6. Sterling
Chapter six
Sterling
T his morning smells like the very dark coffee I think I might have gone overboard with, lingering dog farts, and the potent odor of regret that off-gasses from bad decisions.
I don’t know what I was thinking last night. But I know that this morning, I have to make it right, so I started by taking Beans out early. And when I say early, I mean early . We stayed in sight of the front door since I didn’t have keys, and I wasn’t about to go out and leave it unlocked. Not so surprisingly, the dog didn’t have a poop, which he desperately needed, judging by the smells. No matter how many times I walked up and down the parking lot, he wasn’t about to poop where he lived. I think that’s a thing with dogs. He did mark a few parking poles and a streetlight at the end of the lot, though, so that was a win.
To say I was wracked by guilt all through the hours of the night is an extreme understatement to the tune of how weather people never accurately prepare you for how bad that cold snap or snowstorm is going to be. They’re never right about that kind of thing. And I wasn’t right about this.
Beans is now back on the couch, all curled up and giving me the Beans stink eye with his only eye. It’s a look that says he knows I have a game, and it’s up. It’s so up, and his mistress is not going to be pleased, and since he likes her a heck of a lot more than me—the mystery dude he had to spoon all night when the couch is usually his—he’s definitely going to be on her side.
“You could go a little easier on me,” I whisper in his direction. “Considering that you tooted in my general direction all night and at least once right in my face, we should be on a friendly level.”
He huffs at me, rolls his one eye, and puts his head back down on the blankets, which I tried to make up as neatly as I could.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to come clean. It’s all going to be okay.” It’s all not going to be okay.
“What are you going to come clean about?” a voice suddenly asks.
Nope, it’s not the dog suddenly proving the impossible and learning the human language. It’s Weland coming down the stairs. She looks about as well rested as I am, which is not at all, but even with dark smudges under her eyes, a messy bun that looks a little sticky from the drink that didn’t get fully washed out of there yet, and no makeup, she’s fabulous. No sleep looks good on her. And so does the tunic sweater dress with owls all over it and the pair of super soft and sleek black leggings she has on. Her bare feet pad down the stairs without a sound, and she does a waggling thing with her eyebrows like they’re asking me a question themselves.
Now I’m trapped between a guilty conscience and a dog that sprawls out and sighs hard. Yeah, he knows it’s coming, and he’s not going to like it.
“I made coffee and I think I might have put in too many grounds. It’s coming out black as tar.”
“Oh, good. That’s my favorite kind.” Weland brushes past me like I’m supposed to be in her kitchen at six in the morning and not two shades past an utter stranger. She grabs two mugs from the cupboard and puts them on the counter.
The kitchen isn’t state-of-the-art. It’s small. The cabinets are white, and so are the appliances. The countertops are some kind of beige plastic, dinged and scarred. The mugs, though, give the place life. They’re the pottery, bright, handmade kind.
“I have a thing for dishes,” Weland explains. “Especially the handmade kind. I love thrifting. Always have and always will. That includes flea markets, garage sales, fundraisers, antique stores, and art markets because supporting local people and artists is important. I got these ones at a thrift store when I went with my mom, but I do have some that I bought at an art show earlier this year if you want one of those instead. If you’re particular about your mugs.”
“I’m not particular,” I tell her.
She hairy eyeballs me. “That suit of yours cost, like, I don’t know. A lot. Probably. Unless you’re a good thrifter too.”
“I…it wasn’t thrifted.” I really don’t want to get into my childhood. It’s not a particularly pretty story. I don’t think I ever bought anything new until I was old enough to work, and then I worked my ass off to have anything. Add that to the list of reasons why I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my company and keep it as mine, not have it all pieced out and torn apart.
“So your confession is that you’re here on business. And after today, I’ll never see you again because you don’t live here?” She pours the liquid tar into the two mugs. “Holy biscuits with butter and jam. You weren’t kidding about the grounds. I should have warned you. They’re from a local shop here, and they don’t mess around. I grind them myself, so I think that makes them extra potent, too, in comparison to the regular grocery store stuff.”
“That would explain why they’re in a canister and not a token coffee tin.”
“Yeah, it would. Anyway, this probably just needs some cream. Are you a cream guy? I think coffee is a bit gut rot first thing in the morning if you don’t put some cow juice in it.”
“Cow juice?” I quirk a brow.
“Ha. I probably shouldn’t call it that. One day, someone is going to clue me in on what cow juice actually is. Moo milk then? Because lots of kinds of milk aren’t moo milk.”
“I would love some moo milk.”
Beans sighs again. He’s all about calling me out on my bullshit. The guilt nearly chokes me long before I take a sip of the coffee. It’s strong enough to put hairs on the chest, alright, ladies and gents. Or like on the toes or something. Somewhere hair wouldn’t normally spring up. Never mind. I think my toes are hairy. I haven’t checked in a while, but probably. Maybe the soles of the feet? That would be weird. I can just imagine them sprouting after this liquid rocket ship in a mug. My heart isn’t just beating fast because of the adrenaline that comes with guilt and confessions. The caffeine is a hard punch to the nervous system.
“So…I have a confession to make too,” Weland says, leaning against the counter. She’s holding her mug with both hands. She looks petite and beautiful and absolutely adorable. Just looking at her is a punch to the nervous system.
Curiosity is a killer, and I know it’s not right that she goes first. Not when I have a secret so huge. But I want to know. It’s not about being a coward and delaying. I try to say something, but speaking is suddenly hard. A low sigh comes out that sounds an awful lot like Beans.
“I’m uh…I’m not actually free to do this,” Weland blurts. “To do whatever we might have thought we were going to do last night, which was nothing. But there’s a reason, and I can’t go into detail about it other than to say my life is complicated right now, though I very much want to be the kind of person who doesn’t come with complications.”
Her baby blue eyes sweep up to my face, and bam, there’s the knockout punch. All the rest were nothing in comparison to this one. There’s so much emotion in there. So much soulfulness. And it makes me want to be like butter and melt all over her kitchen floor.
“My life is going to be complicated for a year. But that’s it. After that, and I know it’s a long time and a lot to ask—you’re probably going to laugh about this later, and I’ll die a little inside from the crazy amount of humiliation—but if you’re interested and in a year you think about me and remember this night, and you wonder to yourself whatever happened to the girl who had a drink spilled on her head and was forgotten by her friends, the weirdo girl with the farty dog and the baggage that’s going to take a long arse time to unpack and you think, I’d like to get to know that girl, and I have space in my life for a little bit of awesome craziness, then please, look me up. You know where I live, and I won’t move anytime soon, so…uh, that’s it.”
Wow, that’s a heck of a lot and not at all what I expected.
Some things about Weland are, but overall, she’s been one heck of a surprise, and am I sorry I’m here? No. No, I’m not. That’s not what the regret is about.
“I…holy farge on all the barges.” I rake a hand over my face and through my hair. This is it. I have to come clean. “I know.”
“I’m sorry?” Weland gives me the most direct stare, but only because she’s trying to figure me out. “What do you mean?”
“I know your life is going to be complicated for a year.”
“How?” She looks up and studies me, and I know the exact second she reads what’s in my brain and on my face. There aren’t any more secrets of that kind between us. “Oh my god! You’re a stalker. You’re a freaking creep, though you promised you weren’t! The rest of those homicidal jokes better have been just jokes, or you’re going down!” She rips open the kitchen drawer nearest to her and pulls out a carrot peeler. It’s carrot-shaped. Like an actual carrot with the peeler coming out of it. “Back off! I know how to use this!” She waves it madly, slashing it in the air with enough force to do some real damage.
I hold up both hands as she advances at me and swings wildly, her face flaming red. She means business, and I don’t want to be on the business end of that business. I backpedal big time, literally and metaphorically. So maybe she didn’t exactly read the right information in my expression the way I thought she did. “Wait! I’m your husband! Weland, I’m your actual wedded husband, and that’s how I know!”
She freezes, and her jaw drops open. Then comes more of the red. The red in her cheeks, the red creeping up her neck, the gritted teeth, the throbbing vein in her forehead, and the twitch in her left eye. She slams the peeler down on the counter. “You…you…you horrible, terrible man! I should have known Smitty would tell you, but this? Are you freaking kidding me right now? Why? Why would you do that? You what? Seduced me as a test? Came to that bar to keep an eye on me? Kind of really did stalk me? Why?
“You could have just, you know, been normal, shown up here, and been like, I’m your husband, Weland, and we need to talk things out because you said some seriously crazy things, and I’m just checking in to make sure everything is okay. And if you didn’t want me to know who you were, there’s this thing called a phone. You could have called from a private number or sent an email. There are a hundred ways you could have contacted me, yet you chose the extremely weird way you did? What in the actual tarnation was running through your brain?”
My brain is doing this thing where it shuts down, and I feel like I’m being boiled alive. I knew it was a bad idea and all sorts of wrong. It went way too far. She has every right to be mad. “You just threatened me with a carrot peeler!” It’s official. I am the world’s worst imbecile.
“It was called for!” she shrieks.
“You asked me to spend the night here. That means you had intentions.” I have no right to say that or get huffy, but it comes out hecking huffy. The dog chuffs from the couch like he’s telling me to get real.
“Are you kidding me? You spent the night on the couch. We didn’t even get close enough to make any intentions a thing. And you know what my intentions are. I just asked you if, in a year, you would think about picking this up because I couldn’t right now. I kept silent. I kept my part of the bargain, no matter how weird it was or how hard,” Weland hisses. Her eyes are getting big, welling up, and getting shiny.
Seeing that does something to my knees and stomach that I don’t like, but the not-liking is all me not liking what I’ve said and what I’ve done. Apparently, I still can’t stop being a turd. “But you invited me in.”
“I did. And then I let you sleep on the couch,” she grits.
“You told Smitty you were going to sleep with someone.”
Weland throws her hands up in the air, which is still better than reaching for the peeler to take a real strip off me. “I was just venting. I should never have said that. I was lonely. I was in pain. It was stupid. I have Beans now. You can’t just lay this on me. I haven’t done anything wrong. I took a lot of pains to make sure nothing happened after…yes, okay, after I invited you to stay over. But having you sleep on my couch isn’t the same as sleeping with someone.”
“Are you sure? Because if anyone found out that a man stayed the night here, anyone who could matter or bring something against me…”
“But you’re not just any man. You’re you . You’re my husband, and you didn’t even tell me, which makes you a dirty liar and the worst sort of trickster. A…a monumental poo pants! And I hate to be all semantics right now, but you walking out of here and someone seeing you if you weren’t you and you were someone else isn’t the same as having sex with someone. Even if we’d spent the night in the same bed, it wouldn’t be the same thing. Which we didn’t. You can have a sleepover with your best friend and it’s not the same thing. It’s the intention that matters. You slept with Beans all night on the couch. I rest my case.”
“Too far,” I say, my voice low.
“It’s not too far. You’re too far. This whole thing that you did? That’s too far! Lying to me, pretending to be someone else—”
“You’re the only person I have never pretended to be someone else with!” That’s too far. I didn’t mean to say that. Fuck. Fuck, shit. Fuck shit and a carrot peeler.
That knocks the socks right out of the room. By socks, I mean air, and by the room, I mean my lungs. I need to reach for the counter to keep myself upright. The kitchen was small before, but now it seems like a black hole ready to suck me up.
“I don’t know how to respond to that.” Weland reads the room, and her posture changes, softening out. She’s not on the attack anymore, and she’s not defensive. She sighs instead of saying anything else, but then, after a brief moment, she does, adding, “I don’t know where to go from here. I want things you can’t give me. Meaning a partner, a marriage, a child, a family, and a life. I’m tired of being in limbo. I get that I signed a contract, and whatever you might think, I’m not reneging on it, and I’m sorry for the worry I caused. Maybe I brought this all on myself by saying what I said, and for that, I apologize.
“I’m still offended by you tricking me when you could have just been honest, and it’s going to take me a hot minute to get over it. So, yup, that’s where we’re at. I’m not sure how to go from here to everlasting happiness, but I know it’s not together, and honestly, that feels like a shame because, in a year, I was really hoping you’d remember my dog and me and do the impossible. However, now I’m finding out I might not have to wait a year, yet it’s actually a hard no and a never because you’re not who I thought you were.”
“Maybe I’m not who you think I am in that regard either.”
“Right,” she says with a snort. “You’re not that contracted husband—my secret piece of paper, name blacked out, ultra-private, keep-my-lips-shut gag order deal husband. You’re some other guy who secretly wants to make this marriage the real deal, and you’re actually here to find out if that’s even possible, if we could even like each other as friends, let alone ever think about being married for real, having babies, and doing life together. And you had to come in and do it undercover because it’s the only thing that would have worked, and it wasn’t all some bizarre test. You’re that kind of secret husband.”
I’m not one of those people whose brain takes off and makes them say things without thinking about them first and carefully weighing every single option. Without watching my back, guarding my fanny, and constantly looking over my shoulder. Without researching things first.
Except, apparently, I am.
“What if I were that kind of secret husband? What if we gave this marriage a real shot?”