Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Daphne
W ith some things in life, the evidence is unclear. Usually, things like emotions are fuzzy. How does one person prove they were happy or sad?
With a few dozen photos, apparently.
They're all here on my phone. They're all over my social media. And, of course, my new adviser already saw them. She reached out to congratulate me personally. She even joked about it.
What a smart idea! Have the honeymoon before work kicks your ass. And the ring is good too. It's not fair, but people trust a married sex researcher more than a single one. They think you're in the job because of your own love and commitment.
When I was single, everyone acted like I was some sort of perverted freak.
What they don't know doesn't hurt them, huh?
Best,
Yukiko
She's probably right. A single person with an interest in sex is seen as desperate, slutty, perverted, or just plain strange.
A person in a relationship is seen as a good partner.
And a married woman?
Well, she's just sensible.
The patriarchy strikes again.
Ugh, I've been listening to too many of Cassie's rants. Not that she is somehow more of a feminist than I am. More, that she's a lot more interested in talking about sexism than I am. Sexism in media, especially.
If we're talking about sexism in medical research—why are most studies still done on men and assumed to have the same results on women—or diagnosing women's pain is more likely to be ignored, especially women of color's pain.
Well, she's happy to listen to my rants on those occasions. And our interests overlap in areas of sex. I come at it as a medical researcher. She comes at it as a bisexual songwriter.
Apparently, women are better kissers, and they're usually much better with digital and oral stimulation.
They have the equipment. They have more experience with it. They know sex doesn't start and end with a penis in a vagina. The freedom from penetration means they can focus on clitoral stimulation.
Most women need clitoral stimulation to orgasm. Eighty percent.
But then, if I'm telling myself statistics, I'm avoiding my real feelings. Statistics can't save me here.
I made my bed.
I need to get divorced in it.
That's the only logical conclusion. Right?
Or does it make sense to keep the ring on my finger, officially?
It will keep coworkers from asking me out. It will earn the respect of my boss, apparently.
But then it will also brand me as a liability. Married women of a reproductive age are seen as a ticking time bomb. At any moment, they are eight months away from maternity leave or even quitting their job to take care of their kids.
It's bullshit. No one expects married men to quit the second their partner gets pregnant. But I can't do anything about other people's assumptions.
I can only control myself.
There are pros and cons to staying married. The logic doesn't fall neatly into one category.
This needs to be about something besides logic.
This needs to be what's best for both of us.
I look through the pictures again. In every single one, I'm beaming. I'm a blushing bride. From all appearances, this is the happiest night of my life.
The evidence is there: bright eyes, wide smile, proud posture.
A picture of the proposal.
The rings—all from the Lost and Found.
The chapel.
The officiant dressed as Elvis.
The wedding.
And even a few shots of the honeymoon. Well, me, stripping out of my white dress and climbing right on top of my new husband.
I must have insisted on these too. It's hard to tell from the angle, and he's obviously an interested party, what with the massive erection, but again, I'm beaming.
Apparently, as a married woman, I'm a sex freak.
That was good. The parts I remember. And I remember them vividly.
Even now, when I close my eyes, I taste his lips, I smell his skin, I feel his cock inside me.
That's what I want.
Three weeks of sex.
Is there any way he'd agree to that?
Fuck this marriage thing. Actually, fuck me. Until I go to New York.
I check my social media again to make sure none of the X-rated pictures made the cut.
There are so many likes, comments, messages.
Everyone loves a wedding.
Everyone wants the best for me.
A few exes are pretending they aren't seething with jealousy. Or maybe they're evolved enough they aren't.
Yukiko left congrats comments on every post. She also said she'd love to meet Jackson sometime. Which is great. So great.
At least she didn't ask when he's moving to New York.
I don't want to drop that bombshell anytime soon.
I turn my phone off, I look around the room, and I stare at the scenery for a moment. Cassie lent me her room after I ran here in last night's dress.
She lent me a spare outfit too, a black dress that's short on her and criminal on me. She's tall, but I'm a giant.
After she and Damon left the room, I took a shower, went back to sleep, ordered breakfast, watched TV mindlessly. It's been a few hours now.
I have to face my husband.
There is something about the word. Something scary and thrilling. But it doesn't matter. It was a hazy mistake.
Yes, I like Jackson, but I'm leaving the state in three weeks. There's no way we can stay married on separate coasts.
We need to go home and take care of it.
It's just—
I'd love if that process included a lot of sex. Is that so wrong?
When I step into the hotel room, Cassie and Jackson stare at me like I'm a ghost. The ghost of an uncomplicated fling, I guess. There's no way to turn this mix-up into a trip of fantastic sex without strings.
But as long as I'm face-to-face with the consequences of my actions, I might as well enjoy the sex. Right?
Cassie catches herself and shrugs sorry, but this is weird .
Jackson half-smiles. There's something in his eyes. Some encouragement. Or caution. I can't tell anymore.
"Aren't we supposed to have breakfast together?" Cassie asks. "The post-wedding brunch."
"You wouldn't be caught dead at brunch," I say.
She smiles. "Only the one at your place."
We used to have an anti-brunch. Though I'm not sure why it was different than a normal brunch. We ate breakfast food, drank a lot of coffee, listened to music, and talked about sci-fi.
Maybe it was the sci-fi.
We usually watched The Matrix for the ten millionth time.
We rarely talked about dating, sex, love, lipstick.
"I can make a reservation for you," Cassie laughs. "Before Laurel and Zack get the idea to do it."
Shit. Those two troublemakers will really enjoy this. But maybe we can skip all that. "Later."
Cassie nods. "Right. Got it. You want to get to the other honeymoon activities." She laughs as she stands. "I'm sorry. This is just… it is fun, being on the other side. I can see why Damon is so annoying when I have a hangover."
"Where is Damon?" I ask.
"Working," she says. "Are you sure I can have the hotel room back?"
Jackson's eyes meet mine. They invite me to take as much space as I need. To come closer or run away.
No one has ever looked at me like that, like they're okay with whatever I decide. Is that how he really feels, or has he somehow developed an elaborate way to fake it?
The warmth of his expression feels so good.
I want this so badly, for someone to truly want to hear what I want and truly be okay with it. Even if it's not what they want. Even if it hurts them.
"You can have the room," I say. "I need to talk to my husband."
Cassie nods of course , crosses the room, wraps her arms around me. "Call me if you need anything."
"I will," I say.
"This is not how I pictured the two of us becoming sisters," she says. "And I know it probably won't last. But I don't hate it."
She's a better friend than I am. Because I did hate it. A little, anyway. I hated losing her to my brother.
And, well—
I haven't told her I'm moving three thousand miles away.
I haven't told anyone.
But I can't face that now, and I need her comfort. So I squeeze her back, and I tell her I love her, and I accept her I love you too, and I let myself believe we're each other's person, like Meredith and Christina. Until Sandra Oh left the show, and Christina moved to another country and…
What happened then?
Were they still each other's soulmates? I stopped watching. Maybe that's better. I can write my own ending. I can pretend they're happily ever after.
Cassie releases me with one more promise to check in on me, then she leaves, and I'm alone with my husband.
I take a deep breath and move toward the breakfast table.
He stands. "Or do you want to sit? I can clear these. I was losing anyway." He lets out a soft laugh. There's an ease to it. An ease I want to feel.
Maybe we can laugh about this. Maybe it's not a big deal. "Sure. Do you want anything? Coffee. Or lunch, maybe. What time is it?"
"Do you want to order room service?"
I shake my head.
"Do you want to talk at the buffet?"
My nose scrunches in distaste. "Why would I want to have ten mediocre things instead of one good thing?"
"People like options."
"Do you like options?" I ask. I'm not sure if we're still talking about meals or if we're onto marriage. Both, maybe.
"Sometimes," he says. "Usually, I know what I want. I'd rather order that."
"You don't want a taste of everything?"
"I want to taste everything on my plate," he says.
He wants a commitment. A partner. He wants to try things with a partner.
Or he's not onto my metaphor at all. That's possible.
I sit as he clears the cards. The sun streams through the big windows, casting a soft glow over the room. I don't love the barren landscape the way some people do, but from here, the dirt and brush are beautiful.
"Let's talk. Then eat," he says. "Any non-buffet you want."
"Can we go to a Thai place off the strip?"
He smiles. "I forget how much you and Cassie are alike."
"Is that strange? Your wife is similar to your sister."
His smile widens at the word wife. He likes the idea of it. Marriage. Commitment. The two of us together, forever. But is it about me? Or is it still some idea he has of himself as a husband? He doesn't explain any of that. He teases back. "I'm the one who married my sister's best friend."
"And I thought I was a freakshow."
"You are. You married your best friend's brother."
My lips curl into a smile too. It's better to joke about it.
"We can annul the marriage when we get back to California," he says casually, like he's agreeing to Thai food, not erasing the vision he has of his future. "If that's what you want."
Mostly. Not exactly. I don't know how to explain it, so I ask, "Is that what you want?"
"No. I have to ask you a favor," he says.
"What sort of favor?"
"Stay married to me for another three months," he says.
My brow furrows. "Why?" That's a strange ask. It doesn't make any sense. Unless—
"My boss saw the pictures. He thinks I married my long-time girlfriend. He thinks I finally took his advice to become a family man. And with my coworker ready to sabotage me, I can't afford to look like I made a hasty decision to rush into a commitment."
"Oh." Of course, his boss saw. Everyone I know saw too. Fuck, what am I going to tell my parents? I've conveniently avoided reading their texts all day.
"I know it's not a fair request. I'll accept a no, no questions asked. But it would help me a lot. You don't have to do anything except show up, in that ring, at a few work events."
"For three months?" I ask.
He nods. "Until the partner deadline. We can arrange it however you want. You can stay with me. You can stay at your place. We can have sex. We can not have."
We can have sex.
Oh.
That is exactly what I want. And there's no reason to deny ourselves. It's not like we can keep this a secret anymore.
"What do you think, Daph?" he asks. "Can you stomach three months as my wife?"