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Even though I want to press her more on this issue about her mom, she's right.
“Yeah, sure. What should we discuss next?” I ask.
“You said we need to live together? When do you want me to move my things over?”
“I thought you could bring over whatever you want tomorrow after the meeting with Immigration. You can keep your apartment if you want, or get rid of it and save the money. Either way is fine but for the next two years, you’ll need to live in the penthouse. If we don’t live together, it’ll give them a reason to ask questions.”
She nods. “I’ll pack a few bags before the meeting and I can move in after.”
“What else should we cover?”
Her lips purse for a second and then she speaks.
“Am I right to assume this is an open marriage?” she asks, no hesitation in her voice.
I clear my throat and pick up my beer off the ledge and take a swig.
This was something I knew would have to come up, and this is the best opening I’m going to get for it.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. I know this is a lot to ask, but since I’m a public figure, I have to,” I set my beer down on the ledge. “With the tabloids always trying to get a story, and with us trying to make immigration believe this is real, it would look bad on our relationship if you were caught having dinner with another man, or if I was caught with a woman at the bar. It could be grounds for immigration to dismiss our claim.”
“What are we supposed to do then? Sneak around?” she asks.
Sneaking around might work for her, but when a story about a NHL player having an open marriage with the woman, he married to get his green card rolls out in the tabloids, I’ll be done for.
“No. I was thinking more that we agree not to date anyone until my green card is approved and we sign divorce papers.”
Her eyes widen and she stares back at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“You want us both to refrain from dating other people?”
“Yes,” I say simply.
I know what I’m asking for is a lot.
I’m asking her to put her life on hold for two years for me, but neither of us can risk this marriage looking like a contract agreement.
“No sex for two years?” she asks, a single eyebrow lifting. “You’re going to refrain from puck bunnies at your away games?”
I guess she found out what the boys call them. A quick internet search probably gave her a laundry list of things I wish she didn’t know about hockey players.
But she says it like she can’t believe I’d survive without meaningless hookups at the bar.
Those rookie years where one-night stands seemed like a good idea, are years behind me.
I take a step closer and reach for her left hand that hangs at her side. I pull her hand into mine and run my thumb over the edges of her three-carat cushion-cut diamond.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t have sex,” I tell her, taking my eyes off the ring and lock on hers. “I’d be happy to take care of my wife’s needs whenever she wants it.”
It’s dark out on the rooftop but I swear I see her eyelids hood and those violet eyes dilate at my offer.
Sex might complicate things, I get it, but I’m asking her to give up her life for two years. The least I can do is make sure there’s one less thing she has to give up.
Not that servicing my wife would be a hardship. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Juliet is gorgeous, there’s no disputing it, but I won’t make the first move. I kicked the ball in her court. It’s up to her if she wants to return it. Otherwise, we’ll live as roommates. And that’s probably the smartest choice we could make sense we have an expiration date.
“How generous of you,” she says, taking a sip of beer.
