Billie didn’t answer immediately. She sat on the armrest, toes tucked against my legs, just like she used to do when we were kids because her feet were always cold. She unlocked her phone and with a few swipes pulled up an old photo and thrust it in mydirection. The image was blurry but unmistakable. I was wearing a suit and holding a chunk of white lace—my father’s new wife’s garter—and Billie, in that fucking blue dress, was clutching a squashed bouquet, sitting on my lap.
“We were kids,” I said, though it sounded like I was apologizing for something.
“So?” Her left shoulder shrugged. “It made sense then, and it makes sense now.”
My heart was pounding so hard in my chest it felt like it was going to break through my rib cage as I pushed myself up to a seated position. I couldn’t take what she was offering, no matter how badly I wanted to. It wasn’t fair to her. “You don’t—” I stopped myself before I blurted out “love me” because if the question were reversed or asked, I would be forced to admit I did love her, and I didn’t want her to know that. "—want kids.”
“I’m not talking about a lifetime commitment.” She motioned to the paperwork. “You need to get married for the inheritance. So, marry me. For ninety days. Get your money, secure your and the girls’ future. We get divorced.”
That same hammering heart deflated like a popped balloon and sank. Right. She wasn’t actually offering till death do us part. She was offering to legally sign papers to be my wife in the eyes of the law for the required amount of time to give me access to the money, like a friend would do. That was a much more sane, rational thing to put on the table.
My mind and my heart jumped right back to the girl who had been in love with me, who had made that offer and meant it in a different way when she’d told me that at my father’s wedding.
“It’s just paperwork.” She stood up and stared down at me. “We’ll go down to the courthouse tomorrow after I drop the girls off at school.”
“This is crazy?—”
“Not as crazy as leaving millions, no billions, sitting in a trust,” she cut me off as she headed back to the stairs. “It’s happening. I’ll bring down a suit and your shaving kit.” She paused at the bottom of the stairs and glanced over her shoulder. “Although, I’m not hating the beard.”
With that parting remark and a twinkle in her eye, she headed back upstairs, leaving me with one problem solved and another born. I was going to get the money I’d need to handle the house, set up the girls, and not have to worry about our futures. I just had to be married to the only woman I’d ever loved for ninety days and not have my heart shattered in a million pieces when she walked away because this had a very clear, very real expiration date.
27
BILLIE
I didn’t knowwhat I expected from the county clerk’s office when I booked both the license and ceremony, but it wasn’t a line that snaked around the corridor with a dozen couples ahead of us, some laughing, some tense, most holding either hands or envelopes. The linoleum gleamed with the kind of industrial shine that made everything seem even less romantic than advertised, the air perfumed with government-issue lemon cleaner and the leftover sweat of public service.
Last night this sounded like the most rational thing in the world to do, so why was my hand shaking as we stood in line for our marriage certificate?
“You don’t have to do this,” Adam repeated for the hundredth time.
That wasn’t an exaggeration. I’d been keeping a mental tally and in the ninety minutes it had taken us to drive to City Hall, park, and stand in line at the county clerk’s office, he’d said it one hundred times.
“You’re buying me a Birkin,” I stated resolutely.
“What?”
“A Birkin. You’re going to buy me one.”
“Why?”
If I didn’t nip this in the bud, it would go on until we said, “I do” and then for 90 days after. I turned to face him. “You have told me one hundred times that I don’t have to do this in the past hour and a half. That means more than once per minute. When you get the money, you are buying me a Birkin, so I’mnotdoing this for nothing.”
His eyes searched mine. “You mean the purse?”
“Yes.”
“You can buy yourself a purse.”
“It’s a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Apurseis a hundred thousand dollars?”
“The metallic Birkin is. Jane Birkin’s Original Birkin Bag sold for ten point one million.”
He stared at me like I’d grown two heads. “You wouldneverspend a hundred thousand dollars on a purse.”
“You’re right. That’s whyyou’regoing to.Andyou’re going to stop telling me I don’t have to do this. I know I don’t have to. I don’t doanythingI don’t want to do.”
