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And it was silly to create expectations at all. This was all for convenience. A business transaction rather than a romantic moment.
But still, Lydia and I had taken a trip to my favorite thrift shop in Orono yesterday, where I found the perfect lilac dress. It wasn’t bridal, but it was vintage, sleeveless, and had a flared skirt that swished around my knees. It made my waist look tiny, and just putting it on made me feel confident.
Confident enough to marry my brother’s best friend so I could get health insurance, at least.
I took a long shower, shaving and moisturizing everything, even though we had explicitly agreed never to consummate this marriage. But it felt necessary to mark the occasion. I even put on makeup and carefully blew out my hair, pulling half back and securing it with a pretty vintage barrette that I had found at a thrift shop in Boston.
It was the kind of thing I liked to pretend I’d inherited from my great-grandmother. In my mind, she was a society girl from Beacon Hill who’d rejected every suitor her parents found for her because she was too smart and too opinionated to marry for anything but love. Silly, I knew. But when a young girl didn’t have her own family history, when there were no special memories or keepsakes from her past, she got really good at making things up. And those indulgent stories had stayed with me.
But I couldn’t let my brain run away with romantic fantasies today.
The only way to make this work was to stay focused on the goals we’d spelled out. My health, his career, maintaining our friendship. Nothing more.
We would remain married for one year, and then quietly and amicably divorce. Preferably after I had defended my dissertation and was accepting a glamorous job offer far away from Lovewell.
Visualizing made it easier to grasp. Repeating the reasons helped obliterate any sneaky romantic notions of what a marriage should be that crept in when I let my guard down. Because I knew all too well that most marriages were disasters. But we’d make this one a smashing success. We were going in with our eyes wide open and, at my insistence, had set very specific parameters.
Plus, I had Dylan. He was, by far, the most uncomfortable with this arrangement.
And if anything went wrong, it would devastate him. Remy’s friendship was one of the most precious things in Dylan’s life, and I would never, ever get in the way of that. My brother had already sacrificed so much for me.
And Remy. He thought he needed me, but in reality, everything he wanted was within his grasp. If only he understood that. Still, his willingness to help and his generosity were so endearing they made me want to help him in return. Get him back on his feet and ready to compete. Taking the next step as an athlete would get him out of his Crystal funk. And if the confidence he found once he made it didn’t, the women who would inevitably throw themselves at him once he made it to the pro competition circuit would surely help him move on from her.
The thought made my stomachache. But I had to face facts.
After our divorce, he would go on to marry again. He’d find a beautiful girl—preferably someone far sweeter than Crystal—who would give him babies and laugh at his goofy jokes. She’d be easygoing and fun, and they would grow old in Lovewell together, then simultaneously die from old age in their sleep while holding hands.
Though it hurt to think about, I wanted that for him. He deserved it. I, on the other hand, was destined for different things. Marriage and babies were never going to be part of my journey. That part of me, the trusting, hopeful, optimistic part, was long gone. Or maybe it had never existed at all.
I didn’t trust guys enough to make it to a third date, never mind the rest of my life and a mortgage.
I’d have to rely on Dylan to give me nieces and nephews to spoil. I’d be okay being known as the cool aunt.
Because I knew what I wanted. And today was just the first step in getting there.
* * *
Though we hadn’t gone into detail, Remy and I had briefly discussed our attire. Dressing up and taking a few photos for social media was necessary to make this all feel legitimate and give us something to remember this wild marriage by. We’d decided to take a few at city hall, and then pose in front of the Paul Bunyan statue in downtown Bangor in our wedding finery. His agent would be thrilled when Remy posted them to his Instagram page, and they were the type of lumberjack-y stuff potential sponsors would eat up.
In some corner of my mind, though I tried to keep myself from accessing it, I understood that he would look good in a suit. Remy was handsome. More than handsome, really. Rugged and masculine but still playful. The bastard could probably smolder in a tutu.
So when he arrived to pick me up, I expected him to look decent.
But in no way had I counted on Remy in a vest.
No, sir. When I carefully planned this day, there were no vests involved.
Especially not one made of soft gray wool that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Or that he would get out of the truck with his sleeves rolled up and his hair pushed back while holding a professionally arranged bouquet of flowers.
Nope. My careful planning did not account for these variables.
I wobbled on my heels and my cheeks flamed.
“Ready to get hitched?” he asked, wearing a lopsided grin and holding the bouquet out.
“Where did you get these?”
“Mrs. Laurent.”
