Maxim leads us up the stairs next, and the first door is already open to his office. It’s nice, cozy. There’s a dark wood desk, a matching side table, a leather couch, and a loveseat. I suppose he entertains meetings here on occasion. Hopefully not too many.
I don’t love strangers skulking around the house, especially the upstairs. It’s egregious enough that the elevator opens directly into the home; there should be some sort of rule about guests not venturing upstairs.
The next room is large with an en-suite bathroom and a bed I’m sure is quite comfortable. It’s the least decorated of any room we’ve seen. When I peer into the closet, I see familiar luggage and bins.
My stuff.
“This is your room,” Maxim explains, and I lift my eyebrows.
“Why is it so empty?”
“I thought you may want to make it your own.” He puts his hands in his pockets, belying his nerves. He wants me to like it?
“And where is your stuff?”
Maxim looks surprised by the question and stands in a dumbfounded silence. Greta meows again before she leaves for the hall.
“My belongings are just in the room next door.”
I blink, processing this news, then cross my arms over my chest. I am mostly astounded that not once in the past two months had I considered that Maxim wouldn’t want to share a room with me. Have I been stupid to believe even sham marriages have some requirements, shared rooms and sex being two on the list?
“Is the room. . .alright?” Maxim asks.
”What do I need my own room for if there’s a gym?”
“I thought you’d want your own space.”
“Do you? Want your own space?”
Maxim frowns, unsure of my line of questioning
“As in, do you not want to share your space with me? Your room.”
Maxim is rarely flustered, but at this moment, I swear he is.
“I would notmindsharing space with you, I only thought this would be more comfortable. For you.”
The concept feels something like a king and queen—separate quarters, what so he might have his own concubines? A separate space where he’ll visit me to make a baby and nothing more?
“Do you not want to sleep next to me? Are you a light sleeper?”
“I thought you’dwantyour own bedroom,” he repeats.
Is it my age? Does he not want to share a room with me because he thinks I’ll be messy? I admit I’m naïve to many things regarding marriage, but does our arrangement require that I be relegated to a life-long roommate?
He looks at a loss, though, not frustrated like this is something I should understand. Maybe he thought it would be a nice gesture, giving me my own room—a show that he doesn’t expect anything from me. Well, aside from the baby. Or maybe he’d prefer not to share a bathroom, shower, closet, or any of the other intimacies that might come with a marriage I chose.
“Show me yours,” I demand. His mouth snaps shut and without a word, he does, backing out of the room and leading me next door to a room which is slightly smaller, though no less nice. Much cozier, little piles of books perched on floating shelves and surfaces.
I stalk barefoot around the perimeter of the room (the carpet is damn nice) and I survey his most personal items. If he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t show it, only leans against the wall with his arms crossed as I make my perusal. His closet is huge,but not full. I have lots of clothes thanks to my sister’s shopping addiction, but they would all fit here.
I drop my shoes in a corner of the closet before I return to the room and prop my hands on my hips. I’m still wearing his sweatshirt over the pink dress I pulled out of my suitcase when we were about to leave Mexico. It’s cozy and I’ve already decided I will co-opt it for myself.
“I like this one better,” I determine. “I’ll stay in here with you.”
He rushes to assure me that Idon’t have to feel beholden to this, but I cut him off. “I’m not a porcelain doll, Maxim. Don’t treat me like one. A wedding ceremony and a new house isn’t going to break me.”
I cross the wide room until I’m standing directly in front of him, I have to look up to meet his eyes, but I offer as hard of a glare as if I could sneer down my nose at him.
