“Fine then. I’ll go see your mom, ask her for her bills, and pay them off myself. Will she object to her son-in-law helping out?” I fucking swear to god, I will do this if I don’t see pending charges on Willow’s credit card when we get home. No way in hell am I going to be the only one benefiting from this fake marriage.
Willow’s gaze snaps up to me, and there’s something that looks close to fear in her eyes. “Don’t, please.”
I feel shitty for scaring her, and I’m not sure what to make of it. But at least we’re getting somewhere. “Great. Then take care of it yourself.”
She shuts her eyes for a brief moment. “Fine,” she concedes. Then she puts her hands on her hips. “Are you going to call your siblings now?”
“I thought I’d text them from the airport.”
She huffs. “Coward. Come on, rip off that Band-Aid,” she adds with a tilt of her chin. “Who are you going to tell first?” She sets her handbag on top of her travel bag and crosses her arms.
If she can handle the wrath of a mother whose only child seems to have committed the ultimate betrayal, I can face whatever reaction my siblings have for me. I remember changing diapers, wiping noses, putting Band-Aidson.
Taking out my phone, I click on our group chat. “Send me that selfie of us in front of the Sphere, please?” I ask Willow while I type a factual update.Went to Vegas. Married Willow Fontaine. Saw Phish. Back late tomorrow night. Don’t wait up for us.
The whooshing sound of an outgoing text fills the room, then I forward the picture that just landed on my phone. Our faces are slightly distorted by the angle, but we look happy. Carefree. Might be the slight margarita-induced buzz. Might be the aftermath of that concert. Narrowing my gaze on Willow’sexpression in that picture, I can’t quite figure it out. She looks… at peace.
Hours later we’re on the plane, and it’s still crickets from my siblings. Do they not care at all? Did something happen in Emerald Creek and they’re waiting until I’m home to break the news to me?
I suddenly feel old. So old. So fucking lonesome too. No one to talk to about this shit. I’m tired of all this. My jaw clenches just at the idea of going back to Emerald Creek, and the back of my neck pinches. The wedding part of the getting fake-married turned out fun, and that’s clearly over.
Seeing Phish in concert was epic and not something I would have done on my own. Probably not something I’ll ever do again. I glance at Willow, wanting to thank her for the idea. It was her enthusiasm that made me get us tickets.
But she’s already sleeping, eyebrows furrowed, hands in balled fists like she’s about to fight someone.Yeah, I get it.Mom’s wedding band gleams on her finger. Am I an asshole for giving her this band instead of buying a brand new one without any charged history?
It’s just a fucking old ring, even if I like seeing it onsomeone’shand.
Lane doesn’t want it.
Griff and Beck certainly don’t give a shit.
Besides, this marriage is fake. It’s not like the ring can do anything more to curse it. If questions are raised about the reality of our marriage, surely giving her this ring would prove my feelings were real?
And when the time comes to break the marriage, I’ll simply let the gossips accuse the ring again and call me a fool. Who cares?
“Can you check your wife’s seatbelt, please?” the flight attendant asks me, pulling me out of my thoughts. It takes me a beat or two to realize she’s talking about Willow.My wife.The thought makes me nervous as I tighten her seatbelt around her hips. My fingers brush hers—cool and tense. I grab the airline blanket and spread it over her, reassured to see her immediately relax. She was only cold, nothing else.
She shifts in her seat, and her head rolls against my shoulder right as I’m settling in to watch a movie.
Her warmth is comforting, making me drift in and out of consciousness, the surreal last two days replaying in my head. The concert, especially, starts taking up a disproportionate amount of my headspace. What possessed me to wrap her under my arm as if she were my real wife? I was expecting her to swat me away. Instead, she fit under me like the missing piece of a puzzle, her heat and delicate female scent bringing my dick alive, my fingers barely managing to avoid the swell of her breast as she jumped up and down with the music.
I have no right to think about that moment in this way, because I know that for her, she was just enjoying the scene. I was only there to keep her from falling over the people next to us who were invading her space.
But after a few minutes I had a raging boner, and I didn’t even realize my hand was kneading her shoulder, drawing her closer to me, while I imagined what her skin might feel like without the tight T-shirt.
Needless to say, I didn’t touch her after she had to peel herself from me to use the bathroom. Too fucking dangerous for my sanity.
It was all kinds of wrong but I’ve been too damn long without a woman.
And now—fuck.
Now, I can’t evenhavea woman given that I’m fuckingmarried.
The irony.
She shifts and burrows deeper against me, digging my arm up with her head until she’s wrapped under it. Then she gives a huge sigh of contentment, all while sleeping deeply. I lower the back of my seat and drift off to the warm rhythm of her breathing against my chest. I know it’s wrong, but she feels… right.
ten
