Chapter 21
twenty-one
Noah
Ido enough of studying Willow. In my mind at the store.
The eternal hour she spent on my lap during dinner, chatting with our friends, her hair caressing my cheek, her perfect ass on my crotch, her laughter ringing deep inside my being.
The three minutes’ walk from Lazy’s to the store where she fit so perfectly under my arm it was like I was made to hold her.
The fraction of a second where I held the door for her and memorized the moment as an example of the perfect life I’ll likely never have.
The four seconds it takes me to carry her from the couch to the bed, each night.
The one-point-two seconds when she’s still sleeping and I set her coffee on her nightstand and softly say, “Rise and shine,” because she’s my wife and that’s how I talk to my wife—fake or not.
She is the sunshine. That’s what wives always are for men. Their sunshine.
For some strange reason we both walk into the kitchen when we get home.
“What kind of studying are you suggesting?” I ask as I busy myself pouring a whiskey and purposefully don’t offer her a drink.
This whole evening is dangerous enough as it is without the implied connotation of me offering her a drink.
Her question is open for interpretation. With my back to Willow, my eyes won’t wander where they’re not supposed to and risk giving a lewd connotation to my words.
The last thing I want is for Willow to feel uncomfortable. She’s going through great lengths of sacrifice for me.
But she’s attractive. She can’t help it.
I certainly can’t help it. She’s very attractive.
And even though I can keep my attraction in check for the most part, there are things I can’t help.
Like the way I look at her. Ms. Angela said it just yesterday when Willow was out of earshot, rummaging in the back.
“The way you look at her just makes my little heart melt.”
“I’m sure we could do this your way—spreadsheets and stuff—”
Spreadsheets sound like a great idea. I can already see it.
A column for each of us and rows of topics.
Date of birth, middle name, favorite sports, favorite team, favorite athlete, GPA, SAT scores, make and model of your first bike, make and model of your first car, favorite food, first movie you remember seeing, first video game you played, favorite mountain…
“—but I kinda liked sitting in the parlor and drinking a whiskey sour.”
Now, that sounds extremely unproductive. Time-consuming. Haphazard.
Dangerous.
I clear my throat, preparing my argument in favor of spreadsheets.
She doesn’t let me. “Or any other whiskey-based drink. I don’t think I’m ready for straight-up whiskey, though that’s pretty badass, for one, and for two, I have to say it does make me all mellow, so I wouldn’t mind growing a taste for it while we talk. You could teach me. What do you think?”
No. No-no-no. I teach my group of high schoolers the fun and beauty of coding. I don’t teach my fake wife how to appreciate whiskey. It’s too… personal.
She must be reading my face, because she takes half a breath and goes on. “It might be too much work? I’m a lost cause, right? We can just talk.”
Just talk? Jesus. I don’t think that I can.
She puts a red nail on her plump mouth. “I mean, we could do spreadsheets. Let’s see.
First kiss. First time all the way. And for both, age, name of the other person, place, time, weather, what you were wearing.
Next, name of your college roommates—I didn’t go to college.
Favorite color. Favorite song. One dish you love.
One dish you hate. Allergies! Do you have any allergies?
We definitely need a spreadsheet. The first time you heard Phish—your first Phish concert.
Three memories from childhood—two happy and one sad.
Politics. We need to know each other’s politics.
And religion. Ohmygod we didn’t even talk about that and we’re married. What is wrong with us?”
“We’re not really married, remember?”
Her mouth gapes open. “But, Noah, they’re gonna come for us.”
“Nobody’s coming for us, Willow.” They’re definitely coming for us.
“I can feel it,” she whispers, looking around conspiratorially. Then she laughs. “Seriously though, Owen would have a field day with us.”
He would. “How about we draft a spreadsheet and fill it each on our own time?”
“Okay, let’s draft the questions together, though. Pour your wifey one of your magic drinks and let’s get to work in the off—the study.” She waves her fingers at me and sashays away, making me chuckle. “I’ll light the fire!” she shouts from the hallway.
“It’s gas!” I shout back.
“Okey dokey! No loggies! Easy peasy!”
When I join her in the office—the study—in addition to the gas fireplace going at a good pace, she’s got some candles lit and has switched on little side lamps I’d totally forgotten about. She’s standing in the middle of the room, hands on her hips. “I can’t wait for the robot vacuum cleaners.”
“I vacuum it at least once a month,” I say, feeling very on top of things.
“I can tell.” Is that sarcasm in her tone? “I turned your antique PC on. Does it run on electric or gas?” she asks, snorting. Definitely sarcasm this time, but I can’t help the smile spreading on my face.
I set our drinks down and take a seat behind the desk. “Okay, first things first, when did we get married again?”
“Wow-wow-wow. Wait for me,” Willow says, lifting a chair.
I spring from mine and carry the heavy piece of furniture next to me. “I’m just changing the password. Our wedding date seems like the right thing to put in.”
“That makes sense,” she says.
I put in the six digits, officially changing the password to one a man in love with his wife would use. Then I open a spreadsheet.