CHAPTER TWO #3
Michael divided the page into sections. Financial obligations came first. Rent would be split equally.
Utilities would be divided according to a fixed formula, with any unusual increase reviewed jointly.
Food expenses would remain separate unless agreed otherwise.
Neither person would assume responsibility for the other’s debts, purchases, or personal property.
Nat objected to the phrase unusual increase.
“I test recipes,” she said. “The oven will be used frequently.”
“How frequently?”
“Most days.”
“At what times?”
“When recipes need testing.”
“Recipes do not know what time it is.”
“Yeast does.”
He added a provision requiring reasonable notice before kitchen use between midnight and six in the morning.
“You cannot regulate inspiration,” Nat said.
“I can regulate smoke alarms.”
“You haven’t heard my smoke alarm.”
“I have extrapolated.”
They moved to household responsibilities. Michael proposed a weekly cleaning schedule. Nat proposed that each person clean whatever was visibly dirty. Michael pointed out that visible dirt was subjective. Nat accused him of approaching crumbs as a moral failure.
“Crumbs attract pests,” he said.
“Crumbs attract vacuums.”
“Only when someone uses one.”
“I know how to use a vacuum.”
“Can you commit to a schedule?”
“I can commit to an outcome.”
Michael wrote Cleaning responsibilities to be negotiated and underlined it twice.
The personal provisions took longer. Separate bedrooms were mandatory.
Guests required advance notice. Neither party would enter the other’s room without permission except during an emergency.
Work materials would be respected. Nat added that nothing in the refrigerator could be discarded without consultation.
“If it has expired, it is discarded,” Michael said.
“Expiration dates are frequently conservative.”
“They are dates, not suggestions.”
“Yogurt does not become poison at midnight.”
Michael wrote No removal of labeled food belonging to the other party. Nat reached across the table, took his pen, and added No labeling shelves, drawers, or common household objects without mutual consent.
“How are we supposed to identify where things belong?” he asked.
“We look at them.”
“A label is more efficient.”
“I refuse to live in a home where the spoons need written instructions.”
He took the pen back.
The final section concerned the engagement.
They would attend events Mrs. Gable considered necessary, maintain the appearance of an affectionate and stable relationship in her presence, and agree on a shared history before dinner the following evening.
Physical contact would be limited to what was reasonably required to sustain the deception.
Nat read the sentence twice. “What is reasonably required?”
“That will depend on the situation.”
“A handshake?”
“No one shakes hands with his fiancée.”
“A brief hug?”
“If necessary.”
“What about kissing?”
Michael’s pen stopped.
Nat’s expression remained innocent, but amusement warmed her eyes. “Mrs. Gable is an old-school romantic. She may expect evidence.”
“She will not require us to kiss.”
“You say that with confidence for a man who didn’t know he was engaged an hour ago.”
“We are not including hypothetical physical acts.”
“I think we should establish a policy before one of us panics.”
“You are the only person in this arrangement who has demonstrated a tendency to panic.”
“That is why I believe in preparation.”
Michael refused to add a kissing provision.
They agreed that the arrangement would continue for the duration of the lease unless either party found acceptable alternative housing.
If one person withdrew early, that person would give sixty days’ notice or cover the other’s increased costs during the transition.
Any emotional or romantic relationship between them was expressly excluded.
Nat read that line in silence.
“It protects both of us,” Michael said.
“From what?”
“Confusion.”
“I’m not confused.”
“Then it should not concern you.”
“It doesn’t.” She picked up the pen. “I’m adding something.”
Beneath his sentence, she wrote: Neither party may behave as though the other party’s personality is a condition requiring treatment.
Michael read it. “That is not enforceable.”
“It is necessary.”
He considered arguing, then decided that doing so might prove her point.
Nat turned the legal pad around and wrote a title across the top in large, slanting letters above his original heading.
THE RENT-A-FIANCé AGREEMENT
Michael stared at it. “The hyphens are excessive.”
“They’re structurally necessary.”
“We are not renting each other.”
“We’re sharing rent because we’re pretending to be engaged. The title captures the spirit.”
“Contracts do not require spirit.”
“This one does.”
She signed her name at the bottom and slid the pad toward him.
Michael looked through the coffee-shop window toward the brownstone. He could see the upper windows catching the late-morning sun. The apartment remained an excellent financial decision. The woman sitting across from him remained an incalculable risk.
Nat waited without pressing him. For once, she seemed willing to let silence do its work.
Michael picked up the pen and signed his name beneath hers.