5. Gwen
Ishouldn’t want to tell him. He helped make tonight exactly what it was supposed to be. A distraction. Fun. A farewell. I can get a rideshare, set my alarm, fall asleep, and wake up tomorrow ready to accept Ben’s offer, because I had tonight.
But there’s something about the way Charlie gave me space without leaving me alone that makes me feel like I’m not about to drunkenly blubber at the annoyed bartender.
So, I tell him. About Ana’s diagnosis and surgery, about Isabelle’s constant absence, about insurance and cost estimates and financial assistance, about Ben and his wine-stained teeth and his offer. I can’t meet his eyes, so I keep my gaze on the cover of my book, letting everything flow out of me like an exorcism. And it feels kind of nice.
I don’t really have confidants. Not to say that I don’t have friends. Kenzie is the best, and she’s great with Ana, but it never feels fair to burden her with my life when I’ve been her protector ever since we met. My other coworkers are nice. Gray’s mom is sweet and caring. Though Ana is not technically my child, I do sometimes feel like a parent, and parenthood is incredibly isolating. Especially when the people who would usually be your confidants, namely other parents, are constantly throwing us judgemental glances. I hear the whispers. What happened to the mother? Can she really care for her? I bet she was just a young teen mom and doesn’t want us to know.
So instead, Ana is my best friend. And I do everything in my power to make sure she doesn’t get parentified like I did, which means I keep a lot to myself. I’m honest with Ana about as much as I can be, and then I make sure she never sees me sweat.
And that means tonight is probably the first time I’ve cracked in my adult life. I feel like I’m a runaway train on a downhill slope as I spill everything. It pours and pours, and yet somehow I don’t feel lighter. A burden isn’t lifted. I just feel like I’m digging myself further into a grave, and I don’t know if it”s mine or Ana’s. How could I feel better? The cancer’s still there. I still will have to suck the dick of a man who probably hasn’t flossed in his adult life. Talking about it won’t change it, so why should it make it easier?
“So tomorrow I’m going to get up, swallow my pride, and call her father and agree to his terms,” I finish, slumping over as I rest my arms on the bar top and drop my chin onto my folded hands. “Every single part of this situation is ass, but there aren’t many other guaranteed options, and I need a guarantee when it comes to Ana.”
The beat of the music around me, the singing and yelling and movement, the cacophony of noise doesn’t obscure Charlie’s voice one bit.
“Gwen, look at me.”
His hand brushes over my arm, and warmth rushes through my body as I glance up, even though I’m a little afraid of what I’m going to see. I’m basically admitting to premeditated adultery, so outright disgust wouldn’t be unreasonable. But Charlie doesn’t look disgusted, or like he pities me, or even confused. There’s something more resolute in his eyes, almost like pride? Or determination? But I’m pretty terrible at reading people, and also still a little buzzed.
“There are people in this world who say they will do anything to protect the people they love, and there are people who actually will. You are the latter.”
He moves some half empty drinks and soaked coasters so he can raise the bar flap and slide into the stool next to me. The bar is starting to settle, patrons laughing and singing as they spill into the streets, leaving room for us to stretch under the dim lighting. I turn my head so I’m facing him, my cheek pressed to my fingers.
“I know it’s the right decision to make. And I know even if it was the wrong one, I’d make it anyway.” I close my eyes on a sigh. “I just wish there was a less horrifying option.”
We’re both silent for a moment, and I appreciate it. Because I do wish there was a better option. But everything else I’ve thought of—changing my line of work to something more lucrative, stealing a really fancy piece of art, starting a heart-wrenching social media fundraiser, calling my mother—isn’t guaranteed to work. And I will not hope with Ana. I will be certain of her outcome.
“What if I could give you one?”
His voice is quiet but clear, maybe a little hopeful, and at first I’m not certain he’s talking to me. But when I turn, he holds my gaze with this strange, determined light in his eyes.
“What if you could give me one what?” I ask, hesitant. A little ball of anxiety and apprehension builds in my stomach.
“A less horrifying option. Or, at least I personally think it would be less horrifying.” He opens my book to the little T-chart in the back, and drifts his fingers over my words. “You wouldn’t have to commit adultery. Not even close, actually.” His eyes lift to mine and then shift back to the book, ears red again.
“I’m open to anything at this point,” I say, trying to rein in the flicker of hope burning in my chest. He could suggest something I can’t do. Or something somehow worse than Ben, which may seem impossible, but I don’t doubt the limits of men.
“You could marry me.”
Technically, I heard the words he said. But the part of my brain that processes sound into cognitive action has apparently flatlined, because I cannot figure out what he means. Marry him? Like the institution of marriage? Like legal documentation and rings and uncomfortable garter tosses? That can’t be what he’s suggesting. We don’t know each other. Maybe marriage has a definition I’m unaware of. I got a needs improvement in fourth grade reading comprehension, so that’s probably it.
I’m staring blankly at the side of his face, but he’s still looking at the book. He reaches over the bar, snags a pen from a checkbook, and creates a second T-chart on the page next to mine.
“Pros,” he starts, labeling the columns in neat, thin penmanship that should not be attractive because penmanship is not a thing modern society determines attractiveness on. “First, you wouldn’t need to be a mistress. Or—” he squints at my writing. “—deal with the scent of musty cheese? I didn’t know cheese could be musty.” He adds lines to his list, and I try to mentally catch up to the reality unfolding in front of me. “Of course, most importantly, Ana lives. But in the cons, this wouldn”t be temporary. Not sure how much weight that holds for you, but probably a lot? Also, you’d have to deal with being a Costa, and that should probably be weighted pretty significantly. Want to add anything to the chart?”
He looks at me while he holds the pen out, but I’m still a little too stunned to grab it from him, or make a sound, or blink.
“What do you mean, marry you?” I finally choke out, feeling like I’m talking underwater.
I don’t know this man. He’s charming and a level of handsome that should be investigated, but he’s still a stranger proposing marriage to me in a bar. I should run. I should slap him. I should throw my near empty-club soda in his face and stomp away.
But maybe we really all do become our parents in the end, because I stay seated.
“My work is a family business. And with family comes tradition.” He twists the pen between his fingers. “Circumstances with my parents have changed, and my sister and I will be taking on more responsibility soon. Which means we’ll be held to tradition younger than we expected. Part of that is to continue the family name.”
His gaze goes distant as he stares at our lists, and I try to contemplate what kind of family business requires marriage to strangers in bars. Certainly the bookshop owners and mechanics and butchers of D.C. do not.
“What are you, in the mob or something?” Genius question, Guinevere. Like he would fucking tell me if he was in the actual mob. Kill me for asking, more likely. But a tiny smile ghosts at his lips, like he finds the thought funny.
“Not exactly, but you’re closer than you probably think.” Goosebumps break out over my skin as he takes a deep breath and turns to face me fully. “I’d like to tell you more. Give you a proper choice. This wouldn’t be short term, and there are other negatives you should consider, but I can also offer you more than he can. Monetarily and otherwise.”
I can feel my face flame and I open my mouth to say something—what, I’m not totally sure—when he stammers.
“No, sorry, that came out completely wrong.” He’s cringing, staring down at the book again. “I meant protection. And long-term support. You’d have more than the bare minimum. This would be a lifetime of ensuring that you and Ana were taken care of. Food, housing, softball cleats, college tuition. Neither of you would want for anything.”
I can’t seem to organize my thoughts. The voice reminding me I do not know this man is persistent in the back of my mind. But honestly, do I really know Ben? And the parts I do know, I fundamentally hate. I barely saw him when he and Isabelle were together, and he was out of our lives in less than a year. How much less do I know the man sitting in front of me than my sister’s father?
Another part of me, a part that I resent, can’t help but crave that stability. I wouldn’t come out of this worrying about the cost of physical therapists or long term treatment. I wouldn’t wonder what happens if Ana needs more support than my crappy job can provide. Even more, college? Ana would have a future of dorm rooms and keg stands if she wanted it. I’ve been banking on her getting a softball scholarship, but to not even have to think about it?
Does that make me like Isabelle? Does taking this choice—to marry someone for that stability—make me more like her than taking Ben’s offer does? Does it matter?
I also know that there must be some massive caveat if this is his proposition. He might not be in the mob, but if he has the money he’s implying, and is willing to offer it to a stranger, there must be some pretty significant strings attached. Illegal, possibly immoral, strings.
“What in the world makes you think that I’d be willing to marry a stranger I met in a bar?” I ask, incredulous.
The world seems to come to a stop as he reaches into his pocket, never taking his eyes off mine. When I look down at the bar top, I freeze, every last bit of oxygen leaving my lungs.
“Because you’re not a stranger to me, Gwen.” His tone is too soft for the threat he’s making, but I can’t lift my eyes.
Because sitting in front of me is my grandmother’s watch. The only relic I have of my father. He wasn’t a great guy, and he didn’t stick around very long, but his mom wanted to leave something to her only granddaughter.
I wore that watch religiously, despite the fact it made me feel childish, holding on to an artifact of a family I never had. But I lost it that day.
I tried to convince myself I had taken it off before I went to the strip club. That I left it in Kenzie’s hospital room and someone had accidentally trashed it. Or that I took it off at work while cleaning dishes and forgot about it.
But deep inside, I knew. I was so afraid that night—not because of what I’d done, but because I could get caught and leave Ana with no one who cared for her. And it wasn’t until I was home, bleaching and burning my clothes, that I realized my watch was gone. And I knew I’d left a tiny piece of evidence behind.
I forced myself to believe it was okay, that because I never purchased the watch, there was no paper trail connecting me to it. But I was still terrified someone would find Bryan’s body, connect him to Kenzie and her hospital stay, and connect me to her. And the little timepiece in front of me would be proof.
The face is broken and dried blood is etched into the crevices. Still, the hands move, the ticking sound the only thing I can hear.
It feels impossible to breathe, panic flooding my senses as I spiral. How did he find me here tonight? Has he been stalking me? Waiting for the right moment to reveal what he knows? Is he going to turn me in?
I brush my fingers over the band of the watch, unable to help myself. He trails a tattooed finger over my hand, but I’m too in shock to flinch.
“I’d like to tell you more about my proposition, if you don’t mind?” His words are soft, lulling, almost gentle, but the meaning behind them is clear.
This is blackmail.
I try to steady my heart rate. Freaking out won’t do me any good. I need to keep my mind clear. I glance up at Sammy, but he’s not guaranteed to be any help. He’s Charlie’s friend, not mine.
“What do you want?” I ask, refusing to meet his eyes, even with his hand still on mine. I hate my body for its reaction, for the warmth that spreads from his touch.
“Just the opportunity for you to hear me out.” He laces his fingers through mine, his touch so tender.
I swallow hard, thinking of what else he could know about me, about Ana. More than what I told him tonight? Does he know about the McCallums, where they live, where Ana is right now?
I have to buy time to figure out a plan. Right now, he’s asking me to listen to him, and while this could get a lot worse really quickly, I need to appease him until I can be sure I can guarantee Ana’s safety.
I nod, afraid to trust my own voice, finally lifting my eyes to meet his. His gaze is searching, and whatever he sees on my face causes him to knit his eyebrows together. Concern flits across his face, and this time I do flinch when he reaches to touch my face. His expression is so open, so clear, that I can almost feel the sting from the rejection.
What the fuck does he have to feel concerned about? He’s the one in control of this situation—of my life—right now. My chest tightens as the anger I’m so terrible at controlling crawls up my throat, burning me from the inside out like it’s always done.
“Gwen, what’s—” Charlie starts, but I cut him off by yanking my hand from under his.
“Just tell me what you want me to do,” I whisper stiffly, trying to tamp my fury down and not make this worse for myself. Charlie balks, seemingly stunned by my reaction. I want to ask him if the other people he blackmails acquiesce more easily.
His eyes search my face, and I have no idea what he could be looking for. Even if he doesn’t know me at all, I’ve given him enough information about my dedication to Ana that he must know I’d never risk leaving her helpless.
“Why don’t we find somewhere more private to discuss,” he says, his voice tilting at the end of the statement, almost framing it like a question. “I would prefer to handle this privately.”
Of course he would. I know I shouldn’t leave this bar, that I shouldn’t be alone with him, that nothing good happens at secondary locations. But, predictably, my rage is eclipsing all logic. He’s already got all of the leverage; what’s a bit more?
“Fine,” I agree, grabbing my bag and reaching for my wallet. He reaches out to stop me, but I yank my arm away before he can touch me.
“I covered your tab,” he says quietly, cocking his head at me slightly.
I suppress a roll of my eyes. He can’t possibly think he’s being chivalrous right now.
“I can pay for my own drinks,” I quip, not sure why I’m fighting this. His gaze softens as he observes my reactions, probably trying to calm me.
“I offered you marriage, Gwen, and I intend to show you what it would be like to be my wife. I cover your tab, I hold your door, I support you in any and every way.” His eyes are so dark, so serious, and the conflict of emotions in my chest is disorienting. If he’s just going to coerce me into marrying him, why would he act like this?
“Archaic,” I mumble, though I want to say much more. A small smile pulls at the corner of his lips, and I wish it wasn’t so pretty.
“Maybe, but to be fair, there would be expectations of you as well.”
My heart stutters unpleasantly, nausea turning my stomach at his words. Of course, I just told him all about Ben’s offer, and now he’s got ideas of his own.
He offers me his arm as we stand, but I start toward the exit on my own. If I’m about to walk into a nightmare, I’ll do it on my own.