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My stomach flutters as I slip the gold metal through the split in my silver ring, and I press myself into the counter in an attempt to stop it. My oh my, how strange this normally huge milestone feels.
The move in. The next step. The declaration of intentions. Normally, that’s what the exchange of keys or codes or any general method for making yourself at home in someone else’s residence would mean, but not for us. For us, it’s a requirement in our charade with USCIS, and for Flynn, I’m sure a necessity so that he doesn’t have to babysit me twenty-four seven.
I’ve just pushed the key past the final millimeter of the split, securing it in place with the rest of my own when my phone starts to ring wildly on the counter, my volume set quite apparently to the max.
“Jesus,” I groan, swiping quickly without looking at the screen to stop the nearly violent playing of Gwen Stefani’s “Don’t Speak.” Evidently, a couple of months ago, I found the idea of making a song with that name my ringtone ironic. Right now, in the midst of my emotional confusion, it’s just obnoxious.
“Hello?”
“Daisy, doll! I’m officially back on dry land!” Gwen declares excitedly. “Ready to hear all about my favorite girl and her exciting life in the States!”
Oh shittt. What am I going to tell Gwen about all this?
With her gone on the cruise for the last two weeks, I haven’t even thought about how I might explain the fact that I’m married to a man I barely know in order to keep my exciting life in the States.
Gwen’s an open-minded, fluid person, but I’m pretty sure if her pseudodaughter told her she climbed on the back of the bike of a man she didn’t know and expected herself to come out alive, she’d kind of object. If that pseudodaughter then told her she went on to marry him, move all the way across the country, and lie to pretty much everyone she comes in contact with, I’m pretty sure she’d call the police.
Gah.
“Daisy? Are you there? These stupid cell thingies never get good reception.”
Speak, for the love of everything. Say something.
“Sorry, Gwen. I’m here. I was just… Yeah, you were breaking up. How was the discount cruise? Was it the dollar store version of Alaska or the real one?”
Gwen laughs. “I guess I don’t know for certain, as Kammie didn’t want to get off the boat, but the pictures I have look real.”
I’m not surprised by this info. Kammie is the one broad in their girl group who always manages to put a snag in the plans.
“Okay, but I’ll have to see the evidence to believe you.”
“Of course, darling, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Why wouldn’t Kammie get off the boat?”
“Something about her facelift scars showing in the reflection of the snow.”
“Right. Of course. I mean, what else would it be, right?”
Gwen’s laugh rolls like a soft melody, the ease of our normal conversations obviously—thankfully—conveying on her end. For my part, I’m so freaking nervous I could wet myself if I uncrossed my legs.
“What about you, my little flower? How’s work? And Damien?”
It might seem a little strange on the surface for Gwen to be asking about Damien, but the truth is, I started blurring the boss, employee, childhood guardian line a while ago. I’ve included them in the details of each other’s lives and forced them together more than a few times. Hell, not even a month ago, I forced Damien to sit on a FaceTime call with Gwen while she taught me—and Damien, because I dragged him into it—how to paint lilies like it was some kind of virtual chat with Bob Ross.
“Work is good. Damien is still Damien. A powerhouse in Prada with no time for anyone’s shit.” I take a deep breath and pause to gather myself for the best truth I can come up with—the half-truth. “I’m actually in New York.”
“New York? Oh, that’s exciting! For the day or for the week?”
“For three months, actually.”
“What? Three months?”
“Yep. Dame had some special projects over here he wanted me to be involved in,” I lie, closing my eyes against the overwhelming wave of guilt nausea. Lie, lie, lie.
“Wow! That’s pretty incredible, but three months is a long hotel stay. Even hopeless wanderers like me need little touches of home every now and then. Is he flying you home on any of the weekends?”
I nearly draw blood from my tongue, working to keep myself from freaking out and spilling all the beans all over this phone conversation. “No, no trips home. But I’m… Well, I’m in an apartment not a hotel, so it’s not so bad.”
“Damien has a company property, I guess? No way you managed a three-month lease somewhere.”
“Mm-hmm. Something like that. I’m not really sure of the details.”
