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As a sudden prickle runs down my neck, I glance his way to find him watching me.
“Your head must be an interesting place to be.”
“Only when I’m taking my meds.” Otherwise, it’s hell.
“Meds for?”
“ADHD. I probably should’ve mentioned that.” Though I guess now is as good a time as any to do so. Speak now or forever hold your peace, right? “I was late to the party.”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“Just that I was rawdogging the ADHD life up until after college.” When the wheels came off the minute I didn’t have to keep it together for the sake of my studies. Hyperfocus was my friend up until then. But I just couldn’t mask anymore. “The diagnosis was a relief.”
“I imagine.” He quirks his head, and I find myself disappointed that’s all he has to say. “I haven’t seen you with your hair up in an age.”
My hand goes there automatically. I’ve braided it into a crown, kind of, and it takes me a moment to work out that “an age” can only mean he’s reminiscing. I also see the moment he makes the same connection, hear it as he says, “Those are pretty earrings.”
Can you spell diversion?
“Thank you. They were my grandmother’s.” Seaman Schepps, cabochon-cut aquamarine, sapphire, and pearls. She gave them to me before she died, and somehow, they weren’t included on the list of her effects. They’re another way I’m playing in to our wedding color scheme, even if it wasn’t my intention. “I couldn’t bear to part with them, though I got close a couple of times.”
“How come you never sold the coat?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The coat you’re wearing. Max Mara whatever.”
“Well spotted, Mr. Fashion Forward.” I pluck a tiny piece of colored paper from my sleeve. Confetti, maybe? “Why would I sell it?”
He slides me a look. “I expect you would’ve gotten a couple of weeks’ rent out of the proceeds.” He gives a careless shrug. Nothing to see here. No past revealed and no need for pity. It doesn’t stop my flare of guilt. Poverty. Scarcity. Lack. Whatever you call the consuming fear that comes from not knowing if you’ll have enough left over for food after you’ve paid the rent. You might get through the experience, but do you ever get over it? I guess time will tell.
“I tried to sell it,” I admit softly. “A couple of times. I couldn’t find a buyer the same shape.”
He gives a soft laugh. A scoff, really.
“Seriously, I had it tailored to fit, and no one else in Manhattan is a five-feet-two boobzilla.”
Oh. Sweet Jesus. That sounded like a setup. Look at my tits, Troy! Look at my tits!
But the good Lord is on my side today as, at that very moment, our number is called.
Wait . . . maybe the devil was in charge of that.
Chapter 15
Troy
“Please join hands.”
Two minutes. It takes two minutes to change my whole life. On paper, at least.
We get married in an ugly-ass room with a man in a cheap suit standing behind a lectern, doing his best to make everything sound special. But how could it be special when we are the twentieth—fiftieth—couple of that day?
But that’s not to say I don’t feel something when Clara slips off her coat. Something inconvenient. Her dress is pale blue, a straight silhouette cut a little low at the front and the back. It’s simple yet stylish, demure yet seductive. She looks beautiful. And the inconvenience? It’s how my gut twists with anticipation as I imagine her dress on my bedroom floor.
“Do you, Troy, take Clara to be your lawful wedded spouse?”
“I do.” Be . . . wondering what the hell I’m doing right now. Did I somehow forget how things ended for me the last time I held this woman’s hand?
