Chapter 9
Nora
IF I HAD TO GUESS, I’d say lots of brides probably struggle to sleep the night before their wedding. After all, the combination of nerves and excitement is enough to keep anyone awake.
I highly doubt, though, that there are very many brides out there who struggle to sleep on account of the fact that the next day they’re marrying a man solely for the purpose of staying out of jail.
And if there are other brides in a situation like mine, I’m guessing that—as criminals—they’re way better at lying to themselves than I am, because my heart is not buying the whole “marrying a man solely for the purpose of staying out of jail” thing. And neither are my pulsing lips.
It’s as if they’ve grown a mind of their own, but it’s a one-track mind, and the track is: we kissed Jack, we kissed Jack, WE KISSED JACK.
It’s really annoying. I tried putting on some lip balm to shut them up, but now they just feel gussied up. Darn pink shimmer and shine.
Still, thinking about kissing Jack on the cheek is definitely preferable to thinking about, you know, the murder I committed mere hours ago.
Yeah, not thinking about that. I just can’t let myself. I need to focus on other things, and Jack is a convenient distraction.
Not healthy, I know, but it’s not as if I can just call up a therapist and ask for help dealing with the trauma from having murdered someone.
Pretty sure patient-confidentiality doesn’t extend to murder.
So thinking about the feel of Jack’s stubble against my lips it is.
Such a hardship.
I roll over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. It occurs to me then, that this is going to be my new bed for the foreseeable future. I can’t very well marry Jack and then go back to live in my condo, but I also can’t imagine myself sleeping in bed next to Jack.
That’s not true. I can imagine it. In fact, it’s a delightful imagining. Here, in the privacy of this bedroom, I can admit that the idea of falling asleep next to Jack is one that I like.
But only if he likes the idea too. And although he may have asked me to marry him for real three years ago, today-Jack is marrying me for all of the wrong reasons. So, this will have to be a separate bedrooms type of marriage. Which is for the best. No need to start blurring the lines between truth and fiction.
Quite suddenly there’s movement on the other side of my bed. I open my mouth to scream, but then I spot the source of the movement—it was just Briggs. Jack’s cat.
His eyes glow almost yellow in the darkness as he slinks toward me. Some people might find this sight creepy, but, having grown up with a cat, the glowing eyes don’t scare me. Briggs bends his head down and rubs it against my arm, asking to be pet.
According to Jack, Briggs doesn’t like most people, but he’s always been friendly to me. I reach over to stroke him, and he lets out a tiny purr.
I wonder if Briggs remembers me from three years ago. He’s certainly acting like he does.
“Sorry I’ve been gone for so long, Briggs,” I whisper into his fur. His tail flicks me in the face. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. “I’m going to be around for the foreseeable future,” I tell him, then wince at my word choice.
Foreseeable future. My mom used to say that whenever she rolled into town and what it actually meant was, I’ll be around until something—or rather someone—better comes along.
“That’s not what I meant though, Briggs,” I whisper, but even with just a cat to hear me the words feel disingenuous. How can I guarantee that I mean them when leaving people behind is in my blood? When being the person left behind is such a major part of my history?
This last thought sends a rush of cold through my body that even the warm down comforter on this bed can’t ease.
I’ve always known that I am someone who people have an easy time walking away from. First my dad, then my mom—not just once, but over and over again. As I got older, I realized that long-term relationships with people really only serve to prolong their inevitable leaving. I think that’s why a tiny part of me felt vindicated when Jack walked away from us. Don’t get me wrong—it hurt like heck when he broke up with me. I truly wasn’t sure I’d ever get out of bed, but even so his actions made me feel justified for turning down his proposal. Like I’d been right to say no to him, since our relationship was always doomed to end with Jack leaving me. Better to lose a boyfriend than a husband.
Tomorrow, Jack is marrying me as a huge favor. Odd as it sounds to say, ideally I’ll end up getting away with murder and our marriage will no longer be necessary. But what then? Will he walk away from me? Will I walk away from him?
Both seem like very real possibilities. And both leave me hurting and alone.
Okay, I need to move along from this depressing line of thinking…
What am I going to wear to my courthouse wedding? That’s a slightly safer line of thought. One that doesn’t end up with me picturing Jack and I cuddling.
I certainly can’t wear Jack’s sweatshirt. And if I never wore the outfit from last night again that would be too soon. I want to burn that outfit.
Which is really saying something, because I bought that skirt at full price. It was one of my wardrobe staples.
We’ll have to stop at a store and get me something.
That won’t be a big deal, right? Every bride deserves a new dress on their wedding day. Especially when the bride has the threat of a wardrobe made entirely from orange polyester hanging over her head.
***
“NORA?” JACK’S VOICE pulls me out of the deep sleep that I swear I only just fell into minutes ago. Just like in the car last night there’s a second that passes where I’m confused about where I am and how I got there, but then it all comes rushing back.
Ian attacking me. Stabbing him. Coming here to ask for Jack’s help. Agreeing to marry Jack. Today.
I sit up with a jolt.
“Jack.” I run a hand self-consciously through my hair, sending up a silent prayer that I don’t look as bad as I feel. Because I feel like I got run over by a truck. Although, even if I do look bad, at least it’s pretty dark in here…which begs the question—“What time is it?” I croak.
“It’s 6:45,” he says briskly. “Sorry to have to wake you, but if we’re going to be at the doors when City Hall opens at 8am we need to get moving.”
I blink at him, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. “Yeah, okay,” I agree blearily. Quite suddenly I register his attire. “You’re in a suit,” I state stupidly. My eyes scan his body, greedily drinking in the handsome sight before I remember that ogling my soon-to-be husband is a no-no. If I keep kissing him on the cheek and checking him out and thinking about him all night long then it’s very likely that I’ll forget that this impending marriage of ours is faker than the knockoff Prada purse I got off a street vendor in the Bahamas last year.
So fake that the so-called leather cracked after the first use.
“Yeah,” Jack replies, adjusting the jacket, “well we are getting married today. Seemed like a suit was appropriate attire.”
Be still my heart. He’s wearing a suit to our fake wedding.
I’m not sure why, but I find this incredibly sweet—at least until I remember again that I myself have nothing to wear. I fling off my covers and hop out of bed.
“Shoo, shoo!” I usher him out, putting my hands on his back and pushing. “I need to get moving if we’re going to leave in time for us to stop somewhere for something more appropriate for me to wear than these sweatpants.”
“Nora, hold on. Wait a second.” Jack sets his stance to stop my attempts at steering him out of the room. He’s made himself into a brick wall and since I do not currently have a wrecking ball, there will be no moving him.
“Jack,” I protest, “I know this is a fake marriage, but I still refuse to be a PJ-clad bride. Especially with you in that suit. So please, please, please get out of my room so I can take a shower and make myself presentable.”
“Okay, I’ll go,” he agrees. “But before I do, you should know that there are some outfit choices hanging up in the bathroom for you. I wasn’t sure what you’d want to wear, so I grabbed a few different choices.”
I freeze, then dart a glance toward the bathroom door. “Wait, what?” I ask. “Did you say there are clothes in the bathroom? Clothes that will fit me?”
He nods.
A sick feeling is creeping through my body, twisting around in my stomach and turning my vision blurry. Jealousy. Because where could Jack have gotten women’s clothing in the middle of the night? It’s just not possible. Which means he already had this women’s clothing here at his place. But whose is it? Does he have some girlfriend I don’t know about who leaves her stuff here?
If so, she’s not going to be happy about her boyfriend’s plans for the day.
Jack would never marry someone while dating someone else, though, even in the name of keeping said someone out of jail.
Maybe it’s an ex-girlfriend then. Someone careless enough to leave lots of clothing behind.
I don’t care much for this option either.
Don’t ask me why the idea of Jack dating another woman bothers me so much. I do not have a good answer.
“Okay then.” Jack claps his hands together, oblivious to the green-eyed monster that just stomped its way onto the scene. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to make some coffee. Do you want some?”
“Mmhmm,” I mumble dazedly as he exits the room, snapping the door shut behind him. With a heavy sigh I make for the bathroom, stripping off Jack’s sweatshirt as I go. I wonder if this ex-girlfriend of his poached as many of his sweatshirts as I did.
I step into the bathroom, bracing myself for the onslaught of feelings sure to hit me when I see this other woman’s clothes; but when I catch sight of the clothes hanging on the back of the door my mouth drops to the floor. Because those are my clothes hanging on the door. There’s my blue maxi dress that I reserve for hot summer days when I don’t feel like shaving. And next to that my favorite black and white sheath dress. Then behind that is the green dress I just bought for Easter.
But that’s not all. On the floor behind the door I spot my black carryon with the distinctive bag tag patterned with tiny skeins of yarn.A cursory glance inside reveals socks, pajama pants, and— I let out a squeak of horror, dropping the bag and hurrying out of the bathroom.
I burst out of the bedroom and make a beeline for the kitchen where, right away, I spot Jack busy pouring hot water into his French press.
“You went into my underwear drawer!” I cry, realizing too late that I’m still holding a pair of the offending item. Pink lacy ones I bought on a whim when I needed a confidence boost one day (it’s a true mystery why wearing cute underwear nobody else can see boosts a woman’s confidence, but it does). Pink lacy ones, I must also say, that nobody was ever supposed to see. Least of all Jack. But guess what? He’s certainly seeing them now. He turns to face me, his expression entirely too calm for a man who handled my underwear and bras without my permission! Obviously he forgot how dangerous I am when I’m angry. Hello, Jack! I stabbed someone with a knitting needle last night, remember? I am not to be trifled with.
Of course I say none of this out loud. I’m too busy dying of embarrassment as his gaze hitches on the underwear still in my hand. Still in full view. Hurriedly I stuff it into the pocket of my sweatpants.
Jack’s gray eyes pop up to meet mine. “I figured you would want a fresh pair to wear today,” he says with a shrug, like, oh he was just being nice and thoughtful when he went through my undergarments!
And okay, admittedly it was a little nice. And fine, definitely thoughtful. But I still can’t help but be mad, because there are things in my underwear drawer. Private things. And I’m not just talking about the undergarments.
“Truth be told, I only thought of it,” he goes on in response to my angry silence, “because I snuck into your house last night to find your birth certificate. You’d be surprised how many people keep stuff like that in their underwear drawer, so that was the first place I looked. And while that’s not where I eventually found your birth certificate, it did remind me of your lack of clothing options for today.”
I can feel heat creeping up my neck at the thought of Jack looking through my things. I desperately want to ask him if he found the picture hidden in my underwear drawer, but there’s still a slim chance that he didn’t. And if he didn’t, I don’t want to be the one to tell him that I still have a picture of the two of us that I look at far too regularly for a woman who should’ve moved on from him by now.
Not to mention all of the other stuff in my condo that would clearly scream I never fully got over you!
I inhale a deep breath. “Why didn’t you ask me to come with you?” I demand.
Jack sighs, raking his hand through his hair and looking exasperated. “It was the middle of the dang night, Nora,” he says. “I was trying to be nice and let you sleep. Stafford called me again and left another message telling me they were trying to get a warrant to search your condo. I knew I had to go right away if I wanted a chance to get in and out without being seen.”
Logically I know that I have no right to be mad at Jack. And truthfully, I could move on from this if he could just tell me that he didn’t find the incriminating picture or the drawer that houses all of his sweatshirts—sweatshirts I still regularly wear—or the bottle of Dove shampoo I keep in the drawer of my nightstand and sniff from time to time to remind myself of him….Oh my gosh. I am such a weirdo stalker!
Why have I never realized how messed up it is to sniff shampoo as a way to remember your ex! To still wear his sweatshirts! To gaze longingly at a selfie the two of you took while double riding on his horse!
We won’t even talk about the last thing, the big thing…the truly pathetic thing. The thing that he is going to have to find out about eventually if we’re going to stay married.
My cat will be okay for today, but I’ll have to go get him tonight at the very latest. And then I’ll have some explaining to do to Jack about the fact that I adopted a cat that’s practically identical to Briggs. Grumpy personality and all. Jack is lucky he didn’t get attacked last night.
Honestly though, what’s the point of having a rather aggressive cat if he doesn’t even keep random people out of your underwear drawer?
Oh gosh. I think I need to sit down and reconsider all of my life choices up to this point. Maybe even including this point. I mean, I am about to marry a man for the sole purpose of trying to get away with murder.
That’s not exactly a sign that my life is going well.
Plus, on top of that, I have a pair of underwear in my pocket.
“Look, Nora.” Jack sighs again. “I’m sorry I went through your things without asking. I was just trying to help. If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you go through my drawer of boxers.”
“Ha!” I scoff, looking down at the floor to hide my flaming cheeks. “Thanks, but no thanks.” I cross my arms over my chest and count to ten, giving myself some time to gather my wits. I have the sudden urge to laugh, spurred on by the image of me spitefully going through Jack’s boxers. It’s just so…ridiculous.
Unless he too has a hidden picture of the two of us in there.
But I’m sure he doesn’t.
It’s probably just a bunch of boring black boxers folded into perfect little squares. It actually might be fun to unfold them all then stuff them back into the drawer as one big, unfolded heap. Very below the belt of me—pun intended. Ha!
“Are you laughing?” Jack demands incredulously.
“What? Who me?” I say, lips twitching. “No way. Why would I be laughing?”
Jack narrows his gaze at me. “You think my boxers are funny, do you?”
“W-what? N-no!” The twitching is turning violent. I try to purse my lips against it, but it’s no use—a laugh slips out. And once one is out, there’s no stopping the rest of them. “I have to go get ready!” I gasp through the laughter shaking my body. I swivel on my heel and rush out of the room, the sound of Jack’s answering laughter following me down the hall.