Chapter 3 Wrenley #2
I cross my arms, which is stupid because all it does is make me hyperaware of my breasts. I look at the bacon sizzling.
That looks—
There was nothing to see, he blurts.
I blink. Excuse me?
He drops his spatula. I mean—there was, objectively—like, you’re not invisible, obviously—but I wasn’t looking—not really—I just mean I didn’t stare. It was one second. Less.
He winces and looks at the ceiling like he’s wishing it would cave in and bury him alive.
So… there was something to see?
His ears go red, and I bet his cheeks are too, but who can tell behind the facial hair?
You’re twisting my words.
I shrug. I’m clarifying.
He clears his throat. What I meant was, you don’t have to feel weird. I was being helpful. I didn’t see anything you wouldn’t see in, like, a swimsuit catalogue.
Do you make a habit of looking at those?
Ruger lets out a sigh and drops his head.
I chuckle nervously. Sorry. Well, I’m glad my towel was doing better than a Victoria’s Secret fashion show.
He picks up the spatula and turns back to breakfast very pointedly. Exactly. I saw nothing.
His grip is tight on the handle.
I shift awkwardly because even if he didn’t see anything, I did.
Right now. To an outsider who doesn’t know what happened this morning, it’s too small to notice.
But I can hear it in the roughness of his voice and see it in the way he won’t quite make eye contact.
Even if he didn’t see anything, he’s affected by it.
I clear my throat and tug at the end of my shirt. Well, good. That settles that.
Ruger makes a noise, something between a laugh and a groan.
Suddenly, the door behind me creaks open.
What the— I whip around to see Remi striding in with her arms full of yogurt, granola, and fruit like some kind of health-conscious grocery fairy.
Relief whooshes through me. Sure, my first night with Ruger hasn’t been awful, but there have been enough awkward moments that the sight of my best friend makes me feel a bit calmer.
She’ll make a great buffer, and I think Ruger and I need that right now.
She stops mid-step and wrinkles her nose. It smells like bacon in here.
Ruger replies, tone dry enough to sand wood. Want some?
Remi gags theatrically. Keep your chicken periods to yourself.
She dumps her haul on the counter and immediately starts unpacking.
I stare at her. Cool. Exactly what I want to think about eggs five minutes before I eat them. Menstruation.
Perfect. Means you’ll want some parfait, she says, entirely unbothered, already pulling a bowl from Ruger’s cupboard like she lives here. Which, to be fair, knowing their relationship, she practically does.
I glance at Ruger, who’s scooping up a mountain of bacon and eggs like he’s trying to bulk up for a log-lifting competition.
Sign me up to watch that, please.
You can have some of each, Ruger offers, tone calm but firm. No one is judging how much you eat.
I will, but she knows that, Remi adds with a grin, elbowing me in the ribs.
I roll my eyes. In that case, yes to both. Judge away.
We settle around Ruger’s table like some off-brand Alaskan sitcom family, and the contrast between them is almost comical. Ruger’s plate looks like it could fuel a lumberjack through the apocalypse, while Remi’s parfait is a perfectly Instagrammable swirl of fruit and crunch.
I eat about half of each.
You full? Remi asks, already gathering plates.
Yeah.
What are we doing today? she asks like she’s the tour guide on a seven-day honeymoon package. Except the groom looks like he wants to be anywhere else.
Ruger leans back in his chair and stretches, arms over his head, T-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of stomach muscle and… nope. Abort. I need to get more firewood. My pile is looking a bit sad for the coming winter.
Uh, wrong. Remi marches over and plants her hands on the back of my chair.
Wrong? Ruger echoes, unimpressed. Did you want your friend to freeze to death this winter?
I don’t! I chime in quickly, even though I have no idea what’s going on anymore.
Remi sighs like she’s exhausted by the sheer stupidity in the room. Ruger. Your fiancée, from Canada, just arrived yesterday. If you’re not in bed with her, you’d be getting your marriage license. Getting ready for the joyous day.
Ruger goes still. At the mention of bed, his entire demeanour shifts. His jaw tightens, and his gaze flicks toward me, then away. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed by the implication or uncomfortable because the idea isn’t as far-fetched as it should be.
Either way, I feel heat climb up my neck. And something worse: guilt. Guilt that his bed is going to be cold and empty for me. For this lie. For this plan he didn’t even help make, but joined in.
I mean, we do need that, I say with a small shrug.
Ruger sighs, clearly not excited to deal with more bureaucracy.
Remi rolls her eyes. Oh, come on. You can get firewood tomorrow.
Maybe it’ll snow tomorrow, Ruger mutters.
It’s going to snow? I perk up, reaching for my phone to look at the weather app.
No, it’s not, Remi deadpans. My brother is just being dramatic.
I shift in my seat. We can all just stay here if it’s a problem—
No! Remi claps her hands, causing Ruger and me to startle. We have shit to do! The marriage license is important.
Ruger groans, dragging a hand down his face, and mutters, Let me get dressed.
He walks out, and I glance at Remi. You always boss him around like that?
She pops a grape into her mouth. It’s not bossing if I’m right.
I lean back in my chair. You know, when we talked about this, I never imagined I would feel like such a burden.
Remi winces. Okay, first of all, don’t say that.
I moved to another country where I can’t legally work yet, I’m broke, and my fiancé is fake, I point out. Objectively, I’m kind of a burden right now.
You’re not a burden, she says firmly. You’re someone whose entire life got blown up by a vindictive asshole.
While I appreciate Remi saying that, it’s hard to ignore the money that went into this and how risky this all is. It’s one thing to spend money on immigration and a marriage, but completely another to do it.
We talked about this, she continues more gently. There were always going to be growing pains at the beginning. But we made a plan, and I’m going to help you through it.
Then her expression shifts suddenly. Wait. You’re not thinking about leaving, are you?
I shake my head. Besides the fact that this makes sense career-wise, I love that we’re finally living in the same geographic location.
Remi smiles at that.
Plus, I’m in way too deep financially.
And you know I’m always happy to help with that, she reminds me softly.
Which makes me feel worse, not better.
Remi reaches across the table and does a very un-Remi thing and squeezes my wrist. Wren. You know you don’t owe me anything for helping you.
That almost breaks me a little.
So instead of emotionally spiralling again, I ask, Why aren’t we getting married again?
Remi snorts. Because this town would be extremely suspicious if I suddenly stopped accidentally falling on dicks.
I choke on a laugh despite myself. You know you can just say you’re straight and everyone knows it.
Where’s the fun in that?
I roll my eyes.
But then her teasing fades slightly.
Trust me, she says. I know this town. We’re doing this the way that gives you the best chance of getting through the process without immigration ever finding out this is fake.
I take a long breath. The less people who know, the better.
Exactly, Remi says. And the lady at the front desk of the municipal is so close to retirement she gives zero fucks at this point and lets people just grab the forms they need and files them without much care.
Ruger walks into the kitchen pulling a faded Alaska Goldpanners of Fairbanks T-shirt over his head, and once again, I’m forced to confront the reality that this man apparently looks good doing literally anything.
Including accidentally flashing those V-shaped lines on his hips that basically act like a giant neon sign pointing toward—
Wren! Remi barks.
I jolt. Hm? What?
My voice comes out embarrassingly high.
Across the kitchen, Ruger’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. Fantastic. He caught me staring. Remi, thankfully, seems more concerned by my abrupt departure from reality than what caused it.
Are we going? she asks, grabbing her keys.
Yeah, let me grab my purse—
Already did, sweetheart. Ruger gestures to my brown bag hanging by the door.
His smooth delivery and the way he’s acting like he’s been casually taking care of me for years sends a shiver through my body.
Thanks… babe. The word stumbles out of my mouth with the grace of a hippo on ice.
Remi fake gags. It’s a no from me. Definitely a good thing this isn’t real.
Ruger gives me a slow grin, and I try to return it with some approximation of a smile, but it feels like my face has forgotten how. Remi storms ahead, shaking her head, and we follow her out into the crisp fall air. I tug on my jean jacket, instantly wishing I’d layered better.
Cold? Ruger asks, his voice close to my ear as we head for the truck.
No, I’m fine, I lie, teeth chattering.
He lifts a brow as a breeze cuts straight through me, making me visibly shiver.
…A little cold, I squeak.
Without hesitation, Ruger pulls off the hoodie he’s wearing and hands it to me.
I take it, fingers brushing over the fabric.
Huh. It’s softer than I expected. For one hopeful second, I wonder if it’s bamboo or some kind of cotton blend, but when I check the tag—
Polyester. Tragic.
Wrenley, Remi says warningly.
I didn’t say anything.
Your face did.
I scoff, pulling the hoodie over my head. Excuse me for wanting my sweat to have somewhere to go.
The second it settles around me, warmth sinks into my skin.
Worse, it smells like him.
Jesus Christ.
This is why women steal hoodies.
God, we need to get you warmer clothes, Remi mutters as I climb into her truck. Ruger’s already buckled in the back seat. Then you won’t have to wear my brother’s sweaty, bloody hunting gear.