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I lie back after switching off the light, and I close my eyes. Her hand finds mine in the pillow fort, and she grips it, then soon, her soft snore fills the room while her hand stays locked in mine. And somehow it feels like a relief to have her there.
I don’t let go until the morning.
CHAPTER 21
LOTTIE
Whiskey has avoided me for almost a week. It isn’t until the day before our wedding when I come home and he’s actually there—at the table with it set up to eat.
“Did you cook?” I ask while sitting. I cooked all week and put his food in the oven every night. The plate was clean each morning when I got up, but he was always gone. If it weren’t for that, I would have questioned if he even came home to sleep. A few times, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and seen him sleeping next to me. But he’s always gone before I wake.
“No, I don’t cook, you know that,” he says, sliding a glass of water my way.
“Thanks.” He nods. “Are you nervous?” I ask him, referring to tomorrow.
“Should I be?”
“I am. I’m getting married. Forced or not, it doesn’t matter.”
“Only ten and a half months to go, Lottie, then you will be set free.”
Eleven months, I read in the contract, started from the date I moved in. The time is getting shorter, and I couldn’t be happier about it. If only I didn’t have to actually marry him in the first place.
“Why are you here? Isn’t it a thing for you to be away from me tonight?” he asks.
“Emma suggested it, but this isn’t as real as I would have wanted it to be if I were marrying the love of my life. So why treat it that way?”
He nods. “Fair enough.”
“What kind of kiss are we going for tomorrow?” I ask him. That kiss has been on my mind ever since it happened. It needs to go away.
“What one would you like?”
“Fast and quick,” I tell him.
Whiskey drags his teeth over his bottom lip, not answering me, then goes back to his food. I play with mine, not sure what else to say to him. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about what happened that night.
“How was your day?” he asks finally after he finishes. A glass of wine comes to his lips, and he looks at me over the brim.
“Is this the game we’re playing?” I ask him. “You pretend like this is normal and we’re friends? Or what?” My anger’s rising.
“It’s easier this way, don’t you think?”
“Easier for you, or me?” I question him.
“You. It’s easier for you.”
“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” I push the plate away. “We are getting married tomorrow, Whiskey. Is this what the next ten or so months is going to look like for me?”
“What’s wrong with this?”
“I don’t want this. I want my own house. I don’t want the first man I live with to only be with me because he wants something from me.”
“All men will want something from you. I’m just upfront about it.”
“Most don’t have a contract and pretend to the world that their marriage is real when it’s not.”
Whiskey shakes his head and gets up. “I’m ending this conversation. Now.” He walks away, and I reach for my glass and throw it near his head. He stops, dropping his plate into the sink. I hear it crack as he turns around to face me.
