Chapter 7
Sarah
Since I am apparently incapable of keeping my clothes on around Ian Nolan these days, I set a public place for our next get-together. A public place that does not have any discreetly located conference rooms.
Not that I didn’t love what happened the other night. Holy God, did I love it.
Which is precisely why I need to focus today. If we’re having a professional conversation about a business arrangement, I can’t very well go in with stars in my eyes and my ankles around my ears.
“So this is the contract my attorney has prepared,” Ian explains over the loud whir of a cappuccino machine. He’s wearing a dark purple T-shirt that lights green sparks in his eyes and makes his hair blaze with red-gold flashes. I could get lost in all this color, but now’s not the time for that.
“Contract,” I say, tearing a hunk off my blueberry muffin and shoving it into my mouth. “Got it.”
Ian rests a hand on a pile of papers that’s as thick as a dictionary, then pushes it across the table to me. “You can take your time reviewing it on your own, and when you’re ready to review it with your attorney, I’ll pay the legal fees for the lawyer of your choice.”
I stare at him as I finish chewing my muffin and pick up my steaming mug of cappuccino. “You have to appreciate the irony right now.”
The look he gives me is curious. He has both arms spread casually across the back of the booth, a position that’s made three different women ogle his biceps in the last ten minutes.
Ian, of course, hasn’t noticed. “What irony?”
“We’re sitting here in the same coffee shop where we hung out at nineteen when we had to dig through the seats of my 1997 Mercury Tracer Wagon to find enough change to split a small black coffee and a scone. Now you’re throwing around money like it’s something you use to wallpaper your den.”
Ian grins and drops one hand to pick up his double espresso. It’s a far cry from the sugar-laden Frappuccinos he favored in college on the rare occasion he had enough cash to splurge. Other than that, not much has changed.
Then again, everything’s changed, starting with the fact that Ian has been inside me and we’re considering tying the knot.
But we are sitting in the same booth we used to claim while studying for exams, so there’s that.
“I told you I’d make sure you were financially secure,” he says.
“I’m already financially secure,” I insist, blowing into my own coffee cup. Not this secure, but I do okay.
Ian sets his mug down and reaches across the table to brush my knuckles with the tips of his fingers.
I shiver, even though it’s a platonic gesture.
Mostly platonic. “That’s one of the reasons I think this is a great idea,” he says.
“I know you’re not after me for my money. And I’m not after you for yours.”
I snort-laugh into my foamy cappuccino. “Hardly.”
“I already know you have a track record for not giving a shit about other people’s money, and you’ve made smart choices about your own. I dig that about you. It makes us financially compatible.”
“Financially compatible.” Be still my heart. I blow into my mug again. “So why get married at all? It’s not like this is frontier America and we’re pioneers who need to pair up for safety and breeding purposes.”
“Good question.” Ian reaches for his mug and starts to answer, then frowns as a woman walks past our table shouting loudly about her coffee order.
“I told you I wanted a venti soy quadruple shot latte with no foam,” she yells as she marches toward the counter. “This tastes like flax milk, not soy.”
Ian quirks an eyebrow at me. “Is it just me, or are coffee orders way more complicated since our college days?”
“You mean like the guy in line ahead of us?” I smile and do my best imitation of the skinny jean–clad hipster who has since left the building. “Mister I’ll have a fat-free iced macchiato, upside down, with two pumps of vanilla and three pumps of caramel.”
“Exactly.” Ian rattles his espresso mug in its saucer, but doesn’t pick it up. “Isn’t that basically a giant cup of sugar?”
“But no fat, apparently. And what the hell is upside down, anyway?”
“I think it’s a way of avoiding stirring your own beverage,” he says. “Because that’s too cumbersome?”
I giggle and take a sip of my drink, secretly wondering if Ian’s going to answer my question about why we should get married at all. I’m genuinely curious what he’d say.
“This is why,” he says. He gestures to the space around us, and it takes me a second to get his meaning.
“Why—oh.” I glance around the bustling little coffee shop. “You mean you want to get married for coffee dates?”
“Not just coffee dates,” he says. “Social engagements. Business meetings. Sunday brunches. It’s nice waking up in the same bedroom as someone and walking down the street hand in hand to have brunch in the neighborhood café.”
“Right.” When he puts it that way, it doesn’t sound much different from the sort of marriage I always pictured. Except—
“So the main thing we’re ruling out is love,” I say. “We’re not writing each other romantic sonnets or making declarations about how we complete each other. We’re basically houseplants existing in the same space.”
Ian tilts his head to the side. “Houseplants that have sex?” His teasing smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something slightly more serious. “Wait, I don’t want to presume. If you feel better having separate bedrooms, I understand the need for privacy.”
I snort into my cappuccino. “Please. One of the chief advantages of this arrangement is having a permanent butt-warmer.”
“Now who’s the romantic?” He grins and runs a finger around the rim of his mug. I glance away, not wanting to get too lost in thought about what else he can do with that finger.
“So what happens if someone falls in love?” I say the words fast, like I’m swallowing a spoonful of medicine instead of spitting out the question that’s been nagging at me.
Ian looks startled, like I’ve asked what happens if I grow reindeer antlers and a bulbous red nose. “That’s not—possible.” His throat moves as he swallows. “Not for me.”
“Right.” Here’s where I’m supposed to say the same thing, right? I take a deep breath. “I suppose if I make up my mind at the outset—”
“You can resist falling in love with me?” He grins like it’s the most absurd thing imaginable that someone would fall for him without meaning to do it. “You were immune to my charms in college, so I don’t think there’s too much risk of you falling now.”
“Right.”
It makes sense. Everything about this makes sense, if I focus on the cerebral instead of the emotional.
“Sure,” I say, forcing the words out. “I can keep love out of the equation.”
I wonder if he can tell I’m not convinced. I’m trying, but part of me isn’t buying it. I open my mouth to ask again, “What happens if we fail?” but something in Ian’s expression tells me he’s not in a place to consider failure. Not that kind, anyway.
I close my mouth and spin my coffee mug on the table. If he’s determined to make this work, I can do the same.
We’re quiet for a few beats. The air around us hums with coffee shop chatter and whatever the hell has been buzzing between us for the last week.
That never existed before, not in all our caffeine-fueled study sessions, but I can’t put my finger on what caused the shift.
I pretend I’m scanning the room, indulging in a session of people-watching like we used to.
But I’m really thinking about Ian. About the reason behind the other big shift.
His eyes are locked on me when I turn back to him. “Are we going to talk about it?” I ask.
I see his throat move as he swallows. “About what?”
“About why you seem so hell-bent on eliminating love from your life.”
He clears his throat. “Haven’t we already covered this?”
“It’s about Shane,” I say. “And your parents.”
He nods, looking uncertain. “Losing him—knowing my parents’ volatile marriage had something to do with that—”
“Your parents’ ugly divorce didn’t kill Shane,” I said. “A lot of people with Down Syndrome have cardiac abnormalities. It happens.”
Ian’s face has gone hard, and his jaw is tight with emotion. So much for my old friend’s claim he’s shut down his feelings completely, but at least now I know for sure this is why he wants to.
“Shane died of a broken heart,” he says stiffly. “No one will ever convince me otherwise.”
My eyes well with moisture. Maybe it’s memories of Shane or the agonized crack in Ian’s voice. As a tear slips down my cheek, I watch his face crumple.
“Don’t cry,” he pleads as he pushes the napkin dispenser across the table. It takes me a moment to realize what it’s for. “Please, Sarah, don’t cry.”
“I’m fine.” I mop at my face with a napkin, determined to hold it together. The desperation in his eyes, the tremble in his voice—this is what he’s worked so hard to shut down. This is why he’s ruled out the possibility of love or anything else that might hurt.
“Ian, you can’t blame Shane’s death on your parents’ split,” I tell him once I’ve composed myself. “I know he took it hard, but—”
“You were there, Sarah,” he says. “You saw how it affected him. He was never the same after those last big fights between them. After they sat him down and told him they were splitting up.”
“You can’t blame your parents,” I say softly.
He looks surprised. “I don’t,” he says. “I truly don’t. I blame love.”
“Well.” I don’t know what else to say to that. I pick up my cappuccino, which has gone lukewarm in my mug.
Ian reaches across the table to run two fingers over my wrist bone. It’s not meant to be an intimate gesture. Just a way to get my attention, but my nerves fizz with warmth anyway.
“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s nothing personal. I just don’t think I’m capable of love. Not the kind we’re talking about.”
I’m not sure I believe him, but I let it drop. “I guess it’s good to know your own limitations.”
“What about you?” He lets go of my hand and sits back. “Have you been in love?”