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“Hey.” Charlie’s hand comes to my head, urging me up. “Cooking. I’m not great at that. How about you cook, I clean? Or you get us take-out if you’re a shitty chef too.”
“I’m a nutritionist. Cooking is in my wheelhouse. I’ll handle the meals.” At this point I’m desperate, so I write that rule down. “We can split the other chores. You don’t have to clean the house.”
Charlie shakes his head. “You’re at work all day. I’ll handle it.”
“Charlie!” I shove up from my chair to pace. “I’m not marrying you to get a housekeeper! I’m supposed to be your sugar mamma!”
His teeth sink into his thick lower lip, obviously trying to stifle a laugh at my outburst.
“Luna.” He takes on a gentler tone. “You are supporting me financially for the next year. You’re giving me the freedom and time to figure out my life’s passion. This is not a one-sided exchange.”
When I open my mouth to protest, he stops me with a raised hand. “How about this? We’ll add a rule that if I’m ever feeling overwhelmed with the amount of housework, we’ll talk about it and devise a new system. Okay?”
The deal still sounds like him creating an out he’ll never use, but it’s hard to argue with Charlie when he gives me those hopeful eyes.
“Fine.”
My fake fiancé’s shoulders relax, and he grabs the pen and scribbles on the paper. Then he pauses and I can tell by the edge he holds himself on that he’s finally thought of something.
Thank god.
“What is it?”
“I just…” He trails off, then rubs an agitated hand over his skull.
“Come on. What rule do you want to add?”
He clears his throat once. Then again. “I know this isn’t a real marriage, but…” Another throat clearing. “Commitment would be nice. For as long as this lasts.”
Ah. That.
A year of celibacy shouldn’t be hard. It’s been six months since I was last with someone, and the experience wasn’t worth repeating.
Then the image of Charlie entering the house some night with a strange woman wrapped around him appears in my mind. The thought has me queasy for a reason I don’t want to dwell on.
“Yes. Fine.” My words are terse. “We’ll both abstain from dating other people while we’re married.”
Charlie nods and writes some more words down. I move to stare over his shoulder, baffled by the short list of items.
Is this how easy it is to fake a relationship with another person?
I thought we’d have a whole scroll of stipulations. Multiple notebooks. That we’d need a table of contents and a glossary.
“I guess we don’t have to laminate this tonight. I kind of sprung it on you. You can take the next few days before we sign the marriage license to brainstorm whatever else you want.”
“Sure,” Charlie says, not sounding like he needs the time.
Is this why I gravitated toward him? Why I thought pitching this wild idea would have a chance?
The man is just so easygoing. It’s strange for me to be around someone who doesn’t seem even mildly anxious about what we’re setting out to do. I’m not normally a worrier. Not anymore. I spent the last decade honing myself into a person ready to take on most any challenge.
But that was all physical stuff. Now I have this, a requirement to simply coexist, and I’m checking my arms to see if hives have broken out.
“Luna.”
The way Charlie says my name, softly with a hint of wariness, as if he’s concerned I’ll sprint toward the door, lets me know how much of my disquiet I’m showing on the surface.
Time to bury that shit.
