6. Emzee
EMZEECHAPTER 6
I was home in Chicago again, and thank God.
The romantic environment of St.
Barts—and the fact that Ford and I had fucked on nearly every surface in the villa—had made it impossible to keep my feelings at bay for the rest of our trip.
But despite the fantasy, I’d known we couldn’t stay in our little bubble forever.
Because no matter how hot the sex had been, no matter how romantic the honeymoon, none of that changed the reality of our situation.
In less than a year, I’d have to divorce Ford and walk away for good.
Which meant that I had to go back to protecting my heart.
Unfortunately, my head was still swimming with indelible memories of the two of us in paradise.
We’d picnicked on the beach every day, marveling at the weather and the free-roaming iguanas.
Most afternoons we windsurfed, swam, or went snorkeling, genuinely enjoying each other’s company all the while.
And Ford had made my foodie dreams come true by taking me to the island’s best restaurants for dinner each night.
Our concierge Phillipe had proven to be an invaluable resource for recommendations of both Michelin-worthy places offering leisurely, lavish, multi-course meals as well as the lesser known beachside spots where you could get insanely good ceviche, spicy Creole food, fresh mahi-mahi en brochette, and rum punch.
Sigh.
Now that we were back, things would return to normal.
We’d settle into a routine.
I had my job and Ford had his, so our days would be busy and spent mostly apart.
The only time we’d really see each other would be at night, and though I figured neither of us would be avoiding sex, at least there wouldn’t be much time for romancing in between.
Which I told myself was a good thing.
I had to keep my head on straight.
If the next year of our marriage was basically just a lot of hot sex without too much emotion, maybe I could survive this whole thing with most of my heart intact.
However, before we could begin our new life, there was one big task that we needed to undertake.
We had to officially move in together.
Obviously, Ford’s apartment made more sense for us, being bigger and newer and more practical compared to my loft’s mostly open floor plan and complete lack of spare rooms.
But for the past few months we’d held off, telling anyone who asked that I was a little old-fashioned about cohabitating and wanted to wait until after we tied the knot to move in.
Since Claudia had lived with him before, it wasn’t an excuse Ford could have used, but everyone seemed to accept that he’d agreed in order to please me.
I was grateful for the distraction that the move gave me.
Even though I was keeping my loft as a studio space for work (which was a legitimate need), Munchkin and I still had to make ourselves at home at Ford’s to really sell the charade of our marriage.
But knowing I’d be moving right back in eleven months hence, I left most of my furniture at the loft.
All I really needed were my clothes, toiletries, and a few other sundry items.
And then moving day was upon us.
There was no turning back.
Following the movers into Ford’s apartment, I couldn’t help frowning.
I’d been over plenty of times, so the uber masculine look of the place—clashing hideously with Claudia’s ultra-girly touches—was no surprise to me.
And given the temporary nature of the move, I knew I shouldn’t voice my opinions about the furnishings and design.
It wasn’t my permanent home, after all, so there was no point in making a big deal about the décor.
But I couldn’t help myself.
I’d always been loud and clear about my feelings regarding Ford’s bachelor pad.
Both before and after Claudia’s hideous “styling” of the place, which had given me the overall impression that a Barbie Dreamhouse and a Ralph Lauren catalog had conspired to simultaneously explode all over Ford’s leather-and-brushed steel wet dream.
It was a nightmare.
My very un-secret opinion of the place was partly why we always hung out at my loft.
As I looked around, it was obvious that Claudia’s touch was still all over the place.
From the cloying, heavy scent of her designer candles on the entryway table, to the metallic gold throw pillows on the armchair, to the flowery curtains and huge framed print in the bathroom that said, in a bright pink script font, “Hello, gorgeous!”
It had to go.
I had just finished unpacking my clothes into the dresser and walk-in closet Ford had provided for my exclusive use when I heard the front door open.
Munchkin was off like a shot, panting as he scrambled to greet Ford.
I was excited to see my new husband, too…
because I was more than ready to discuss what would need to change if I was going to live here.
“Em?” Ford called out from down the hall.
“I’m in your room!” I called back.
“ Our room,” he corrected, stepping through the doorway in his crisp work suit with my slobbery dog in his arms.
“You all unpacked?”
God, could that man make me melt in an instant.
That suit, that jawline, the obvious affection for my furbaby…
the way he freaking smelled.
“Almost,” I said, recovering my senses.
“Just a few more boxes.”
“Great,” he said, setting down Munchkin.
“What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about decorating,” I said.
Ford looked around, clearly puzzled.
“Decorating what?” he asked.
“The place is already decorated.”
“By you,” I said.
“And Claudia.”
He looked at me blankly.
“Are you serious? Claudia’s long gone. You know that.”
“That’s not the point,” I said.
“Besides, no girl ever moved into a new place without adding her touch. It would be totally obvious that this was an act if someone came over and saw that nothing had changed since your ex-girlfriend left.”
Ford rolled his eyes.
“Fine. What were you thinking?”
I had a whole list.
We started in the living room.
“New paint in here,” I said, gesturing to the dark walls.
“Don’t get me wrong, I obviously love black, but I prefer lighter colored walls. It helps a space feel more airy and open.”
“It’s called a man cave for a reason,” Ford shot back.
“Besides, it’s not black. It’s navy. Makes it cozy in here.”
“A different shade of blue then, maybe cobalt?” I saw him visibly recoil.
“Fine, what about slate blue? That’s cozy.”
“Navy matches the sofa,” he pointed out.
“It’s a good contrast with the cognac leather.”
Was he planning to counter my every suggestion?
“New sofa then,” I snapped.
Ford shook his head.
“Nu-uh,” he said.
“I love this thing. It’s comfortable as hell and I’ve had it since college, so it’s perfectly molded to my body. The couch stays.”
Record scratch.
“You’re telling me you’ve had this since college ?” I asked.
“Yep,” Ford said, looking proud.
“Just look at the patina that’s built up over the years. You can’t buy that.”
I was horrified.
Now all I’d be able think of when I looked at the couch was how many girls a frisky, younger Ford had fooled around with on that leather.
Patina my ass.
The last thing I wanted to do was sit on a surface where Ford had messed around with a bunch of sorority girls.
Not to mention whatever he’d done on it with Claudia.
“We have to change something,” I said, feeling like this was going nowhere.
“No one hangs out in the living room anyway,” Ford said.
“The den and the bedroom are where we’ll be spending most of our time.”
I hated the den.
Mainly because of one thing.
“If you expect me to hang out in the den, you’ll need to get rid of the painting,” I said, crossing my arms.
“That thing is god-awful.”
It was a huge oil on canvas done in an abstract style, depicting a naked woman kneeling in front of a fully clothed man.
I could tell that it was vintage, and it had a nice gold frame, but I hated it.
Not only did it seem kind of creepy and voyeuristic—not in a good way—but it practically took up the entire wall.
There was no escaping it.
“That painting is art!” Ford said.
“It’s an original Le Comte, and it cost me a fortune. It stays.”
He plopped down on the couch with his arms behind his head and I could tell there was no negotiating.
For every suggestion I made, for every single room in the house, Ford had some dumb reason why we couldn’t change anything.
By the time the conversation was over, I’d gotten him to throw out the cutesy print hanging in the bathroom and agree to let me pick out a new bath mat and shower curtain, but that was it.
I felt exhausted and demoralized.
I retreated into the bedroom to finish unpacking, but for a moment I just stared at the boxes.
Should I even bother?
Would Ford actually let me put my own books and photos on his shelves in the living room, or would he have some excuse for why they couldn’t go there?
Sinking onto the edge of the bed, I pulled Munchkin onto my lap and rested my chin on the top of his blocky little head.
I was starting to realize that there was no hope for me and Ford at all.
Even if his parents hadn’t given our marriage a deadline, it was obvious that Ford never had any intention of moving forward with me.
He wasn’t even close to being ready.
He just wanted everything to stay the same.
That was the whole reason he had decided to embark on this charade with me in the first place—because he knew that with me, he wouldn’t have to make any changes in his life.
He knew I would go along with whatever he wanted, no matter what.
It was the reason he’d always wanted our friendship to stay the same.
I hated that I was essentially proving him right.
Ford was the kind of guy who was completely comfortable with what he had, and just wanted to maintain status quo.
He wanted his couch to stay the same, the color of his walls, the painting in his den.
Everything exactly the same, including our dynamic.
And he wanted a wife who would let him live his life exactly the way he always had.
The way he wanted it.
It was going to be a long year.