Chapter 6
TANNER
Married life with Des is a lot like regular life with Des—only now we text like we’re starring in a sitcom with a laugh track.
Des: Your husband demands tacos tonight. This is nonnegotiable.
Tanner: Already thawing the beef, my love. Shall I pick up limes too?
After our wedding, there was no reception, no honeymoon.
Des and I went back to our normal lives.
I had chores and school pickups and grocery shopping to do on top of searching for a job.
Every so often, I’d remember that Des was now my husband, and I’d chuckle to myself.
I texted Des reminding him of this fact, and our text chain quickly morphed into us cosplaying domestic bliss.
Des: God, yes. Who did I marry, and how did I get so lucky?
It’s stupid. It’s completely ridiculous. But I catch myself smiling every time my phone buzzes. I’ve been smiling more lately, which is…strange. Nice, but strange.
Tanner: How was your day, honey? Do you need me to fix you a post-work cocktail?
Des: Make it a double.
Being a widower is like having a giant invisible sign around your neck that says Caution: Fragile.
You get used to walking around cracked. You learn how to smile at PTA meetings, laugh at your kids' jokes, even flirt a little with strangers who smile a second too long—but underneath it, you’re always split open somewhere.
And then Des—rakish, confident, infuriating Des—puts a wedding ring on your finger and calls you "husband" in a text, and it doesn’t feel like a punchline.
It feels like someone reaching out and sliding the sign off your neck. As soon as I got home from the courthouse, I took off the ring. But every now and then throughout the day, I put it back on and feel myself inching toward being complete again.
I’m not saying it’s real. It’s not. He did it for my kids. For the insurance. Des doesn't even like commitment. But still, when he sends me:
Des: Did my darling husband remember to pick up peanut butter?
And I text back:
Tanner: Creamy, as you like it. I live to serve.
I feel it. That little jolt in my chest like I’m back in something warm.
A week after we exchanged fake “I do’s,” I’m parked outside the kids’ elementary school with the windows down and radio off.
Lulu’s class lets out first, a stream of tiny humans galloping toward parents like they've just been released from captivity.
She spots me and yells, “DADDY!” with all the subtlety of a fire alarm.
She launches herself into my arms.
“Hey, baby girl,” I say, catching her with one arm, her backpack with the other.
“Miss Melling gave us gummy bears,” she reports, breathless, “but I dropped mine on the rug and then Tommy stepped on them so they got rug on them and I didn’t eat them but I wanted to.”
“I am so sorry for your loss,” I say gravely.
She nods. “It was very hard for me.”
Davy walks out flanked by his friends, reenacting a play from his last hockey game. Dean comes out five minutes later, walking slower, head ducked. He lives life on full volume. A muted Dean is never a good sign.
“Hey, bud,” I say, ruffling his hair.
“Hey.”
His teacher Mrs. Yoon follows behind him. With her curated vintage skirt and top, she’s way too stylish to be serving looks in a suburban elementary school.
“Dean was being a little too funny in class today,” she tells me. She kneels down to his eye level. “We love joking around with our friends, but not during reading time.”
He shrugs. “It was boring.”
“Still gotta pay attention,” I say, wanting to show his teacher that I have this under control. “Being funny is great, but not if it gets in the way of your learning.”
I guide my brood into the car, which I imagine is as challenging as herding wild animals. I’m getting Lulu in her booster seat when I hear my name.
“Tanner?”
I turn. It’s Russ, tall and trim, patterned dress shirt neatly tucked into his jeans.
His boys, Quentin and Josh, are in Davy’s class, and he’s one of the few dads I actually talk to at school events.
His husband Cal is the brother of my teammate Derek.
All of us go way back. Also, widowers tend to find each other in a crowd. Like stray cats.
“Hey, man,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain. Josh made it through his math test without crying, so we’re calling it a win.” He grins. “You?”
I gesture at the kids. “Trying to keep the circus in order.”
“Hey guys!” Russ waves to them, then turns his gaze back to me. “I see you haven’t signed up yet to bring in a snack option for back to school night.” His words are polite, and his smile is big, but he’s also blocking my path to the driver’s seat. “It’s in a week.”
“Oh. It must’ve slipped my mind.” Typically, I’m good at keeping a mental to-do list running, but PTA requests tend to fall off.
“When you get home, could you fill it out? It’ll only take a minute. There are still a few options for what to bring. Cookies or brownies are always welcome, even if they are, y’know”—he steels himself for a moment—“store bought.”
“Right.” Derek told me Russ makes pizza from scratch—crust, sauce, and shredding his own cheese.
Russ would shudder if he saw some of the store-bought meals I threw together for my kids.
None of my kids are going to bed hungry, which is the most important thing.
“I’ve just had a lot going on. I lost my job so I’ve been focused on that. ”
His face immediately shifts. Russ may be uptight, but he’s not callous. “Tanner, I am so sorry. Don’t worry about back to school night. I have it covered. I can whip up a batch of brownies. If I hear of any openings at my company, I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“And if you need help with anything else, let me or Cal know.”
“Of course. Thanks.” I wonder if I keep thanking him, will I eventually get to go into my car?
Russ puts a hand on my shoulder, gives me a solemn head nod. “How are things going besides that? If you ever need to talk about…it’s only been two years. It’s still fresh.”
I gently move his hand off me. Talking about the sadness around missing my late wife isn’t appropriate pickup line conversation. “Thanks, Russ,” I say definitively.
His gaze drifts to my hand. I realize, too late, that I’m still wearing the wedding ring. I forgot to take it off before I left the house.
Crap.
“Wait. What is this?” Russ catches my hand. “Did you…get married?”
“Married?” Lulu gasps from the car.
I shut the car door.
“What? No, this is…nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Russ takes my hand and gets up close and personal with my new accessory. “That’s white gold.”
Not to stereotype gay guys, but how the hell was Russ able to clock that so fast?
“I felt like wearing it. For old times’ sake.” I know I’m a jerk for invoking my late wife in a lie, but desperate times. My marriage to Des cannot become local news. Gossip spreads faster in Sourwood than crabs in a college dorm.
“That’s not your old wedding ring. It was black silicone. It was better for all the rugged hiking and biking you and Katie used to do.” Russ, who apparently has a photographic memory when it comes to my life, arches an eyebrow at me. “That’s what you told me after she passed.”
Bless Russ for being a great listener and an attentive friend. But also…crap.
I laugh too loudly. “Oh, it’s, uh, it’s a long story. Just a kind of legal thing.”
“Is that why you went to the courthouse with Uncle Des?” Davy asks from an open car window.
“Why did you open your window?” I try to sound stern but it comes out panicked.
“Because Dean farted.”
“Davy farted first!” Dean yells from his seat.
“You went to the courthouse with Des? For, like, a marriage license?” Russ raises his eyebrows.
“Technically?” For someone who’s involved in a fake marriage and fraud, my lying ability needs work.
“You and Des are married?”
“It’s—I’ll explain it later. I need to get the kids home. Thanks for baking the brownies.”
I pivot and twist away from Russ, not unlike maneuvering away from an aggressive defenseman on the ice. I let out a long, slow breath as I slide into my car and shut the door. My head is clouded with spiraling thoughts and the stench of my sons’ flatulence.
I peel out of the pickup lane at ten miles per hour—twice the speed limit.
Another A-plus parenting moment.
Nailed it. Kind of.
Back home, I make grilled cheese and tomato soup. That’s as close to pizza from scratch as I can muster. Dean helps by doing impersonations of the Swedish Chef, and Lulu helps by trying to eat all the cheese.
Lena is studying at a friend’s house, and Davy gets picked up for hockey practice. I can fill them in later. They’re old enough to hopefully have a better understanding of what’s going on with Uncle Des. My two youngest need more handholding.
“Okay, guys,” I say as we sit down. “We need to talk about something.”
“Can I get a rabbit?” Dean asks.
“A rabbit?” I hand them napkins to put on their laps.
“Not as a pet. To pull out of my hat.”
I notice then that Dean is wearing his magician’s hat.
“Can I get a pet rabbit?” Lulu asks.
“You don’t like rabbits,” he shoots back.
“Yes I do! Daddy, can we get a pet rabbit?”
“This rabbit would be part of my act. He’s not a pet.” Dean dips half his grilled cheese into his soup, then his mouth. “How do magicians get rabbits to stay still under their hat?”
“Dean, you are so delusional,” Lulu says with a slight lisp. It’s her new favorite word that she picked up from her older sister. I doubt she actually knows what it means.
“No rabbits. We need to talk about Uncle Des.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s great.” I tap my fingers against my leg, nerves pinballing around my stomach. “The thing is…remember when I told you Uncle Des and I had to go to the courthouse for something last week? Well, we technically got married.”
They both stare at me, their little brains trying to compute.
“To each other?” Dean asks.
I nod yes.
Lulu gasps again, delighted. “You’re princesses!”
“Close,” I say. “It’s a…special kind of marriage.
It’s not the same kind of marriage as your mom and I had.
” I get a little sting at the back of my throat, as if my body’s betraying my explanation.
“Some people get married because they’re in love and want to live happily ever after.
And some people get married to help out their friends. ”
Crap, am I falling into a backdoor explanation of green-card marriages? Why did I have to wear that stupid ring outside the house?
“Uncle Des and I got married so that Uncle Des could help us out with something really important. But it’s not forever.” I let out a quick sigh of relief because I didn’t blatantly lie to my kids. I merely distorted the truth. And yes, there is a difference.
“We don’t need to tell people about this favor Uncle Des is doing. It’s not nice to brag about good deeds because it makes them less special.” I feel like that guy who walked on a tightrope between the World Trade Center. Careful. Caaaaareful.
Dean and Lulu’s face squiggle with turning wheels as they digest this news.
“Does that mean he’s our…stepdad?” Dean asks.
“No,” I say quickly. “Still just Uncle Des. Same as always.”
“Did you guys kiss at a wedding?” Lulu makes smooching sounds.
“What?! Who told you that?” A flash of heat hits me when I think back to our kiss and how absolutely nothing about it felt fake.
Dean shrugs. “You have to kiss. That’s what people do at weddings.”
“We’re getting off track.” I sigh and take a bite of grilled cheese.
“Look. The point is…we don’t need to tell all of our friends that your dad married Uncle Des.
Because nothing is changing in your life.
Uncle Des is still Uncle Des. He’s just helping us out.
A temporary favor.” I snap my fingers, a brilliant idea coming to me.
“This is like a big magic trick. And a magician never reveals how he pulls it off, right?”
Dean nods. “I don’t get it.” He leans back in his chair, thinking hard. “So…you’re married, but not?”
I blink. “Dean, I think I’m changing my tune on that pet rabbit.”
His and Lulu’s faces instantly light up, the confusing dimensions of my relationship with Des left in the dust.
“A rabbit for both of you to share,” I say.
Once we get into eating, I let them turn on cartoons while I clean up the kitchen. I check my phone. There’s a text from Des.
Des: Everyone is asking us where we’re going on our honeymoon. We have to do Hawaii. What do you think, honey?
Tanner: Hawaii sounds great, dear.
I close my eyes while my hands are deep in the depths of dirty dishes, and I dream. I dream of walking along the beach with Des, of honeymoon suites with heart-shaped beds.
Of laying in that heart-shaped bed with Des as he pulls me close and drags my boxers off, then runs his hands between my thighs until he grabs my—
“Daddy!” Lulu yells from the living room. “Can we get a white rabbit?”
“Sure,” I call back, eternally grateful that my daughter interrupted that daydream.