Chapter 15 #3
“We can begin your paperwork immediately, and from now till the end of this thing, we have to be prepared. Between Immigration and Mrs. Saraceno, no one wants this to work. So we will have to be the image of a happy couple the second we step outside.”
She sighs, larger than I would expect. “And how long ‘till the end of this thing,’” she asks. Maybe that was the wrong phrasing, but it’s another goal post, one we both agreed to. No reason to sugarcoat it more than I have.
“Depends, could be up to a year of documented cohabitation, joint bills, shared grocery lists, photos, and social outings. All building to the series of interviews for both of us.
“A year is a long time,” she says, almost sounding concerned. “It’s a long time to not, I mean, I’m not exactly swiping on the apps regularly, but you–”
“Me, what?” I ask, a little harsher than I need to.
“Well, you are,” she says.
“I saw you, too, Louisa,” I reply and her eyes widen.
The night she came up on the app was shocking, and at the same time almost surprising that it hadn’t happened sooner.
At the time I thought I had no reason to swipe, I could just walk the few feet next door.
But I didn’t. Her profile was clear, she was looking for a relationship. Who knew it would be a marriage.
“You said we can’t date other people,” she says, and there’s a question in it.
“I know what I said.” And I meant it. It adds a layer of complexity we don’t need.
It also means I’m effectively taking a vow of celibacy.
“Don’t worry about me.” I reinforce my earlier stance on it.
“Unless,” I let the word drag on. “You’re thinking about your own needs.
” I don’t hide the grin that spreads across my face as her cheeks blush.
“I can manage my needs just fine,” she snaps.
“Well, Louisa,” I say, slowly, “if that changes, come to me, first.”
It is perhaps the dumbest thing I could have said, and I’ve said an increasing number of reckless things lately.
Maybe it’s the champagne, or it’s the fact that fourteen days ago I was conducting psychological warfare through drywall, and tonight I married her on a rooftop, and somewhere between those two events I appear to have lost the ability to manage what comes out of my mouth when she looks at me like that.
She looks at me for a long moment, maybe deciding what to say.
“For what it's worth.” She pulls her knees up to her chest, crossing her arms atop them and laying her head down. “You don't have to worry about me, I can’t do casual.” She takes a breath. “I like to actually have feelings for the people I'm with, you know, the ones not scripted.” She adds the clarification as if it means something more. It also explains why I’ve never seen anyone sneaking out of her apartment the next morning. Even after I’ve heard moaning through the walls.
“Good thing we’re married,” I say.
She needs feelings to give herself over to someone, meanwhile I give myself to people specifically so I don't have to feel anything more than the pleasure you feel with someone in your bed. And even that has been harder to satisfy lately.
We are, I think, looking at her in the candlelight, the worst possible combination.
And yet, here we are. Husband and wife.
“How long?” she asks, breaking us both from a set of different thoughts entirely. It’s not a sad question, probably the opposite, eager to know the shape of the thing she's agreed to.
“Long enough to be convincing,” I say. “Short enough to be clean.”
She nods slowly, like she's measuring the distance between those two things. “And after?”
“After some time, we will file for a no-fault dissolution. You’ll get your residency, and I’ll get the apartment. And then go back to being strangers.” I say, and her face looks more resigned than I would have hoped.
“We weren’t exactly strangers,” she says as she’s looking at me through thick lashes, and thicker intent. I doubt it's the one I feel. “Maybe at the end of this, we can at least be friends.” And it's the sweetest sentiment I can imagine.
“Yeah, maybe” is all I say. But she is friends with everyone, every stranger on the street.
Whereas me, as evidenced by the people at our wedding, my list of friends is few and far between.
Even fewer when you consider the list of people I dated.
That’s just never been a superpower I’ve had.
For her it might be the minimum, but for me it would be the most.
And then she does what she does, which is accept what she's been given and look for something to appreciate in it.
“We should go down,” I say.
“Okay,” she says, soft and sweet. Pausing just a breath. “Before we do, can we sit here just another minute?”
“Yes, Louisa.”
She tips her face up to the sky one last time, I don’t look up. I look at her. The bare daisy stem she set down earlier is still in her lap. ‘He loves me not.’ The conclusion she arrived at, with great ceremony and genuine investment, on her wedding night.
One more minute becomes several. I don’t correct it. But we do eventually retreat behind our separate bedroom doors, this time, under the same roof.