“Let’s go,” he said, and led me down the stairs and out the door.
We drove home in silence, and I ducked into the bathroom to shower. I heard him banging around the kitchen, but I didn’t have the heart to face him. An hour after I’d scurried back into my room, there was a knock on the door.
“Yes?”
“Food’s ready. I made lasagna.”
I freakinglovedlasagna. But I didn’t love the prospect of eating it with Gideon sitting on the other side of the table. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
The knob turned, and the door cracked open. I sat up in bed, glaring. “I could’ve been changing in here!”
“You should eat something.”
“When are you going to stop ordering me around?”
“When you start taking care of yourself properly.”
“I’m not hungry.”
My sort-of husband glared at me from the doorway, then let out a sigh. “I’ve got to head back to work. Knox is watching the house; I’ve left his number on the kitchen counter. Call him if you need anything.”
We watched each other for a moment, and then Gideonturned and left. I slumped back in bed and listened to the engine of his car fade, wondering how the hell I’d gotten myself in this position. Was this worth the angst?
My phone buzzed, interrupting my thoughts. The family group chat. My sister Christine had sent a photo. I prepared to toss my phone aside without looking at it when a second message came through.
CHRISTINE
Sadie, is this you????
A second later, my mom chimed in.
MOM
YOU GOT MARRIED?
I had time to swipe up and see a screenshot of a news article. The headline read: ARRANGED MARRIAGE LAST DITCH EFFORT TO SAVE A SMALL TOWN. There was a picture of me and Gideon at the altar, glaring at each other as we held hands, with our names in small print in the caption.
Then my phone rang. I tossed it away like it was a live snake, and watched as it buzzed its way across the comforter, my mother’s name lighting up the dim room.
It went still, and I let out a breath.
Then she called again.
With a sigh, I grabbed my phone and swiped to answer. “Mom.”
“You got married? Without me?”
I closed my eyes and reached for patience. Trust my mother to make my wedding about herself. “Nice to talk to you too, Mom.”
“Don’t sass me, Sadie. Is that you in that article?”
I bit my thumbnail and scrambled for an explanation, and finally had to settle on the truth. “Yes.” Bracing myself for her ridicule (what kind of desperate ninny needed an arranged marriage to finally tie the knot?), I tensed on the bed.
But my mother did not ridicule me. Instead, she let out a shriek of happiness. “FINALLY! BARRY! SADIE’S MARRIED! YES! I KNOW! AFTER ALL THIS TIME!”
I listened to her cheers as I sat on the bed all alone, and a piece of my heart withered and died. For my entire life, being married was the pinnacle of success. My parents had built their business, their very identity, on the love story that had bound them together.
Now that I was finally toeing the family line, the relief in my mother’s exclamations was clear. I was finally one of them, and it didn’t matter that I’d had to have an arranged marriage to achieve it.
