Chapter Theo #2
She’s just as open and uninhibited on camera. That should worry me, although now that she’s given us a false pregnancy scare, implied she’s cheating, and discussed shocking a corpse’s penis to extract its sperm, I doubt she could get worse.
She asks the boat captain about melting patterns and how the volcano impacts the water temperature.
She has what appears to be an intelligent conversation with the guide about the land sinking near the divide between tectonic plates and with the driver about the close relationship between Icelandic and Old Norse.
She asks him how to say various things, though it’s mostly profanity.
It’s surprising that she’s so good at this, so capable, but…
should it be? Jessie always made Bex sound a trifle slow and more than a trifle lazy, but she single-handedly convinced Emil to do this show, after all, armed with nothing but a phone, she hasn’t missed a single meeting, and she wasn’t late for the flight.
She hasn’t actually been late for anything aside from our wedding, and even I’m not such a monster that I’d hold five minutes against her.
I no longer believe she’s incompetent, but I think she’s extremely good at pretending to be incompetent. And I’m starting to wonder why.
We arrive at our hotel and are given exactly thirty minutes to rinse off, change clothes, and be back downstairs to eat.
A buffet has been set up for us in the hotel restaurant—fish and potatoes and rye bread, plus a red meat I avoid because there’s a strong possibility that it’s horse.
I load a plate while Caden loudly tells some pretentious story about going on a yacht with “Leonardo and the boys.” Given the way he keeps looking at Rebecca as he says it, it’s pretty clear who he’s hoping to impress.
She’s sitting by the fireplace, ignoring him as she rubs her hands over her arms trying to get warm.
That she’s cold again doesn’t bode well for the hours we’re about to spend outside tracking the northern lights.
That Caden keeps trying so hard to win my wife’s attention doesn’t bode well for his longevity.
Even if our marriage is fake, it’s just… disrespectful.
He crosses the room and takes the seat beside her, at which point I’ve bloody well had it.
I carry my plate to where they sit and loom in front of them. “Excuse me, Caden, I need to speak to my wife.”
“You remember it’s all fake, yeah?” asks Caden quietly as he rises.
“You remember it’s not supposed to look fake to everyone else, yeah?” I snarl, letting my shoulder knock into him as I take a seat.
“Settle down, bro,” he mutters as he walks away, his indifference entirely feigned. I could snap his neck like a twig if I wanted.
Well, I already want to. If I chose to.
“That took more testosterone than I thought you possessed,” Rebecca says.
I scowl at her. “I’m not going through all this just to have that little prick blow it.” I put the plate between us. “Eat. We still have hours of filming ahead.”
She shakes her head. “I’m just trying to get warm.”
There it is again…my worry, the irritation that follows it.
Except some of that irritation is actually guilt.
I’m the one who insisted on our insane shooting schedule.
I’m the one who said that if we absolutely had to get to Iceland before May, we’d need to do it in under two days.
And now, because of me, she’s freezing cold, exhausted, not eating.
When the crew gets up to start heading to the van, I pull Lars aside. “I was wrong about the schedule. It’s too much for Rebecca. She’s going to get sick if this keeps up.”
He glances over. “She seems to be hanging in there.”
“By a thread, at best. She’s had no sleep, she’s not eating, she’s freezing cold. So however you want to space out the other shoots is fine. I’ll work around it. Let’s just make sure it’s…reasonable.”
He glances from me to her. “You’re acting like an actual husband.”
“No,” I say, pulling up my hood as we walk through the door, “I’m just trying to act like a decent human being.”
“Maybe that’s how it starts,” he replies.
We climb into the van and spend the next few hours bouncing through a pitch-black night over bumpy roads, stopping, swerving, speeding up. Rebecca, beside me, is sitting closer and closer to me as her teeth start to chatter.
After a long day of travel she should smell like sweat, or coffee, but instead I can only smell her shampoo as she pulls that thick, dark hair out of the topknot it’s been in all evening.
She’s got the kind of hair you’d bury your face in during sex, which is exactly the sort of rubbish I’ve got no business thinking.
Nothing is going to happen, of course. She’s Rick’s daughter, first of all, but she’s also too compelling, too dangerous. She’s the kind of woman you make a fool of yourself over, if you let her get that close.
I’ll never cross a line with her, but I bet I’ll think about it, from time to time.
Bloody hell, I know I will. I already am. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. I’ve done more than think about it since her shirt rode up while waiting for the elevator.
It’s after eleven when the driver finally announces there’s too much cloud cover and the trip is a wash. I’m glad someone has finally called the time of death on this thing—Rebecca has been up for at least thirty-six hours…It’s enough.
Lars, sitting up front, frowns. “Are you sure we can’t—”
“Lars, let’s just go back to the hotel, okay?” I ask, glancing at my shivering fake wife. “And crank the heat.”
“Thanks,” she whispers.
Her frame is curled inward for warmth, and I may not like her much, but it’s painful to watch. If she were my real wife, I’d put my arm around her shoulders and have her nestle against me until she fell asleep.
I cross my arms instead. “We need you healthy to start training for the marathon.”
She blinks. “Marathon? What?”
“It’s the final episode,” I reply, before I remember that I’m the only one of us who’s seen the episode breakdown. “The marathon in your hometown. You knew your father and Bronwyn were running it, didn’t you?”
Her lower lip trembles. “No, I didn’t. But I don’t run.”
Lars must hear something in her tone. He’s turned ever so slightly in our direction.
“You’re young and appear to be reasonably fit, plus you’ve got five months,” I argue.
“No,” she whispers.
I sigh. I know she’s exhausted…it was a long day even for someone with a full night’s sleep.
Maybe it’s not the best time to tell her she’s got to run twenty-six miles next fall, but I’m a little tired of her tendency to just say no as if we’re all puppets she can pull by our strings.
Every once in a while, she’s got to get with the program.
“It’s already booked,” I say firmly. “And it’s a perfect way to end the first season, plus it’s a really nice way to honor—”
“I can’t replace Bronwyn.” Her voice is hoarse, threadbare.
She is falling apart, out of nowhere, and this pinch of worry at the base of my spine suggests it might not be about running or lack of sleep.
“I know that’s what everyone would prefer.
But I can’t just become her now to make everyone happy. ”
“No one’s asking you to—”
“Yes you are. Even if you don’t realize it, you are. Do you know how often you imply that you wish I was different?”
A hundred responses come to mind. A hundred ways she should be different. Before I can offer them, she continues.
“It’s constant. It’s every single time you sigh, or make fun of what I’m wearing, or assume the worst. You’re annoyed that I’m cold, that I don’t eat dinner, when I make a dumb joke.
And what you’re really saying is that you’re not okay with who I am, and the person you wish I would be, whether you realize it or not, is my sister.
I have spent my entire life hearing people tell me they wish I was Bronwyn—” She lifts her head, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.
“And now they wish it was me instead of her when she died, and I just can’t—”
Her voice breaks and my stomach drops as it happens—in part because she’s right.
When I first heard about the crash, wasn’t one of the first things I thought, It’s a shame it was the good daughter who died?
How many other people thought the same thing?
Jessie’s sisters, certainly. Perhaps even Rebecca herself.
Jesus…it was only this morning that I made that crack about her not finishing college. When she converted the currency, I was snide about that as well.
It had nothing to do with me disliking her. I’m just a prick and I didn’t want to muddy the waters. This fake marriage felt safer with me not liking her, and her not liking me.
Clearly, though, I’ve taken it too far.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “And as the sibling of a beloved older brother, I understand that more than you can imagine. But you can’t assume that every time I argue with you, or say something shitty, I’m telling you to be your sister.
I met your sister once and barely remember her, but I doubt very much I’d have liked her more than you. ”
“You would have,” she whispers. “She’s like you. Was more like you. Adult, polite, responsible.”
I’m not sure I’d consider myself any of those things. I certainly haven’t been especially adult or polite to Bex. “I doubt I’d have liked her better. Would she have tried to get me to start smoking?”
“She would not.”
“Would she have told me I’d still lose the Grief Olympics even if my mother died?”
“Definitely not.”
I put my arm around her. “Then I would not have liked her better. I like you just fine the way you are. You’re quite possibly the best fake wife I’ve ever had.”
Her laughter is husky, laced with sorrow. “Man, you really want me to run this fucking race, don’t you?”
I let her settle against my chest and begrudgingly admit that things have already gotten muddy. I’m attracted to her, and despite her many failings…she’s really fucking likable.
The months ahead of us may be harder than I’d thought.