Chapter 10
chapter
ten
Mike
I can't sleep.
This isn't unusual. My brain has always been a 24-hour diner—open all night, serving up a rotating menu of ideas, anxieties, and the occasional brilliant breakthrough at 3 AM.
Medication helps. Routine helps. But some nights, like tonight, the thoughts just keep coming, and the best I can do is ride them out.
Tonight's special: Did I just ruin everything by being too much too fast?
I'm sprawled on my couch—the same couch where, just hours ago, Evelyn was in my lap, grinding against me, making sounds that are now permanently seared into my memory—and I'm staring at the ceiling like it might have answers.
It doesn't. It never does.
The city murmurs through the glass. Evelyn is asleep down the hall, in the room I gave her, behind the door with the lock I promised she could use. She didn't lock it tonight. I checked.
Not in a creepy way. Just... noticed. When I walked past to get water. Three times.
You're my wife.
If you were mine, this is how I'd treat you.
I'd choose you every day.
Jesus Christ. Who says that to someone they've known for less than a week?
Me, apparently. I say that. Because I have the emotional regulation of a golden retriever and the impulse control of a toddler in a candy store.
The thing is—I meant it. Every word. That's the terrifying part.
I've built a billion-dollar company on calculated risks.
On data. On not making decisions until I've analyzed them from every conceivable angle.
And then Evelyn Barlow walks into my life wearing an ivory dress and a sweet smile, and suddenly I'm throwing around words like choose you every day and promising bouquets of crayons like that’s even a thing.
But do I know what any of that actually means?
Do I?
Do I actually know?
I've never been in love before. Not really.
There have been women—smart, beautiful, interesting women—but none of them ever made me want to rearrange my life.
None of them made me feel like I was untethered and certain all at once.
Like I'm standing on the edge of something massive, and I can't decide if I want to jump or run.
My phone buzzes.
Mitchell.
“You still awake?" he asks when I answer.
“Barely," I lie. “Figured you'd be busy being newly married to your princess."
He snorts. "She's asleep. Turns out princesses get jet lag like the rest of us."
"Tragic. The crown doesn't come with immunity to circadian rhythms?"
"Shockingly, no."
I smile despite myself. It's good to hear his voice.
Mitchell has always been my anchor—the steady one, the reliable one, the one who somehow emerged from our chaotic childhood with his shit together while I was busy being labeled difficult and too intense and not living up to his potential.
In many ways, despite our birth order, Mitchell has always been the big brother.
"How is she?" I ask. "Evie?"
“Amazing," he says without hesitation.
“And you?”
“So goddamn happy. And certain."
That last word lands heavier than the rest.
Certain.
What does that even feel like?
"Yeah," I murmur. "That tracks."
There's a pause. The comfortable kind that only exists between people who grew up in the same house and survived it together. Who shared a bathroom and covered for each other and learned early that the only person you could really count on was each other.
"So," Mitchell says. "Tell me about yours."
"My what?"
"Your Evelyn. The accidental one." I can hear the grin in his voice. "I spent three days with the princess. You spent a couple of days with her. Y’all still married?”
“Yes. I had already drawn up a prenup for the other arrangement and had my Evelyn sign it. So she’s stuck with me for the next six months.”
“She’s stuck with you? You’re not stuck with each other?” he asks.
“You know I can be difficult. So yeah, the burden is on her, unfortunately.”
“Bullshit, but whatever. Give me some details.”
My mind goes back to the make-out session on the couch. Those are not details to share with my brother. I laugh despite myself. "What kind of details?"
"Whatever kind you've got. I need to know who my new sister-in-law is."
Sister-in-law. The word hits differently than I expect—warm instead of alarming.
"She's..." I trail off, trying to find words that don't sound completely unhinged. "She's not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. When I realized what had happened, I guess I expected her to panic.
To demand answers or threaten legal action, or at least Google me obsessively.
" I scrub a hand through my hair. "Instead, she just..
. rolled with it. All of it. The hotel mix-up, the ceremony, and finding out it was real.
She signed a prenup she thought was a prop, Mitchell.
A legally binding document. And when she found out it wasn't fake, that we were legally married and had to cohabitate for six months, she didn't run.
She made a joke about corporate espionage. "
He chuckles. "Sounds like she can handle chaos."
"She teaches kindergartners," I say. "Apparently, that's basically the same skill set as hostage negotiation. Her words, not mine."
“I’ve known actual hostage negotiators,” he says. “I believe it."
I'm quiet for a moment, thinking about how to explain her. It feels impossible—like trying to describe a color to someone who's never seen it.
"She hums," I finally say. "When she's happy or distracted or just existing in a space. Little melodies under her breath, like she doesn't even know she's doing it."
"Yeah?"
"And she's funny. Not performative-funny—she's not trying to impress anyone. She just... sees things sideways. Makes these observations that catch me off guard." I smile at the memory. "When we got to my place, she asked if my floors would be offended by her old shoes.”
Mitchell laughs. "I like her already."
I tell him all about the spice cabinet thing because I still think it’s hilarious.
"Holy shit."
"I know." I'm grinning now, can't help it. "She's diabolical. In the best possible way."
"What else?"
I think about the way she looked in that ivory dress. The way she bit her lip when she was nervous. The way her whole face changed when she really smiled—not the polite smile, the real one that made her eyes crinkle at the corners.
"She spent over a year with a guy who made her feel boring," I say, and my voice goes quieter.
"Predictable. Like she was taking up too much space.
He literally made her sleep on the couch in her own house because he 'needed time to think.
' And she just... accepted it. Like she believed she deserved it. "
"Sounds like an asshole."
"He had a magnet on the fridge that said Live, Laugh, Lift. Just that. Nothing else, no take-out menus or magnet from his dentist.”
"Christ. He’s one of those.”
"Right?" I exhale. "But here's the thing—she's not broken.
She's not bitter. She stood in that guy's doorway today and told him off, demanded the sixty dollars he owed her, and walked out like she was shedding a skin.
And then she laughed about the spice cabinet thing in my car like it was the funniest thing she'd ever done. "
Mitchell is quiet for a beat. "She sounds resilient."
"She is." I stare at the ceiling. "She's warm and weird and brave in this quiet way that sneaks up on you. She doesn't know how remarkable she is. That's the thing. She genuinely doesn't see it. And I want—" I stop myself.
"You want what?" Mitchell prompts.
"I want to show her," I admit. "I want to be the person who makes her see what everyone else missed."
The silence that follows feels weighted.
"Well," Mitchell says finally. “Sounds like you found the perfect woman for you.”
“I don’t know, man,” I say.
“No, you actually do know. All of those things you said about her. The way you speak about her… you’ve never talked about a woman like this. You do not sound like a man who's confused about his feelings."
I groan. "That's the problem."
"How is that a problem?"
"Because I've known her for days, Mitchell. Days. And I'm over here making declarations like I'm proposing for real instead of just explaining that I won't fuck other people while we're legally bound together."
"Okay, slow down—"
"What if she thinks I'm crazy? What if she wakes up tomorrow and realizes she's trapped in a condo with some intense weirdo who caught feelings in Vegas and now won't shut up about choosing her?
She just got out of a relationship with a guy who made her feel like she was too much.
The last thing she needs is me being... me. "
Mitchell is quiet for a moment. Then: "You done?"
I exhale. "Probably not, but go ahead."
"First of all," he says, "you're not crazy. You're just... you. You've always been all-in or all-out. There's no dimmer switch on your intensity. Never has been."
"That's not exactly comforting."
"It's not supposed to be comforting. It's supposed to be accurate." He pauses. "Second of all—you meant it, didn't you? Everything you said?"
I stare at the ceiling again. "Yeah. But that's a problem."
"How is that a problem?"
"Because I don't know if it's real." The words come out frustrated, tangled.
"I've never done this before. I've never felt like this about anyone.
What if it's just... adrenaline? Novelty?
What if I wake up in three weeks and realize I got swept up in the chaos of it all and now I'm stuck in a marriage with someone I barely know? "
"Do you actually believe that?"
I open my mouth to say yes. The word doesn't come.
"No," I admit quietly. "I don't."
"Then what are you really afraid of?"
I close my eyes.
Becoming Dad.
The words sit in my chest like a stone. I don't say them, but Mitchell hears them anyway. He always does.
"You're not him," he says firmly. "You know that, right?"
"He was certain too," I say. "Every time. Every wife. He'd look at them like they were the answer to everything, and then six months later he'd be looking at someone else the same way."
"Dad was certain he'd found someone who could fix him," Mitchell counters. "That's not the same thing. He wasn't choosing them. He was choosing escape."
I swallow hard.
"You're not looking at Evelyn like she's going to fix you," he continues. "You're looking at her like you want to be there for her. There's a difference."
Is there?
I think about the way she laughed in Kurt's driveway. The way she tucked into my side on the couch like she belonged there. The way she looked at me after—flushed and dazed and happy—like I'd given her something she didn't know she was allowed to want.
"She looks at me like I'm steady ground," I say quietly. "Like she's not waiting for me to disappoint her."
"Then don't disappoint her."
"It's not that simple."
"It is," he says. "It's exactly that simple. You're just scared."
"I'm not—" I stop. Breathe. "Okay. Fine. I'm scared."
"Good. That means it matters." He pauses. "You know, I spent the entire drive from Houston to Vegas trying to convince myself I wasn't falling for Evie. Told myself it was just proximity. Just adrenaline. Just the situation."
"And?"
"And by the time we hit the Nevada border, I knew I was completely full of shit." He laughs softly. "Sometimes your heart knows before your brain catches up. Sometimes you just have to trust that."
I think about the moment I saw Evelyn in that ivory dress. The way something in my chest clicked into place like a lock finding its key.
"Two brothers," Mitchell continues. "Two women with the same name. Same place. Same day. You really think that's random?"
"When you put it like that, it sounds insane."
"It is insane. Think about the insanity, though, and what it actually means.”
“You might have to connect the dots for me,” I say.
“Statistically speaking, it is completely improbable for both of us to meet women with the same name. Add in all the other weird shit that happened… me falling for Evie and telling you that you couldn’t marry her, you already being married.
Doesn’t all of that feel so random that it’s actually intentional? ”
“Like it was meant to happen that way?” I ask.
“Yeah, like that. Fate, soulmates, whatever you want to call it. It feels bigger than either of us. It feels like the kind of happy accident you don’t let pass you by. The kind of mistake you grab onto with both hands and refuse to let go of.”
He exhales. "Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do. But I will say this: if you spend the next six months protecting yourself, hedging your bets, waiting until you're sure—you're going to lose her. Not because she'll leave, but because she'll never know she was actually wanted."
That lands like a punch to the gut.
"She deserves to know," he adds quietly. "Even if it scares you."
I'm silent for a long moment.
"What if I scare her?" I finally ask.
“Then you scared her by being honest. That's better than losing her by staying quiet."
"Since when did you become a relationship expert?"
"Since I drove a princess across three states and realized I'd rather die than let her marry someone else. Even if that someone was my brother.” He pauses. "Love makes you stupid, Mike. Embrace it."
I laugh despite myself. "That's terrible advice." I get up and move to get a glass of water.
"It's the best advice I've got."
We hang up a few minutes later, after he makes me promise to call tomorrow, and I make him promise to stop being so annoyingly wise.
I stand in my kitchen for a long time after, phone heavy in my hand, the city glittering outside the windows.
The thing is—I know he's right. I've always known.
I've spent my whole life analyzing. Planning. Waiting for certainty before making a move. And where has it gotten me? Rich, successful, and alone in a condo that's too big for one person, terrified of becoming my father while simultaneously refusing to become anything at all.
Evelyn is asleep twenty feet away from me.
She's warm and funny and braver than she knows. She teaches five-year-olds for a living, which means she has the patience of a saint and might know a thing or two about handling “difficult” people.
If it feels real, it probably is.
For the first time in my life, I'm not going to wait until I'm certain. I'm not going to analyze this to death. I'm not going to protect myself at her expense.
I'm going to choose her.
And tomorrow, when she wakes up, I'm going to tell her.
Not because I'm sure.
Because she deserves to know.
If I’m too much for her, well, then at least I’ll know I tried, and she’ll know someone wanted her.