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It was his way of making a joke—and helping—and I hugged him so hard I probably gave him a hernia.
I wanted to tell him about the marriage plan. The words were on my lips. But I’d already told Shane we shouldn’t. Still, I have to wonder if Danny will be hurt.
He walked me down the aisle at my wedding to Rand. Maybe he’d want to do it again. After all, it may not be a real wedding, but it’s the last one I’m likely to have.
A dark feeling fills my gut, because that innocent little girl who wanted to love and be loved isn’t altogether dead. She’d like me to know this is madness, and I shouldn’t get married and divorced again unless it’s because I’ve fallen in love with another blowhard.
I realize Eden’s still watching me, waiting for an explanation she must know is forthcoming sometime this century. So I add, “This guy’s Danny’s childhood friend. I’m just doing him a favor. No big deal.”
“A favor with your coochie?”
Laughter bursts out of me, because it’s impossible not to laugh at the word “coochie.”
Across the dining room, Ralph wiggles his ass in his seat, his mouth pouching into a frown, and I know we’re about a minute away from a complaint about the temperature of the coffee.
“You think it’s a too-hot day or a too-cold day?” I ask Eden in a whisper.
She tugs one of her locs and rolls her eyes. “I’ll give that man a coffee enema. See what he has to say about it then. Never mind Ralph, I want to hear about this man you’re ‘not really’ marrying. When you first told me, I figured you had to be talking about Tank.”
I grimace, because I haven’t told Tank about the marriage plan yet either. Last week, I told Shane that my friend could be one of the witnesses, but the more I think about it, the more certain I am he’s going to disapprove. He would tell me I’m being hasty, which is obviously true. I’m guessing he would also say there are easier ways to make a buck, which feels less true. More palatable, yes. Easier? No.
I’d suggested using Josie as the other witness, but I haven’t gotten around to doing that either. That one’s down to pure cowardice, probably.
She still hasn’t told me about whatever she’s seen for me, and she was clearly been right about Shane, so…
“Tank’s just a friend,” I murmur. “You know that. We’ve been friends forever.”
“And this other man?”
Sighing, I say, “I’ve known him forever too.” My eyes linger on Ralph like he’s been transformed into the most interesting person in the universe. “This isn’t a romantic thing. It’s a legal arrangement. Shane wants his boss to think he’s a family man, and I need better health insurance. So he’s paying me to go to a few events with him, and he’s going to put me and Izzy on his insurance. Simple.”
She flinches as if a bee stung her in the ass, and I bump her with my hip. “The insurance I get through the marketplace is fine, Eden. You have no reason to feel guilty.” I think but don’t add: We both know you’re barely turning a profit anymore.
Or maybe not at all.
She and her husband Charlie, the chef, started Loving Diner two decades ago, their nod to Loving v. Virginia, the Supreme Court Case that struck down state laws banning marriages like theirs. It used to do well…before the town got so gentrified every restaurant needs to have unpronounceable items on the menu to stand out. Their rent’s too high, and the décor is on the dumpy side, because Eden flat-out refuses to let me change it.
My comment about the insurance earns a snort. “That’s bullshit, and we both know it.” Her sharp gaze meets mine.“I’m guessing the legal arrangement thing is bullshit too. You do know every marriage is a legal arrangement, right?”
Don’t I ever.
“Sure, but this time it’s a legal arrangement that’s not going to bite me in the ass. There are no feelings involved.”
Her eyebrows hike up higher. “So you’re marrying this man, but you don’t intend to sleep with him.”
This time, I’m the one who flinches. Because I can’t help but think of Shane in those pajamas the other night. I can’t possibly give them to my brother now, and not just because someone else wore them.
You don’t want to see your brother wearing something you wanted to tear off someone.
The thing is…
You don’t travel in the same orbit as someone like Shane Royce without wondering if he has the moves and equipment to back up his swagger. I’ll never test that personally, but that doesn’t keep me from thinking about it. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who occasionally has thoughts. I’ve noticed him checking out things he shouldn’t—the line of my bra or the dip of my V-neck. My ass. It’s become an unspoken game to see if I can get him to look. It’s a dangerous game, but all games worth playing are dangerous.
The other night, when he was changing out of his suit in my apartment, I had a pounding awareness of what he was doing on the other side of the bathroom door, in a space that’s supposed to be mine.
Now, he’s probably taking his pants off. His underwear.
I wanted to see what my sink was seeing. My mirror. There’s no denying part of me would really like to know what he looks like under all those layers of expensive fabric.
