Chapter 8 #3
“Perfect question,” he says, with a broad, almost comical smile across his face. “Marry me.” The words are a quiet impossibility that for a full three seconds I don’t process them. They arrive as sound, as a vibration of his voice and my brain cannot fathom what they actually mean.
“I… I’m sorry?”
“Marry me.”
Repeated with the same calm, smile less prominent now. But said as plainly as he did the first time, as if he is just simply reminding me. It is the most unhinged sentence, truly bonkers question that has ever been spoken in this coffee shop and possibly even in this zip code.
“I can’t marry you.” The words come out slightly strangled.
“Do you have someone else ready to sign their name on a marriage license?”
“Well, no, not exactly, but—” I regroup my thoughts, the end of the sentence, as he just stares, waiting. “You definitely don’t want to marry me.”
“Sure I do,” he says dismissively. And now I am knocked back. More and more confused by the second.
“Hudson,” I say, and realize it might be the first time I’ve used his name in conversation. “We can’t share a wall, you think we can share a life? You’ve told me on more than one occasion that I’m an inconsiderate—”
“I know what I’ve said.” His reply cuts me off.
“And I’m not talking about a life. I’m talking about solving a problem.
There are logistics to sort out. But we would keep it up long enough for everyone to get what they want, eventually get a divorce, less than a year if we move quickly, and then we go about our lives. ”
“What problem could I possibly help you solve?” It’s not rhetorical, I’m incredibly skeptical that there is anything I could do for him.
Why in the world would this man be sitting across from me in a coffee shop on a Sunday proposing marriage?
He said it himself, I’m not exemplary and everything in his life seems to be.
Unless the problem is introducing color to his wardrobe or how to record an audiobook, I don’t think this is anything I can specifically help.
“Having a consistent companion for work events would be helpful,” he offers, watching and measuring my face based on his reply.
“I’m sure you have no trouble getting a date.”
“That’s true,” he begins. “That’s not all.
” Like that was the toe he dipped in the water.
Some kind of foreplay to warm me up to the real ask.
“In order to purchase a unit in The Richmond, you need approval from the co-op board. I have plans for the apartment above mine, but I've been denied. More than once.” We both happen to glance down and realize my wrists are still wrapped in his hands, holding them steady. I yank them back, thinking how uncomfortable he must have been. He uses his now free grip to slide his phone across the table toward me and it looks like blueprints, the plans he must have. (Seriously, what’s that like?)
“Why?”
“They want to reserve it for more serious residents, families.” There’s a small tick in his jaw, the same one that I have watched from behind the coffee bar for months. “The board’s president believes I’m too much of a bachelor, her word. She doesn’t like my lifestyle.”
“I can see how your general,” I wave my hand in his direction, “might clash with any living situation where you have to interact with other people.” He shakes his head the smallest amount and a hair that is typically brushed back from his face falls gently.
“You’re being cock-blocked by the co-op board and you really think a wife fixes that?
” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chandler practically climbing over the counter to try and eavesdrop.
“Fiancée, initially.” Completely matter of fact. “Then, a wife. Mrs. Saraceno wants a family man with roots, and you.” His eyes find mine, and it’s as if I can’t look away. “You want to remain in this country.”
It is the least romantic framing of a proposal in the history of proposals.
“You said you weren’t an immigration lawyer.”
“I’m not. I do mergers, and I am very good at them.” His jaw does the thing, the slight tension, the tick. “You need citizenship. I benefit from the illusion of stability in my personal life.”
“And what happens if we get caught?”
“I lose my law license,” he says, without flinching. “You get deported. Significant fines for both of us.” He’s somehow unfazed by the severity of what he just said.
“You say that like it’s a reasonable risk.”
“I’m a good lawyer, Louisa.” It’s said without arrogance, as a fact, and that makes me believe it even more.
“And you perform as other people for a living, which means you are, by profession, a convincing liar.” Somehow in this conversation, I’ve seen more of him than I have in every encounter we’ve ever had.
I wouldn’t call him vulnerable right now, but he is definitely more of a person than just the villain next door.
And somehow, that became my best option.
“Between the two of us, I think we can manage to convince one co-op board and a handful of immigration officials that we’re married.”
“Yeah, but can we convince them we like each other?”
“We will be like every other married couple then,” he says and it sounds like he’s speaking from experience.
“How romantic.”