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“Their current lifestyle is reckless and unsustainable,” he says with a biting tone. “They’ve shown they can’t properly manage money, so to continue giving them heaps of it would be the definition of lunacy.”
Right, well, there’s no convincing him in that area, so I decide to try a different tactic.
“Okay then, I’d like to give them my monthly disbursement. I won’t be using it, so surely it’d be possible to send it to them instead.”
“Too late. That money will be routed into a retirement fund for you every month.”
“Then make it their retirement fund.”
“No, Elizabeth. Is that all? You’re wasting my time.”
I step further into his office. “No, that’s not all. I’d also just like to say that you can be really stubborn and annoying sometimes.”
“Thank you,” he says, wholly unaffected by my childish outburst.
It only makes me want to needle him more, but I get the feeling he’d enjoy it, so I turn and leave his office, doing a mighty fine job of stomping as loudly as possible on my way to my room.
“I’m not going to change my mind!” he calls out.
I slam my door in lieu of replying.
Sunday morning, I’m sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading, when Walt strolls in from a run. Sweaty and breathing hard, he takes his AirPods out of his ears and drops them on the kitchen counter.
“Morning.”
I make a point of not replying.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
I hum in response.
“I slept great. Solid seven hours.”
“I didn’t ask,” I say, flipping my page.
“Then this morning, I woke up at 5:00, got some work done, went for a run.”
“I can see that. You don’t have to tell me—I can smell your sweat from over here. Plan on showering sometime today?”
I swear he smiles, but he turns too soon for me to tell. I watch as he gets himself a mug, makes an espresso shot, and then adds a splash of milk. Then, slowly—intentionally slow—he stirs it all together, ting-ting-tinging his spoon on the side of the mug before setting it down on a napkin. He brings the mug up to his mouth, locks eyes with me, and takes a sip.
Having had enough, I slam my book closed and push it aside.
“I’d like to continue our discussion from last night.”
“No bookmark?” he asks, brows shooting up with feigned horror. “What a wild woman. How do you remember your place?”
“I memorized it,” I lie. “Don’t try to distract me.”
“As I said last night, I won’t change my mind. Do you want some eggs?”
He turns to head for the refrigerator, tugging it open and perusing the shelves.
“No. I already ate. I think you’re being intentionally obstinate about the subject. It’s like you get some sick pleasure out of refusing to change your mind once it’s made up.”
“I change my mind all the time. Take now, for example: I thought I wanted eggs, but turns out, I’d rather have oatmeal.”
He lets the refrigerator door fall shut with a bang and heads into the walk-in pantry.
I slide off my barstool and follow him inside, only recognizing how small the space is once we’re both crammed in with our hot tempers.
“Hey, would you just listen to me?” I say, poking him in the back until he turns around to face me. His hand shoots out to catch mine before I can drop it. Then, instead of letting go, he looks down at it, eyes narrowing.
“Can’t we give them a chance?” I ask. “Just a bit more money?”
“Where’s your ring?”
“Oh my god. Are you even listening to me?”
I try to tug my hand away from him, but he doesn’t let me. His grip isn’t painful, but it’s strong and assertive. His hand feels twice the size of mine.
“I thought we agreed you’d wear it.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s slightly ridiculous. The size of it.”
“I picked it out for you.”
My heart leaps in my chest.
“Because of the arrangement,” he tacks on a beat later.
I jerk my hand away, and this time, he lets me have it. “Right. I’ll wear it if you absolutely want me to, but otherwise, I’d rather not.”
He reaches for a box of unopened oatmeal on the shelf beside my head and then heads back out into the kitchen, leaving me in the pantry.
“Glad that’s settled.”
No, it’s not.
“You don’t have one,” I point out, trying to take a fair-is-fair approach.
“You never bought me one,” he says plainly.
I wait for him to laugh or shoot me a teasing look over his shoulder, but neither comes.
I frown. Confused. Why do I actually feel sad for him right now?
I shouldn’t, I remind myself. He has a girlfriend! This marriage is fake! Why am I starting to forget that?
“My brother asked me for your number last night,” he says, changing the subject.
“Yeah, he said he’d be willing to connect me with some people he knows in the art world after what happened on Friday.”
