Apparently, manifesting through weird, stilted speech. Maybe I should propose a research trial into how the language center in the brain reacts to confidence and embarrassment.
Juliette—Jules—has a reaction that I, honestly, should have been expecting.
She laughs, throwing her pretty little head back, her glossy lips parting, her hand going to her stomach to really commit to the bit. In her sweater and woolen skirt, she must be hot. The material looks soft, and my eyes locked on it when she walked in, my fingers itching to touch it.
“Oh, shit,” she wheezes, still laughing and shaking her head. After a second, she tilts her head and looks at me with wet eyes. “That’s—that’s a good one.”
A beat passes in which I can’t seem to form words.
“I mean, you’re not actually serious, are you?” she adds.
When I say nothing to that, she seems to have her answer, and it makes those lovely dark brows launch up on her forehead. Dipping her head, her eyes widening when she looks at me, she asks, “Dr.Burch?—”
“Please, call me Russell.”
She hesitates. “What the hell? Why would you propose to someone you barely know?”
The sound of my name on her lips is disarming, and I push through the way it seems to caress against me, feeling like an advance in and of itself. It’s not lost on me that we’re alone in my office, that the light sparkling off the lake outside is a gorgeous backdrop. Romantic.
“Well, that wasn’t the proposal,” I correct, crossing my arms and leaning back against my desk. “This is a…request. If we went through with it, I’d propose to you publicly.”
“What…?” her eyes are very wide now, irises the color of maple syrup. “But why? Surely you have any number of women falling at your feet—you could just, like, actually go on a date?”
“I’m not interested in a real marriage,” even as I say it, I can see that it’s not coming off right. Jules takes a step back, her face shifting to incredulity.
“Wait—are you like?—?”
I realize what she’s thinking,propositioning me for sex?
Running an exhausted hand down my face, I shake my head. As though I would try to suggest some sort of sexual exchange. I let out a breath, thinking I should have just explained all this before jumping right in with the fact that I want to marry her.
“Look, would you take a seat?” I gesture to one of the chairs, circle around my desk as she continues to obstinately stand, her arms crossed as she looks at me distrustfully. “I’ll explain everything, and you can tell me what you think after.”
To my surprise, she—albeit reluctantly—lowers herself into one of the chairs.
“As you know, my father recently passed away,” I say, and some of the wariness on her face flickers away, melting back into sympathy.
The thing about a cancer diagnosis is that you get a sort of pre-emptive grief. This started nearly five years ago, when I learned of his cancer. Most people assume I’m just entering the grieving process now that he’s gone, but what they don’t understand is that I’ve been working through the loss of my father for years.
And it’s not always easy to grieve someone when they’re still alive. When the end is coming, you feel like you’re supposed to spend all your time with them. And eventually, you might start to feel like a monster when you wish it would just happen.
Then comes the grief when they’re gone, also riddled with guilt. Especially when they put annoying clauses in their will to push you around in death much the same as they did in life.
“Iamsorry,” Juliette says, like I’d doubt her condolences. She swallows, smooths her hands over the front of her blouse. “I actually—I mean, I heard the speech he gave. The night that he announced it.”
I nod—that speech went pretty viral online. It’s not a surprise that she’s seen it.
“Thank you, but it’s not necessary. He’s been a pain in the ass to me as much in death as he was in life.” I swallow, keeping the grief—the welling sadness at his passing—at bay. “He had a sizable estate at the time of his death and was a single parent to us. He made it clear that each of us would get our share of the inheritance onlyafterwe settled down with a family. Apparently, he didn’t want us running around with that kind of money without something to tether us, keep us from spending it frivolously.”
I’m of the opinion that plenty of family men piss away their life savings, and that being married with kids doesn’t actually make you responsible, it just gives you responsibilities. That much is clear, especially considering the fact that my sister is suspicious that her husband, and the father of her children, might currently be fucking up their lives.
But my father didn’t worry himself with consulting me on this, and he’s not around for me to argue with.
And I never actually told him the reason for me not settling down and having kids. So, in a way, I guess I can’t really blame him.
“Okay,” Juliette says, dragging the word out. “So, why ask me?”
I steeple my fingers, feeling more in control. The fact that she’s still here is encouraging. “I need a paper showing that I’m married, a woman who’s willing to be interviewed by the family lawyer, someone to attend events with me,and,most importantly, a partner in this I can trust not to give away that I’m doing this for the inheritance.”
