Chapter 6
chapter six
Emme
Today’s Learning Objective:
Students will collaboratively hatch revenge schemes.
I obsessed on Sunday and then crammed all my questions and doubts and strange, sticky hopes in a box, and mentally shoved it into the depths of my closet. I was supposed to be thinking and processing and making sense of the weirdest marriage proposal of all time, but I didn’t do any of those things. I didn’t really want to think about it because I knew I’d run too far, too fast in all the wrong directions. I couldn’t let myself do that again. Not when the last wound was barely scabbed over.
So, I left the obsession box in my mental closet all week, pretending it didn’t exist while Ryan was out of town.
Even if I wanted to tell anyone about this, what would I say? Where does one start with these stories? Hey, I might be fake-engaged. Is it too soon to register for a waffle iron?
And more to the point, was I allowed to tell anyone about it? I had to assume the value of a fake relationship declined with every person who knew it was fake.
While I was very curious about the waffle iron and related topics, this week gave me no time to get lost in those details. My class required every ounce of me, every single day, and more than once I went home without visiting Jamie and stared at the wall for an hour just to decompress. I was late on my lesson plans for next week and hadn’t even started the book I was supposed to be reading for the upcoming professional learning community meeting. Planning the school’s June field day had always been my pet project, the one thing that got me through the final chaotic months of the year, but I hadn’t even come up with a theme yet.
And then there was Ines. From what I could piece together, her degree program had a practical experience requirement she hadn’t met. She’d been offered many interviews for summer internships, but that was where it fell apart for her. Ines had a tough time in artificial social situations like that. She was intensely literal and came across as abrupt when she was trying to be specific or concise. She didn’t know how to play ball with opaque questions and struggled to notice when her responses were turning into sermons.
If I’d known how critical it was to get her a gig for the summer, we would’ve been working on interview prep from the minute she moved in. But here we were in early April with no internship, no upcoming recruiting events on the university’s calendar, and the threat of her not graduating or being able to start her grad program hanging heavy over the apartment.
Ines now existed in the type of eternal panic that I referred to as bouncy ball anxiety—every time she thought about the internship requirement, her worries fed off each other until they doubled and tripled, every scenario in her mind worse than the one before, and she couldn’t bear to be still because her body was buzzing. Just like a rubber bouncy ball thrown down an empty hallway.
Easy to spot. Not as easy to de-escalate.
Especially since I had no idea how to find a job in engineering.
And I was also a bouncy ball because I’d never actually stopped obsessing over what it would mean to marry Ryan Ralston.
Ryan stood in the middle of my kitchen and made a solid attempt at pretending he didn’t hate everything about the apartment. It was small and narrow, with a sharply slanted ceiling that forced him to stay on one side of the room at all times, and it always smelled like pastrami. We’d never been able to figure out where that feature came from.
He’d noticed the array of water spots on the ceiling, what with being so close to it and all, and the odd, rust-colored stain in the middle of the worn hardwood floors that Grace used to refer to as the scene of the crime.
There was also the matter of the disemboweled oven and all the other projects Ines had left in states of incomplete.
The place didn’t show well.
“I have a condo,” he said, peering at a window with dish towels tucked around it to ward off the draft. “I hardly ever use it. It’s new. And”—his mouth hung open as the corner of the window casing came off in his hand—“clean. It’s very clean.”
“We’re fine,” I said, prying open the baby-proof latch on the refrigerator. The door had a tendency to pop open. That, or we had a ghost who enjoyed a midnight snack and often left it ajar. “I love this neighborhood, and if you climb out that window”—I pointed to the one he was trying to piece back together but making worse by the minute—“and onto the roof, the view is amazing. I spend every sunny day out there.”
“I have a roof garden designed by an award-winning landscape architect,” he replied. “And you don’t have to climb out any windows to get there.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” I said. “But this is my place, flaws and all.”
“But—” He stared at the oven.
“It’s okay. I don’t really cook anymore.”
“Anymore?”
I carried the drinks and snacks to the small table shoved up against the wall and ignored his question. No need to get into all of that. “You said you had a dinner meeting tonight.” I tipped my head toward the empty seat across from me. “I don’t want to make you late.”
He cast a disapproving frown at the window and crossed to the table in one step. This really was a narrow apartment, even by Boston standards. The chair creaked under his weight and he gave me a wary glance before reaching for the glass of water I’d set out for him.
He seemed restless, and not simply because of the junkyard chic vibe we had going here. His shoulders were tight, his jaw ticking with every breath. His clothes—another round of jeans and a dark sweater—were perfect, though the way he kept shoving up his sleeves bordered on frenetic. Even his hair looked a bit wild.
Then there was the darkness under his eyes, like the early stain of a bruise. It was probably from jet lag. Understandable. I’d be a constant zombie with his schedule.
“Have you had a chance to give it some thought?” he asked.
Instead of responding, I fussed with the pretzels that’d slid into the cheese section of the plate. I didn’t know what to say and I hated that because it was always easy with Ryan. There was never pretense or expectation or any kind of awkwardness. Nothing was off-limits. We’d always understood each other implicitly, and now—now, I didn’t understand anything.
“You know I hate to pry into your situation with all of this,” I started.
“Shut up. You love to pry,” he said.
I looked up to find his eyes bright and a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. And just like that, I pushed away all the tentativeness that had coiled itself around my neck since last weekend. That was all it took to get back to us . “Then you’ll have no problem explaining to me what this is all about and why the hell anyone would care enough about your personal life that you’d need to invent a bride.”
“Invent a bride,” he said to himself, his eyes flashing wide like I was the one being ridiculous here. “I have two more seasons on my contract. I won’t be shopping for a renewal after that.” He ran his palms down his denim-clad thighs, his brows pinched tight like he was waiting for me to protest. He should’ve known that wasn’t going to happen. “I’m working with a partner to buy a few pro soccer franchises in the US. One family currently owns most of the undeveloped men’s and women’s franchises and they have no intention of building those teams. They’re holding out for the biggest payday possible.”
“And you’re telling me these bidders have to be married ? Why complicate the money-grubbing mission with that kind of requirement? Seems weird.”
“The Wallaces are ultraconservative,” he said. “The vetting process has been unreal—and complete bullshit. They’ve narrowed it down to a small pool of buyers and the pressure is on. We’re close, we’re at the final push, but we have to fall in line. It pisses me off that I’m even playing their game.”
He shoved a hand through his hair and I nodded. It was good to know that we were only doing this because he had no other options. And just for a short while. It was harder to let my thoughts run away from me this way.
“But these undeveloped teams are the best way to go,” he said. “Otherwise, I’m bringing in a whole lot more investors and giving up most of the vision we’ve already established.”
“And you’re willing to get married,” I said. “To get these teams.”
He started to respond but stopped himself. His gaze flicked to me before he drained his water and snagged a few grapes from the plate. After a moment, he said, “Yeah, I am. But only to you.” He shoved a few more grapes in his mouth. “It’s our history that makes it believable. I wouldn’t be able to do this with anyone else.”
“I guess it’s nice to know I’m not at the bottom of your list or something depressing like that.”
He met my eyes. “You’re the list, Em. You’re it.”
I scratched at a dried bit of something on the table with my fingernail. I hated that I liked being the only one he’d choose to be his fake fiancée. I couldn’t believe I was operating at this level of pathetic.
“How does this even work, Ryan?”
“It works however you want it to work,” he said, an edge in his words. “Decide how you want it to be and that’s what we’ll do.”
“What are we going to tell people? What are we going to tell our families ?”
He pressed his fingertips to his eyelids as a breath rattled out of him. “We’ll get to that,” he said, though it sounded quite a bit like I have no fucking clue . “We should go over the events I have coming up—and the ones that you have too. I want to make sure I have those blocked out for you. This isn’t just about me. We’re getting you all the revenge you want and then a little extra from me.”
“I’ve always admired your vindictive side.”
“The basis of all good marriages.”
I eyed him. What the hell were we doing? “You think?”
His shoulders lifted. “Let’s test the theory.”
I left him in the kitchen to get my planner. It only took a second but I leaned against my bedroom door and pushed long, deep breaths out through my mouth.
What the hell was I doing?
I needed someone to come and explain my life to me. To tell me what to do because clearly I was not the person qualified to make my decisions.
What would they say? Your oldest friend in the world needs you to marry him for a business deal and there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him, even if you know that there’s no way for you to fake your way through this and you will get hurt when it’s over.
On second thought, I didn’t need anyone telling me what to do. I could muddle through just fine.
When I returned to the table, Ryan eyed me like he saw straight through my walls. The trouble was, I knew he could.
He waited while I flipped through the pages. “I have a charity event coming up in April,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Here in Boston. You’ll need a dress.”
“Not a pajama party, then.”
“My assistant will schedule a visit with a stylist who will do all your shopping,” he said. “On my tab, of course.”
“As your future wife, I’d expect nothing less.”
He dragged his gaze up from his phone to meet my eyes, his lips parted. He coughed a bit, still staring at me. Eventually, he thumped a fist against his chest and murmured, “Sorry about that. Something—just something in my throat.”
I grabbed his glass to refill it. “I have a student who tries to swallow his tongue every day. I’ve told him it’s not going to work and it wouldn’t be a great choice overall but he doesn’t want to hear it. He chokes on his own spit a couple of times a week.”
“I don’t know how you handle that sort of thing.”
“It’s an art,” I said, my hand under my chin. “Though this year has been mostly about crowd control and the art is often lost in the shuffle.”
“You’re good at it though. And I can tell you like it. Even when it’s tough.”
I was a little too deep in my dark, sulky corner to do anything with compliments so I said, “It keeps me busy.”
Ryan took the glass and drank half of it in two chugs. “My publicist reminded me that I need to do some goodwill visits in the area. Mostly photo ops to shake hands and drop off a check.”
I returned to my seat, grimacing. “You must hate that.”
He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “So much. But what if I came to your school? I could talk some sense into your class.”
“It’s cute that you think you’d be able to do that.” I folded my arms over my chest. The idea of Ryan in my classroom sent a rush of anticipation through me. I didn’t know why I liked that so much, but suddenly I couldn’t wait to show him the world of second grade. “I’m sure my principal would love to have you visit. Especially if there’s a donation involved.”
He tapped the April spread on my planner. “Talk to her and then shoot me some dates that would work for you. I’ll get my publicist on it.”
“I hope you know what you’re in for,” I said.
“I have no clue,” he replied with a laugh. He handed over his phone, a draft email on the screen with a series of dates spanning the next few months. “These are my most important events through the end of the summer.”
I went to work recording all of his galas and award banquets. They all slotted in between Grace’s dress fittings and couples’ showers and end-of-the-year picnics like my life was supposed to contain these multitudes.
“My assistant will handle your travel arrangements,” he said as I flipped to August. “We should be able to work around your school schedule without any problem since we’re taking my plane.”
“Your plane,” I echoed. “When did you get a plane ?”
He shrugged this off as if we all had planes so why was I pestering him about his? “I have an endorsement deal with a private jet company.”
I handed his phone back. “Quite the life you lead, my friend.”
“It’s not what it seems.” He pointed to my planner. “Your turn. What do you need?”
A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled out of me. “Can you read a book for me about investigative experiments in early elementary science? Do you know anyone who can get Ines an internship? Or someone who can plan a field day for three hundred kids? Because that would be great.” I shook my head, still laughing at the mortifying state of my life. “That shit show aside, it would be cool if my fake fiancé could give my ex murder eyes at Grace and Ben’s housewarming party, a shower-slash-pub-crawl, and their wedding weekend. It’s in Rhode Island, but don’t worry. We won’t need your private jet.”
“Put me down for the murder eyes, but what’s going on with Ines?”
I gave him the highlights of that situation. “She’s so smart and I just wish these interviewers could see that instead of getting hung up on asking what kind of tree she would be because they’re missing the good stuff. She’s going to fall apart if she can’t start her grad program in the fall and I really don’t want that.” I glanced away as I twined my fingers together. I hated admitting this part. Hated it for Ines but also for me because I wasn’t so different. “And there’s no one else to help her. I have to do it.”
He tapped his phone a few times, his lips pulled into a thoughtful frown. He was going to be late for his dinner though I couldn’t find it in me to be upset about that.
“Send me her CV,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I laughed as I closed my planner. “Don’t tell me you have an endorsement deal with an engineering firm.”
He pushed to his feet and shot a parting glare at the sloped ceiling. “I don’t, but I know people who know people.”
I followed him to the door, saying, “If you can take care of Ines for the summer, I promise I’ll marry you and make it look good.”
He backed onto the landing, the rough hint of a smile brightening his face. “And if not? How will you make it look?”
“Oh, it’ll still be good,” I drawled, “but I’m skipping the painful-yet-effective push-up bra. The one that screams barely contained barmaid .”
Then again, every day was barely contained barmaid day when you were a 36F.
His gaze flew to my chest before blinking away. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “Skip the bra either way.” Another glance at my cleavage and he groaned to himself, adding, “I mean, you don’t need to be uncomfortable. Not—not for my benefit.”
I leaned against the doorframe, laughing. My opinion of myself wasn’t so high that I couldn’t enjoy some light objectification. At this point, it was all I had going for me. “Good to know.”
“I’ll text you tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll get that visit to your classroom set up.”
Ryan made no move to go. I peered up at him for a moment, willing him to blow off his meeting and stay here with me. Talk with me like we used to. Tell me what he was really thinking, because just as he could see through my walls, I saw through his, and I knew this wasn’t as simple as he wanted me to believe.
“Sorry to get stuck in the details,” I said, “but what happens next? With the whole marriage thing.”
He stowed his phone in his back pocket and nodded to himself, like he was making a decision he didn’t feel the need to share with me. “What would you want to happen next?”
“I don’t know.” I tossed my hands out and started talking with all of my limbs. “Are you telling people we’re engaged?”
“Do you want to?”
“I just want to know the plan,” I said. “What are we saying? Who knows about this? Am I registering for a waffle iron? These are the important questions.”
The corners of his eyes creased as he asked, “A waffle iron?”
“Yes, and I can only conspire with you if I know the whole conspiracy,” I said.
He brought his fingers to his temples and kneaded his brow for a moment. Then, “Let’s wait until next month to say anything. After the school visit and the charity ball.” He leaned in and brushed some lint away from my hair. His phone buzzed, but he didn’t seem to notice. “It won’t seem so sudden.”
A month seemed plenty sudden, but that was the difference between our worlds. “What about your family? How are you going to explain this to them?”
He stared into my eyes like he was trying to find something in there. Better judgment and common sense, perhaps. “There’s nothing to explain. They’ll get it.”
I couldn’t imagine Cecelia Ralston accepting that her only son wanted to fake a whole damn marriage just to buy some soccer teams, but I had my own parents to worry about. At least with them, I knew the value they both placed on marriage was low enough to not care one way or another.
“Are we eloping? Or are we planning a wedding?” I asked.
He went back to the hair spilling over my shoulder and dragged his fingers through it. I must’ve had a lot of fuzz from my scarf in there again. “What do you want?”
“I—I haven’t thought about it,” I admitted, and it was the truth.
“Well, I have,” he said, his words low, like a secret. “And I know I want to marry you as soon as I can.”
Right. That made sense. I should’ve known he couldn’t wait months or even years to plan a traditional wedding. That didn’t work for his world domination plans.
“But I also know I want to have a big party,” he continued as his phone went on buzzing. “Something in the off-season. A huge blowout bash. Hundreds of people. A twenty-tier cake. A really good band. Fireworks.”
“A tequila luge,” I added.
“Fuck yes,” he said with a growl. “That’s what I want.”
I realized I was smiling. “Okay,” I said. “Then I guess I’ll just get started on finding a luge vendor?—”
“No,” he said quickly. His phone buzzed again. “You have enough going on and—and we could do both.” When I only blinked, fighting for my life to catch this train of thought, he continued. “Yeah. That makes more sense. Elope then have a big party.”
“Right, right, right.” I nodded like this was all one hop, skip, and jump of perfectly good logic. Maybe it was? Maybe I just didn’t know anything about the right way to get fake-married? “And when are we eloping? Are we talking about some city hall setup or a proper Vegas event? Or some wild and crazy third option I can’t even imagine?”
More buzzing. “We’ll figure it out over the next month and then we’ll hire a wedding planner to take care of the rest.”
“Wedding planners, stylists, private jets,” I teased. “You sure know how to spoil a girl.”
“Yeah, I’m counting on it,” he said under his breath.
I laughed, but when he looked up at me, his gaze was cool and steady. “Sorry for keeping you so late.”
“Don’t be.” He gave a sharp shake of his head and took a step backward. He wasn’t going to skip that dinner and stay with me, and I couldn’t be upset about that. “Thank you,” he said. “For doing this.”
“Make sure your lawyer writes a good prenup,” I said. “Otherwise, I’ll take the plane when this is all over.”
“I’d give it to you.” He rocked forward and I let myself believe he was looking for a reason to stay. “About that field day,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. “Leave it to me.”
Nothing should’ve surprised me at this point but… “Leave it to you?”
“Yeah. I’ll take care of it for you.” A small smile broke across his face. “Wife.”
My lips parted and I reached for the pearls I still wasn’t wearing as he jogged down the stairs.