanced around and noticed everyone hard at work already, so I headed straight to Mel’s office. Her short blonde hair was feathered to the side in a fresh look; long manicured fingernails clicked away at her keyboard. She looked up as I walked in.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” She grinned at me and sat back. “For me?”

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