Chapter 14
Hess
For a month-long platonic marital relationship, I’ve had Camila’s body pressed up against me more times than I can count.
And I mean that in the most harmless way possible.
Camila and I just keep bumping into each other, or I catch her when she’s reaching for something high. These moments just keep happening.
All the time.
In every room.
That’s been the worst part of the last four weeks. Because there’s nothing quite like Camila up close. It’s her smell. It’s the nuance of her light freckles. It’s the softness of her body. How her wild curls tickle my skin.
It’s a problem.
Specifically, a traffic-pattern problem in the hallway by our bedrooms.
That’s where Camila and I keep bumping into each other the most. Whenever we’re both walking in the hallway, it’s like we’ve forgotten all social conduct, like passing on the right.
Instead, we end up doing the stupid dance thing, or worse, the thing where we have absolutely no spatial awareness and end up running into each other, bodies pressed together, arms tangled up.
Luckily, this morning, I see her coming.
I’m heading down the hall with my laundry basket stacked high with dirty clothes when Camila comes the other way, her own basket of clean clothes teetering in her arms. We both try to sidestep, but the corners of our baskets clip, and that’s when fabric goes flying.
Her stuff, my stuff, all over the floor in a jumbled mess of socks, shirts, and other things. I freeze, staring at what’s laying between us: a black jock strap on one side, a lacy scrap of fabric on the other.
Red.
Tiny.
Definitely not meant for structural support.
Camila gasps, dropping to her knees to scoop things up. I do the same, but of course, in our gathering, things get mixed up—her thong in one of my hands, my jock strap in hers.
We both just stare until she holds up my jock strap like she’s dangling a dead rat. “What is this?”
I clear my throat. “Athletic support.”
“You wear this small thing for support?”
My brows lower, taking offense. “I wouldn’t call it small.”
Her lips twitch.
“It’s practical,” I shoot back then instantly regret the word. “And comfortable. You know, for workouts.” One brow rises with skepticism. “Weightlifting support. It’s…” I stutter as I yank the item from her hand. “Look, it’s a thing.”
She’s trying not to laugh.
“And this is what?” I hold up her lacy, red thong. “Your ‘practical and comfortable’?”
She snatches it from me, muttering, “Laundry-day emergency.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t judge, then.”
We sort through our mixed-up clothes, both red-faced.
“We should probably just not do laundry on the same day,” I say.
“Agreed.”
Standing with our full baskets, we stare at each other for a beat.
“So are you ready for our first marriage counseling session this evening?” I ask.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. I was just wondering if you’re nervous.”
Her brows lift. “Are you nervous?”
“Maybe a little. I just…do you think we should have a plan going in since the counselor is reporting to the judge?”
“That’s not a bad idea.” She adjusts the basket in her arms, using her hip to help support it. “Maybe we should oversell how things are going between us, make the counselor believe we are more than complying with the ‘good faith marriage’ clause.”
“So act like we’re in love?”
“Not in love. Just that we’re really trying.”
“I am trying.”
“Right. Same here.” She swings the basket out in front of her. “Anyway, I'd better get to work. I’ll meet you at the counselor's office later.”
I watch her walk away, knowing she’s not fooling me.
Nothing about her behavior over the last four weeks tells me she’s “trying.”
But we’ll see if Camila can fool the marriage counselor.
We sit in silence in the waiting room, Camila typing on her phone and me staring mindlessly at the television.
I lean over to her, a dumb move considering I’m side-tracked by the soft hint of citrus and honey coming from her hair. I remember that smell from our sharing-a-shower days.
She shoots me a why-are-you-in-my-space glance.
“Uh…” I straighten back to my spot. “I was just going to say that I’ll follow your lead in there with the counselor.”
“Okay, yeah. Just follow my lead.”
The door swings open, and a nice-looking woman in her thirties, with blonde shoulder-length hair, opens the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, I’m Abby. I can see you now.”
“Uh, no.” Camila stands gathering her things. “It’s Mr. Taylor and Ms. Jiménez.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” The marriage counselor double-checks her paper. “I’ll make a note of that.”
“Actually, you can just call me Hess,” I say as I shake her hand.
“And Camila is fine for me.”
“Sounds good.” She gestures inside her office. “Have a seat.”
I stare at the small leather couch that’s more of a loveseat than a couch. That’s one way to get couples to improve their marriage: provide a tiny seating option and force them to practically sit on top of each other during counseling.
Camila and I squish together.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Thigh to thigh.
Citrus and honey teasing my senses.
It’s going to be a long hour.
“So…” Abby sits across from us. “Tell me a little bit about yourselves and why you’re here.”
“Well”—Camila smiles big, like our marriage counselor is a jury to be won over—“I’m sure you’ve read the report from the judge. We’re here because nobody has any faith in the validity of our marriage.”
“Good faith,” I add with an equally charming smile. Just over here doing my part. Following her lead.
“That’s right.” Camila nods, liking my add on.
“Should people have faith in the validity of your marriage?” Abby asks.
“Absolutely!” Camila beams. “There are many different types of marriages. Who’s to say that one type is more of a marriage than another? Hess and I get along great. We communicate well. There’s zero fighting. That’s more than most people out there can say.”
“Have you moved in together like the judge suggested?”
“We have,” I answer.
“And how’s that going?”
Camila and I look at each other with wide grins before she answers. “So good.”
“Really?” Abby seems surprised. “Moving in with someone you barely know would be an adjustment for most adults.”
“Not us.” I shake my head. “We already have a little routine down.” A routine where we don’t speak to each other and live separate lives.
“And it’s not like we barely know each other,” Camila says. “We’ve been married five and a half years. We know each other well.”
Abby shifts in her seat, examining us. “Then tell me about each other. Camila, why don’t you start?”
“Hmm?” Camila’s voice is a full octave higher.
“You said that you and Hess know each other well, so tell me about your husband. What are his hobbies? Likes? Dislikes?”
My gaze shifts to Camila. This should be interesting.
“What do I say about Hess?” Her brown eyes scan my face as if she’s trying to come up with something.
“For starters, he’s a cowboy. Don’t let his city-boy outfit fool you.
” City-boy outfit? I’m literally wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and Nikes.
“This man owns horses and knows how to use them. He likes his boys to be supported when he’s weightlifting.
” My brows lift with amusement as I look at her.
“He knows what to do if someone is hypoglycemic. He gets really bugged if an acquaintance doesn’t remember him.
” I roll my eyes at that one. “And he likes waffles,” she says with finality as if she completed the assignment perfectly.
Abby nods a few times then glances at me. “And tell me about Camila.”
“She comes off as cynical.” It’s her turn to roll her eyes.
“But I don’t think that’s who she really is.
I just think that’s the divorce attorney in her talking, or the little girl inside her who watched her mom have a lot of bad experiences with men.
She works hard, and I admire her drive to excel in her field.
She has a deep consideration for those she cares about, especially her sister.
She claims she doesn’t like dogs, but I have irrefutable evidence she does. And she does not like waffles.”
“I see,” Abby says.
Satisfied smiles cover our mouths as we nod.
“Well, after hearing you two talk about each other, I’m convinced more than ever that this marriage is a fraud.”
Camila’s smile wavers. “Excuse me?”
“Actually, I take that back. Hess, I appreciated that you at least gave a thoughtful response, but it’s clear that neither one of you knows enough about the other to show me you’re really putting in the effort to have a real marriage.
There needs to be more conversations that go beyond surface-level stuff.
” Abby raises her brows at both of us. “Now, if you want me to report back to the judge that you’re really trying to make this marriage more than just an inheritance grab, you’re going to have to start by talking and getting to know the other person on a deeper level that’s real. Okay?”
“Okay.” We nod together.
“Each month when we meet, we’ll see how well you’ve gotten to know each other. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” we both mumble in disgrace.
“Great.” She leans forward. “Let’s get started with a few typical getting-to-know-you questions.”
“Now?” Camila asks.
“Yes, we’re going to spend the rest of the session getting to know one another better. Let’s start with an easy question. Do you play any sports or instruments?”
Camila looks at me like this is the worst moment of her life. I smile big, shifting my eyes back to Abby.
“I like football. I played in high school, but now I’m just a fan of ASU.”
“Camila?” Abby asks.
“When I was little, I played soccer.”
“Good.” Abby nods. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
We spend the rest of the session talking about everything and nothing, and for the first time since I’ve known Camila, I finally feel like I’m getting a quick peek behind the curtains.