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I reach out and find his arm, curling my hand around it. A wrong word from me could shatter this olive branch, the weakness, the honesty. So I give him an out.
“When you do, I’ll order myself flowers from you again.”
He chuckles. “Good. Plan for that.”
I fold myself against his side. After a moment, he turns, and a heavy arm wraps itself around my waist. I bury my face against his chest, the tickle of his chest hair, and breathe in his scent. He might be the most complicated, infuriating man I’ve ever known. He’s also the most hard-working, layered, dedicated one.
We might not be a real married couple, but I’m hopelessly in love with my husband.
23
Victor
I’m sitting at my desk on Saturday when the phone rings. Thank God, I think. I’m looking into grave upkeep for my parents, brother and grandfather, not trusting Brad with it, and a distraction is welcome.
Especially this one, I think, seeing the name on my screen. “Hello, Mrs. St. Clair.”
“Oh,” she says. Taken aback by the name? It’s hers, after all. “Hello, Mr. St. Clair.”
“How did the day go?”
“Good. She’s in the restroom now.”
“How did she handle the big reveal?”
“You know what? Much better than I thought.”
“Of course,” I say. “If she’s all that you’ve described her as, she’s the queen of original ideas.”
“Oh, I reminded her of that. You’re coming to dinner, right?”
“Of course I am. I made the reservation.”
“Thank you so much, Victor. Would you mind printing my business plan from my computer and bringing it along? Mom wants to see it. I think it’ll help, you know. With explaining exactlywhyI decided to enter the archaic institution of matrimony.”
“Her words?”
“Yes.”
I head toward the stairs. “Password on your computer?”
“Promise me you won’t laugh.”
“I promise.”
“Chocolate.”
I don’t laugh. I’m grinning, though. “Of course it is.”
“It’s on my desktop. See you soon, then,” she says. “Mr. St. Clair.”
“Looking forward to it, Mrs. St. Clair.”
The line clicks off, but my grin doesn’t fade. A fool, that’s what she’s turning me into. Not a single part of my orderly, contained world is the same with her in it. But I don’t miss it.
Her bedroom is filled with her, despite the furniture being the same as mine. Clothes draped over a bed she no longer sleeps in. A desk with neat papers and a closed laptop.
I open it up. Her screensaver is a beach on some faraway tropical island. It makes me think of our joke about honeymooning in Barbados. Did it have a kernel of truth in it?
