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“We are,” he says, sounding decidedly less thrilled.
“And you just happen to carry an engagement ring around in your wallet?” I ask, so close to spilling my guts, I have to bite my lip to keep from adding in my driest voice,That doesn’t seem like a suspiciously spy-type thing to do at all.
“I was supposed to pawn it for a friend a few days ago and forgot,” he lies. I can tell it’s a lie because his left eye is squinched up a little tighter more than his right eye.
It’s his lying face. I know that about him now.
And come the end of this couples retreat, I’m sure I’ll know even more.
“Isn’t that lucky,” I murmur as I hold out my left hand. “So, what’s our crisis? Do you leave the toilet seat up in the night? Do I have an online shopping problem and an addiction to collecting clown masks?”
He shudders. “Clown masks. That’s awful.”
“Horrible,” I agree. “When I was little, one of my babysitters had clown stuff all over her house. All my worst nightmares still take place in her living room on the sofa full of stuffed clowns.”
He shudders again. “Jesus. No way. That can’t be our problem. It’s too dark. We can brainstorm other options on the way. It’s about an hour to the retreat center.” He takes my hand, making my entire body tingle as he slides the ring onto my finger. “How does it fit?”
“Perfect,” I say, wiggling it back and forth with my thumb. “Snug, but not too snug.” I hold it up to the light streaming from the diner windows. “And gorgeous. You’re good at picking out jewelry.”
“My friend is good at picking out jewelry,” he corrects.
“Right,” I say, deciding to let this blatant, poorly executed lie stand. For now. “So,” I ask, as we dash through the rain toward the SUV, “what about Clyde? Is this couples retreat pet friendly or are we dropping him somewhere else?”
“It’s pet friendly. But we should pick out a different name for him. I already have our fake names on the reservation.” He opens the passenger’s side door, holding it as I scramble in with the food. “We are Charles and Kitty Sturbridge.”
“Well, well,” I say, chewing that over as he hurries to the driver’s side. “We sound like a fancy couple.”
“Fancy as fuck,” he deadpans, making me grin. What I would once have interpreted as his jerky side, I now understand is just his bone-dry sense of humor.
“Which means we’re going to have to go shopping somewhere on the way,” I say, strapping my seatbelt on before plucking the top to-go box from the bag. “Fancy people don’t show up at a marriage-saving retreat in jeans and t-shirts with nothing but a spare pair of pajamas shoved into a duffel bag.”
“I put some socks and a change of clothes in there, too,” he says, accepting the sandwich box I place on his lap. “But I hear you. We should at least have something nice to wear to the first session tomorrow. Hopefully we can get something at Target before it closes. There’s one just a few miles past the airport exit.”
I clap my hands. “Yay. Target shopping. I love Target. Especially the sale section. You never know what treasure you’re going to find that was just a little too weird for normal people to buy it. Last year I scored a pair of oversized green coveralls with a snazzy collar for ten bucks. Then, I covered it with antique pins and vintage Girl Scout patches. Every time I wear it out, someone asks me where I got it.”
“Sounds cool,” he says. “But we’ll need something more conservative for the retreat, especially the first coaching session. It’s called Accepting your Mutual Marital Trauma.”
I wince. “Ouch. Yeah, don’t want to look too funky or fabulous for that. Trauma is no fun.”
“I doubt this retreat will be, either, but we’ll only have to do the first part of the sessions tomorrow. I’ll be gone all afternoon.” He shifts into drive, shooting me a sober look. “Rex agreed to meet with me to hear my side of the story. If all goes well, we might only have to spend a couple nights pretending to be troubled in love.”
“And if all doesn’t go well?” I ask.
“It’ll be fine,” he insists. “I’ll get through to him, take you home no later than Saturday afternoon, and have Clyde back to his owner by Sunday morning. Though I will need you to be my alibi if any of the Sweetwaters want to know where I was when their hostage mysteriously found his way home.”
“I should be a lot more than your alibi,” I say. “I should come with you tomorrow and help smooth things over with Rex.”
“No way,” he says, without even taking a second to think about it.
“No, seriously.” I shift to face him as he starts back toward the highway. “I can do this. I’m not a bad actress, especially when I’m really scared. Fear brings out my inner thespian. I can play the clingy, needy girlfriend who doesn’t know when to mind her own business. You can assure them I’m obnoxious and stupid, but harmless, and we all part ways as friends except that we never see each other again and hopefully they all go to jail someday very soon.”
“Not a chance,” he says, his eyes glued to the road.
“You didn’t even seriously think about it,” I counter as I flip open my delicious-smelling waffle box. “You should at least think about it. There’s no shame in needing help, you know. And it’s not like you haven’t helped me out of my share of jams. This would just be me returning the favor.”
“It’s never going to happen,” he says calmly. “And if I can’t trust you to listen to me and stay put at the retreat while I head into town, I’ll have to tie you up before I go.”
I huff. “You wouldn’t dare.”
